Through the Valley

By Ellen Korthuis

Even after the desperate times of WWII, there were heroes. The fighting was over, but there were different kinds of dangers springing up from a new aggression. Freedom Fighters from Denmark left their quiet country to provide a jumping-off place from Russian-occupied Germany en route to safety. Their plan worked for a while. A real orphanage seemed a believable cover for the passage of those who were fleeing the grasp of communism, but one day, with the sound of gunfire, only two orphans were left to live. The man with the smooth voice said that they were to be witnesses to those who would defy the government. Karl and Anna, with the audacity of youth, plodded their way across Germany first to the haven of a farm family and eventually to the United States. Years had gone by when Anna once again hears the smooth voice from the past. Can it be “the man”? Will he connect Anna to the past? Will survival again be the only goal in life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973630739

Ellen Korthuis

Ellen Korthuis with her husband,Bob, live on the Eastern prairies of Colorado. They are retired missionaries with In Faith (formerly American Missionary Fellowship) and presently working with Preston Ranch Ministries building houses for families who will adopt children with needs. They have four children, 12 grandchildren and two great grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter

1

KARL SNAPPED THE LOCK ON the briefcase and, with his hands still resting on the new leather, stared through the lettering of the Timberline sign on the window. He needed time to say his private goodbyes to the predictable mountain town and the people who had woven themselves into the fabric of his life.

He would miss the colorless Mornin’, Karl from his cronies at the ten o’clock coffee break. The dullness of the greeting was not an insult but an affirmation of his acceptance into that inner circle of men who gathered at the counter in Gordon’s Café for midmorning socializing. Early on Karl had guessed the reason for his welcome into the group: he was a newspaperman, a writer, and to these friends that position was as mysterious and awesome as a president’s place. If the truth was told, this elite bunch of the town’s gentry was honored to drink their morning coffee with him.

They weren’t a bashful bunch. They were as generous with their criticism as they were with their approval. This congress of aging town fathers readily gave his pride an occasional smack by frankly commenting on or openly disagreeing with his column. With time, he gathered that there was no meanness in fault finding; they, in their senior wisdom and experience, were only trying to set this young feller straight.

On this, his last morning, he hadn’t expected backslapping—it wasn’t their way—but the solemn silence had surprised him. A grin touched his face as he recalled the scene.

He’d seen Gordon, the spokesman, leaning against the shelving behind the counter, his sweatered arms crossed over his chest. Short, frayed pieces of yarn hung from the elbow where he’d caught it on the screen door, and his glasses, speckled with dust and water spots, had not concealed alert, twinkling eyes that promised the inevitable wit. When he spoke, Karl knew his place with them, and his leaving had been extensively discussed. Karl, someday I’m going to write a book about you and me and this whole pitiful town. Some of it will even be true!

Chuckles loosened the vocal chords, and at once everyone had words of advice. They admitted they would miss him, and he knew he’d be a part of the everyday conversation as long as anyone would remember to ask, Heard from Karl lately?

He’d said his goodbyes and now, as his eyes focused on the bold, precise letters of the newspaper’s name, he wondered for the first time if old Bigelow had painted them.

Looks like his style, Karl thought.

The conclusion was meant as a compliment to the editor/owner of the local weekly—the man whose philosophy of work was as square and clear as lettering. But he was a bully!

The old fox would like that tag, because he could come back with You need bullying! And Karl, looking back, would agree with him. When the Timberline hired him, he’d been as green and naïve as a beginning writer could be, but Mr. Bigelow had accepted him on the grounds of a few articles and the evidence of and intense desire to write. That passion had been fueled by the wonder of translating thought into words, but the editor had often harped about his choice of words. Don’t say ‘bright light,’ he’d bark. Say ‘blinding glare.’ And don’t say ‘large group.’ Say ‘crowded room’!

The white-haired, growling bear had taught, through merciless nagging, the pleasure of mobilizing words, but the memory of the constant badgering was clear as the muscles across his shoulders began to tighten. Unconsciously Karl nodded his head. It had been under the repeated threats from the giant’s sharp tongue he’d learned there was not room in Timberline’s tidy column for carelessly gathered details or lazy grammar.

The giant—all five feet, six inches of him—was so big that when you walked through the front door you had to fight for a spot, because his presence filled the room.

The young writer’s fingers traced the three gold letters near the handle of the briefcase: AIR. These should be my initials, he thought. But true to form, Bigelow had chosen this conspicuous place to send along a reminder of what he expects of me!

On every desk, over the layout table, the phone, and over everything were the words Accuracy! Integrity! Reliability!

Put some fresh AIR into the newspaper business, commanded his staff.

As Karl lifted the case, the shadowed letters of Timberline slid off the leather to his desk and lay there. Reluctantly he looked down at them and whispered, "Thanks, Mr. Bigelow, sir. Auf Wiedersehen."

Without looking back, he walked to the door and then out into the street.

The inside of the car was hot. From the driver’s seat, he stretched his long frame across the seat to roll down the passenger window, and as it disappeared into the door, he wished he could fill the vehicle and take with him the voices and feelings of this place. Settling himself, he pulled the door shut with a bang. Might as well punctuate the fact that I’m about to pull out. Everybody already knows, but now they can always remind each other what time I left!

