Thief of Glory by Sigmund Brouwer Page B

memorized the sounds of the words. Later that day, I searched for Mrs. Vriend, who translated them but would not believe that I’d heard correctly, not if Pietje had dared cover the puppy to protect it and Shizuka had let that action go unpunished.
    Soon it will be gone.
    I watched the boots withdraw, and once I was certain that Shizuka was far enough away, I yelled out the third command. “Naore!”
    This was the signal that we could all resume our activities. Kiotske. Kere. Naore. Every child old enough to walk had practiced again and again how to respond to those words. Then I heard a shout from around the nearest corner as someone else saw the commander and gave the obligatory alert. “Kiotske!”
    “You could have had mother killed,” I said to Pietje.
    “No. Today Coacoa is protecting us.”
    How could I respond? I asked a different question.
    “Where are we going?” I asked Pietje. He had never led me anywhere before. “The doctor?”
    “Coacoa is not sick,” he said. “He is sleeping.”
    Pietje took us to the house where Mrs. Schoonenburg lived. She was older than most of the women and wasn’t part of the labor duties in the camp because of her age. She walked slowly and heavily with a cane, and her gray hair was always in a bundle atop her head. She contributed to camp life, however, as the de facto pastor because her husband had been the pastor of one of the largest Dutch Reformed Churches in Semarang. Sunday mornings, Mrs. Schoonenburg led the church services and preached a sermon, drawing on her memory of forty years of listening to her husband’s preaching.
    Mrs. Schoonenburg sat in a chair on the shady side of the house, napping, with her hands in her lap, her glasses on her deeply wrinkled forehead.
    “Goedendag, mevrouw,” Pietje said. Good day, madam.
    I was impressed by Pietje’s behavior. Not once had I seen him speak to an adult without being addressed first.
    With a startled snort, Mrs. Schoonenburg awoke from her nap. “Eh?”
    “Coacoa is sleeping,” Pietje said. “Can you talk to Jesus and ask Him to wake my puppy?”
    She blinked a few times as she focused on him and the puppy in his arms. Her eyes were pale blue and grew larger when she pulled her glasses onto her nose.
    “Sleeping?” she said.
    “Yes.” Pietje set Coacoa on the ground at Mrs. Schoonenburg’s bare feet. I was amazed at how blue her skin was, how crooked her toes and how yellow her toenails. “Coacoa sleeps with me every night and keeps me safe from the soldiers that took my father. Jemmy told me Coacoa is dead. But that’s what people told Jesus about the little girl. Jesus said she was asleep and everybody laughed at Jesus, but He took her hand and asked her to stand and she did. Remember?” Mrs. Schoonenburg’s confused blinking resumed again, yet Pietje was so earnest that she did what any decent human would do. She reached down and stroked the puppy. “Sleeping?”
    “You know Jesus,” Pietje said. “I listen to you each Sunday morning when you tell us about Him. Ask Jesus to wake up my puppy.”
    “He wants a miracle,” I explained. So did I. I promised God right then that I would never doubt Him if He would just wake up Coacoa. Maybe Pietje was right and something had made the puppy unconscious. If that were the case, it wouldn’t even have to be a real miracle, just a good healing.
    Mrs. Schoonenburg took Pietje’s hands into her own aged ones where veins popped out of parchment skin. “My poor, poor little boy. I can’t call up Jesus and expect Him to change the world for us.”
    He took her hands and placed them together, palms inward. “Pray,” he said. “Talk to Jesus.”
    She gave him a slight smile, but her eyes looked sad. “I cannot do that,” she said. She pulled her hands free. “For if your puppy doesn’t stand, you will think that Jesus can’t do miracles.”
    “You don’t believe?” he asked. “I do. Every day, our mother reads us stories about Jesus. Wake up my