The alarm buzzed at 4:45 a.m., a shrill metallic tear in the fabric of the pre-dawn silence.

Rivka Steinman’s hand shot out, silencing it before the second ring.

Beside her, Mosha stirred, a low groan escaping him as he reached for the bedside lamp.

The soft yellow light bloomed, illuminating the familiar landscape of their bedroom, a room that had borne silent witness to their shared grief for 11 years.

They moved through their morning routine with the practiced deficiency of soldiers, a silent ballet choreographed by necessity.

11 years of early mornings of extra shifts of a gaping absence that had become a permanent house guest in their modest te- neck home.

Rivka, now 46, saw the ghost of her younger self in the mirror as she twisted her graying hair into a tight bun.

The lines on her face were a road map of sleepless nights and shed tears.

Mosha at 52 moved with the deliberate slowness of a man worn down by decades of construction work, his broad shoulders stooped by a weight heavier than any steel beam.

Neither complained.

The extra money from their grueling schedules was a sacrament, an offering laid at the altar of hope.

It paid for private investigators for flyers that yellowed on telephone poles for a sliver of possibility that grew thinner with each passing year.

They gathered their belongings.

Mosher’s scuffed hard hat and his lunch bag.

Rivka’s worn leather purse inside which nestled in a plastic sleeve was a photograph from 1995.

It was a year before their world had fractured.

In the photo, 9-year-old Elav had his arm thrown protectively around 7-year-old Ay’s shoulders.

Both boys wore their yarmulkers proudly, their dark silky pot catching the sunlight.

Their smiles were radiant, unbburdened.

The October air on Palisade Avenue carried a crisp bite, a promise of the coming winter.

They walked in the comfortable silence of a long marriage, their breath forming small, fleeting clouds in the darkness.

The Orthodox Jewish community was already stirring.

Lights flickered on in the neat houses, and the distant melodic drone of morning prayers, the Shakarit, drifted from an open window.

This Bergen County town had once been their sanctuary, a place where their faith was the bedrock of daily life, understood and shared.

Now it felt like a museum of memories, each street corner a monument to what they had lost.

The bus stop stood under a flickering street light at the corner of Cedar Lane.

They were, as always, 5 minutes early.

Mosher set down his lunch bag, flexing his stiff fingers against the cold.

The familiar rumble of the Route 57A bus preceded its headlights, sweeping around the corner.

The door hissed open, revealing Donald Harwick’s familiar face.

The driver, somewhere in his early 50s, had been running this route for as long as they could remember.

His sandy hair was neatly combed, his uniform impeccably pressed.

Morning folks,” Donald greeted them with his usual warmth.

“Getting cold out there.” “Good morning, Don,” they replied in unison.

A small sad smile touched Rivka’s face.

Donald had driven their boys to school on this very bus.

He had been one of the last people to see them that terrible Friday morning in 1996.

They paid their fair, exact change as always, and took their usual seats halfway back.

Rivka settled by the window, Mosha beside her.

Their hands found each other automatically, a silent acknowledgement of the shared burden.

The bus lurched into motion, its engine a low grown as it followed its predetermined path through T-X sleeping streets.

They passed shuttered shops, the darkened windows of congregation Bernayun, the elementary school where their boys should have graduated years ago.

Each landmark was a fresh twist of the knife.

“Rivka’s phone rang, the sound jarring in the quiet bus.” She fumbled for it, her brow furrowing at the caller ID.

“Teneck police,” she murmured to Mosha, who leaned in, his expression instantly tense.

They had received calls like this before.

False leads, dead ends, profuse apologies for the disturbance.

Hello, this is Rivka Steinman.

Mrs.

Steinman, this is Detective Derek Keller.

There’s been a development in your son’s case.

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange.

Rivka’s grip tightened on the phone, her knuckles white.

Her free hand found Moshers squeezing hard.

A development? What do you mean? Her voice was a fragile whisper.

A team of divers discovered some evidence this morning at the bottom of Lake Tapen.

We have reason to believe it’s connected to Elav and A’s disappearance.