The lines around his eyes and mouth relaxed into a contented smile as he enjoyed the slow drive along the one block of Main Street. The Closed sign hung in the barbershop window, and in a few minutes, the owner of the only gas station would lock up and walk home for supper. Gordon had pulled the shade on the store’s front door to signal he’d gone for the day.

And now, Karl thought, I’m going home too, but for the last time, and to say goodbye.

The cliché that a good thing isn’t appreciated until it’s gone crossed his mind, but he knew it wasn’t right to apply that line to his leaving. He’d valued his home long before today, with a gratitude that came from knowing there was a comfortable, congenial place to go after work. He would truly miss it and his friends.

When Mr. Bigelow had hired him, word passed around town that his young assistant needed a place to live. When Kirstin had come into the office with an offer of a room and two meals a day—A nice, big bedroom with a view, and breakfast and dinner with my husband, Jon, and me, she’d explained—the old man had encouraged Karl to move right in. After Kirstin left the office, Mr. Bigelow filled in the details with fact and editorializing. Jon, Kirstin’s husband, is the new doctor. Been here about four years. She’s a flighty sort but not featherbrained. You’d call her enthusiastic or energetic or some peer kind of word. They live at the top of the hill.

When Jon and Kirstin had offered a bedroom and place at their table, the initial plan had been the provision of board and room. The change had come so quietly he couldn’t pinpoint when he’d gone from friendly renter to welcomed companion. And yes, the more recent change had slipped up on him too.

A feeling of resentment welled up as he grudgingly acknowledged that the events of the past few months had changed this home from a haven to a needed refuge. And apart from all that had happened, he detested having been robbed of the comfort of that haven.

All that had happened!

An unwelcome anger smoldered as he rolled over in his mind how he’d been forced to relive a time of tragedy and terror, how he and Anna had to once more struggle to stay alive, how they had been unable to ask friends for help, and how during that time he’d found it impossible to even confide in anyone. All this upheaval because of one man—this one who was owned by evil and driven by a passion to destroy him and Anna. Karl could feel the fear and tension gripping his mind and body.

Slow down. Back off.

Resisting the growing panic, he silently prayed, Father, forgive me for allowing these feelings to blot out what you’ve done for us. Thank you for doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

It’s over, Karl said aloud.

Tonight, at home and before the farewells, he would at last be able to tell the story that he had needed to keep secret. For Jon and Kirstin, he’d start at the beginning, and then truly—surely—that part of his life would be finished.

He and Anna, suffering the ravages of postwar Germany, had survived, and that was all that mattered. But survival again had become their priority, their everyday way of life or death.

As he completed the turn that started the climb to the top of the long hill, his eye caught the silver sticker on the dash. He is able.

From the day he’d first bowed his heart and knees to God, he’d been learning the vast scope of the Almighty’s ability. Even now, as his thoughts bounced between past and present, his conviction was firm that this eternal Ruler was also his compassionate heavenly Father, and no matter what the past had been or what the years ahead might bring, the most coveted goal was to deepen and enjoy this relationship with a gracious God.

These thoughts prompted the question Isn’t this relationship exactly what life is all about? His whole being responded with an affirmative, but then, as if turning from a glimpse of heaven to a view of the world, he thought, Regretfully, the presence of our living God does not bar the existence of wickedness. But now danger from this evil was over, and Karl vowed the memory would fade.

The drive from town to the turnoff took three minutes: one to the top of the long hill and two to where he’d leave the pavement. There were always sixty seconds of anticipating the waiting panorama and knowing that, whatever the season, the view would be spectacular. It seemed incredible that one person could see so much all at once. The winding valley—more like a canyon dotted with homes and stores—lay below, and rising behind and beyond was range upon range of mountains. The near ridges, green and tree covered, melted into the blues and purples of faraway peaks. Sunlight highlighted cliffs and granite faces, and this afternoon the distant valleys lay mysterious in the encroaching shadows.

The massive bulk of the heights and depths stirred in Karl the familiar feelings of finiteness and, at the same time, well-being. The sight reenforced his sense of kinship with the Creator.

The view passed out of sight, but the pleasure of it stayed with him until he turned into his lane.

Then—the sound of gunfire! He ground the brake pedal to the floor and pressed his body against the steering wheel. The choking grip turned his knuckles white, and the relaxed lines of his face sunk to deep grooves and bulges over tightly closed eyes. In that instant, grotesque and ugly faces, shots, screams, and falling figures flashed—pulsed—across the screen in his mind. But then, like an intrusion into this whirlpool of panic, the cause of the gunshot sounds registered.

Gravel! It was the new rocks spread over the driveway that were flying up and peppering the underside of the car. Stones hitting the car! Even with the relief of realization, Karl sat still for a long minute, unable to exhale. A scowl squeezed his face, and his hands lay limp against the wheel. His breath came out in a shudder and with it the words Can’t he stay dead?

Chapter

2

SUNSET COMES EARLY IN THE mountains, and Kirstin already had the kitchen light on. As Karl walked slowly from his car, he could see her moving about. He knew before he opened the door the radio would be playing.

Sometimes this part of the day gets too quiet, so I need a little noise, she had explained.

Karl knew too that Jon wouldn’t be home yet, because he stayed in the office until six,and if he left on time, there was the fifteen-minute commute.

The if part was the cause of irregular dinner hours, but unless there was an emergency, the doctor would be on time—especially this night. That these best friends had been protected from any involvement in the experiences seemed a miracle, Karl knew that. Although Kirstin had come to some conclusions, even she had much to learn about the whole