Mosha gestured for the phone and Rivka tilted it between them.

“What kind of evidence?” Mosha asked, his voice rough with a mixture of hope and dread.

Sir, this is something you need to see for yourselves.

I’m sending officers to your home.

We’re not home, Mosha interrupted.

We’re on the 57A bus heading to work.

A pause.

I see.

Can you come to the station? We’ll arrange transport to the site from there.

Yes, Rivka said immediately.

We’ll come now.

Good.

And Mr.

and Mrs.

Steinman, I know this has been a long road.

We are treating this with the utmost seriousness.

The call ended.

Rivka stared at the phone as if it might offer more, some clue to prepare her.

Around them, the bus continued its oblivious journey.

“I need to call my foreman,” Mosha said, his voice thick.

Rivka nodded, pulling out her own phone.

While Mosha’s boss was understanding, a man who knew their story, Rivka’s was another matter.

Again, Rivka Rohan Mara’s voice was sharp with irritation from Goldberg’s kosher bakery.

This is the third time this month, Mr.

Mara, the police called.

They found evidence.

Last week, it was a family emergency.

The week before a medical appointment, we are short staffed as it is.

Rivka’s jaw clenched.

This is about my missing sons.

The police need us at Lake Tapen immediately.

And I need my baker here immediately.

Bring me an official letter from the police tomorrow or don’t bother coming back.

The line went dead.

That man, Mosha muttered, his face a thundercloud.

He could hire more staff, but he keeps you and Sarah working like slaves.

He pays overtime, Rivka said weekly.

We need the money, not at the cost of your dignity.

The police station stop was approaching.

Rivka pressed the stop request button.

Donald glanced at them in the rear view mirror as he pulled to the curb.

Not heading to work today.

Police found something at Lake Tapen, Mosher explained.

About the boys.

Donald’s cheerful demeanor vanished, replaced by a look of deep concern.

Lake Tapen.

That’s my last stop.

The turnaround is right at the overlook, 45 minutes out.

The police will drive us, Rivka assured him.

I hope.

I hope it’s good news.

Donald’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

Those boys were good kids.

Always had their bus fair ready.

They stepped off the bus into the brightening morning.

A patrol car was already waiting, its engine humming.

The drive to Lake Tapen was a blur of silent, urgent speed.

What had been a quiet, remote lake was now a hive of activity.

Police cruisers lined the access road, their lights painting silent strobing patterns across the water’s surface.

A tall, intense looking man met them.

Mr.

and Mrs.

Steinman, I’m Detective Brennan, lead investigator on site.

His handshake was firm but gentle.

Thank you for coming.

Please follow me.

He led them to a cordoned off area near the water’s edge.

On a waterproof sheet lay several evidence bags.

Rivka’s knees nearly buckled.

Even through the clouded plastic, she recognized them.

two small yellow backpacks, the same ones she’d bought at Weinstein’s department store for the new school year in 1996.

Beside them, in separate bags, were two navy blue yarm walkers with silver trim.

And then, inongruously, a large dark green metal box stencled with German text and a bronzecoled statue of an eagle, its talons clutching a swastika.

A diver in a wet suit, his name Reuben, stepped forward.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.

“We were laying fiber optic cables.

My equipment snagged on something.

We found the medical box, a sanit caston from World War II.

The statue was wedged beside it.

When we opened the box and saw the backpacks, we called 911 immediately.

Detective Brennan took over.

The backpacks had been weighted down with stones.

We need you to confirm they are your sons.

A technician handed them latex gloves.

With trembling hands, Rivka reached for the first Yamula.

She turned it over.

There, on the inside band, in her own careful, slightly faded handwriting was the name Elaf Steinman.

A sobb escaped her.

a raw primal sound that had been trapped in her chest for 4,037 days.

“That’s that’s my writing,” she whispered.

“I marked all their clothes for school.” Mosha picked up the other Avi Steinman.

He nodded, his face a mask of grief.

“These are our son’s things, no question.” Rivka’s composure finally shattered.

The grief erupted, 11 years of it, a tidal wave of pain.

Mosha pulled her against his chest, his own silent tears falling into her hair.

The investigators respectfully stepped back, giving them their space.

When Rivka could breathe again, Detective Brennan approached.

“Based on this evidence,” he said, his voice grave.

“This is no longer just a missing person’s case.

The presence of Nazi paraphernalia, the deliberate waiting of the bags.

This was a hate crime.

Someone targeted your boys specifically.

The words hung in the cold morning air.

Hate crime.

Beautiful boys targeted for their faith.

“Detective,” a voice called out.

They all turned.

Donald Harwick, still in his uniform, was hurrying toward them from the parking area.

Sir, this is a restricted area.

An officer intercepted him.

It’s all right, Mosha said.

We know him.

This is Donald, our bus driver.

Donald’s face was creased with concern.

I’m sorry to intrude.

I saw the commotion from my turnaround at the overlook.

When I heard it was about the boys, his eyes fell on the evidence, and he palded.

His gaze lingered on the Nazi memorabilia.

My god, he breathed.

He leaned closer.

These look authentic.

What makes you say that? Brennan asked sharply.

Donald straightened, looking slightly embarrassed.

I read a lot of history.

World War II, Jewish history.

It’s a personal interest.

The wear patterns, the markings, they look like genuine period pieces.

You study Jewish history? Rivka asked, surprised.

History helps us understand the present, don’t you think? Donald’s expression was earnest.

I’m no expert, of course.

Just an amateur.

Detective Brennan made a note.

Are you sending divers back down? Donald asked.

Yes, the detective said, glancing at Rivka and Mosha.

We’re conducting a thorough search for additional evidence.

They all understood bodies.

Rivka didn’t go home.

After dropping Mosher at the construction site, the silence of her house was unbearable.

She found herself driving to the bakery, the police letter clutched in her hand.

Rohan Meha snatched the letter from her, his eyes scanning it.

His expression remained cold.

What did they find? The question was devoid of sympathy.

a Nazi medical box and an eagle statue with a swastika,” Rivka said, her voice flat.

“Inside the box were my son’s backpacks and yamakas.” Rohan cursed under his breath, but offered no condolences.

“Fine, get changed.

We’re behind.” In the kitchen, her coworker Sarah looked up with exhausted relief.

“Thank God you’re here,” she gestured to the cooling racks.

I know they’re not right.

We’re almost out of the high gluten flour.

Rohan told me to just mix it with the allpurpose to stretch it.

Rivka’s jaw tightened.

He had told her to compromise the quality, the integrity of their kosher products.

I’ll talk to him.

Through Rohan’s office door, she heard his frantic, hushed voice on the phone.

Need to clean up immediately.

The authorities.

She knocked.

No answer.

She knocked again harder then opened the door.

Rohan was shoving papers into a leather bag, sweat beading on his forehead.

Mr.

Mara, the flower, handle it, he snapped, pushing past her toward the back door.

Our customers will notice, she called after him in the parking lot.

He spun around agitated, and his keys slipped from his hand, clattering on the asphalt.

As he bent to retrieve them, his shirt rode up his left side.

For a single searing second, Rivka saw it.

Just above his waistline, the dark angular lines of a tattoo, a swastika.

Wait, she said, her blood turning to ice.

He straightened his face a mask of contempt.

What now? That tattoo? Is that a swastika? He yanked his shirt down.

It’s a Hindu swastika.

a sacred symbol of good fortune that existed for thousands of years before the Nazis corrupted it.

“Perhaps you should educate yourself on cultures beyond your own narrow world view,” Mrs.

Steinman.

The venom in his voice was unmistakable.

He sped away, leaving her standing in a days.

“Hindu swastika or Nazi swastika?” The distinction felt academic in the face of his raw hatred.

Shaken, she decided to get the flower herself.

At Maya’s baking supply next to the T-neck hardware store, her world tilted again.

As she loaded the heavy flower sack into her Camry, she saw Rohan emerged from the hardware store.

With him was Donald, still in his bus driver’s uniform.

They were moving quickly.

Donald carrying a large heavyduty bag, Rohan with a box under each arm.

Rivka.

Donald’s friendly smile seemed pasted on.

What brings you out here? We were out of flower, she said, looking between them.

I didn’t know you two knew each other.

Small town, Donald replied smoothly.

Rohan’s helping me with some electrical work at my place.

Man’s a genius with wiring.

As they loaded their supplies into Donald’s trunk, something slipped out from under his collar.

a silver chain with a pendant, an eagle with spread wings, clutching a medallion in its talons.

It was a mirror image of the statue found that morning.

Donald noticed her staring and quickly tucked it back inside his shirt.

His eyes met hers, and the friendly mask slipped, revealing something cold and calculating underneath.

“Drive safely, Rivka,” he said.

Her hands trembled on the steering wheel as she drove away.

A tattoo, a necklace, a meeting at a hardware store.

Coincidences or a pattern of pure evil hiding in plain sight.

She had to tell Mosha.

A picnic now? Rivka’s voice was incredulous, but Mosha on the phone was insistent.

No, Rivka, not a picnic.

I left work.

I’m thinking they met at a hardware store.

They bought supplies.

Where would two men go to work on a project on a Friday afternoon? Not their own homes.

Somewhere remote, somewhere like the lake.

His logic was terrifyingly sound.

She picked him up from the construction site and they drove back toward Lake Tapen, a sense of dread coiling in Rivka’s stomach.

They were nearing the lakes’s eastern shore when Mosha pointed.

There, the gray sedan.

It was them, Donald and Rohan.

But instead of turning toward a residential area, their car veered onto a narrow, unmarked dirt road that disappeared into the woods.

That’s an old service road, Mosha said, his voice tight.

Officially closed for years.

He pulled their Camry to the shoulder.

Stay here.

Call Detective Brennan.

Mosha, no.

But he was already out of the car moving into the treeine.

Her fingers shaking.

Rivka dialed.

Detective, it’s Rivka Steinman.

We’re at the lake.

We saw my boss and Donald the bus driver.

They’ve gone down a closed service road.

Her phone beeped.

An incoming call from Mosha.

She put the detective on hold.

Mosha.

His voice was a breathless whisper.

Rivka, they’re at the water’s edge.

They have a barrel, an industrial barrel.

They’re They’re putting it in a boat.

A pause, then a sharp intake of breath.

Oh, God.

Rivka, I heard something from inside the barrel like like scratching.

Ice flooded Rivka’s veins.

She switched back to the detective, her voice a high, thin wire of panic.

Detective, they have a barrel.

My husband says there’s someone inside.

We’re dispatching units now.

Brennan’s voice was urgent.

Helicopter, divers, everything.

Tell your husband to stay hidden and do not engage.

The distant thrum of rotors grew, a sound of impending judgment.

Below, she could see the small boat rocking.

Donald and Rohan were panicking, trying to shove the barrel overboard.

The helicopter burst over the trees and the world became a mastrom of wind and noise.

Officers repelled down, landing on the boat with stunning precision.

Donald raised his hands in surrender.

Rohan screamed, his face contorted with rage.

They brought the barrel ashore, and then from the policebo a small figure emerged, wrapped in a thermal blanket.

He was thin, pale, and trembling.

But as he looked up, Rivka’s world stopped.

He was 19, not seven, but she knew him instantly.

The same dark eyes, the same shape of his face.

“Avi,” she whispered.

He stumbled into her arms, collapsing against her, his body shaking with a trauma she couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, holding her living, breathing miracle.

“You’re safe now.

Mama’s here.

One of the divers approached.

Another few minutes.

He was drowning.

The barrel was full of man-made holes.

Detective Brennan stood over the handcuffed men.

Where’s the other boy? Where’s Elav? Donald remained silent, his face a stone mask.

But Rohan laughed, a hideous, triumphant sound.

The lake ate him years ago, he snalled.

Fed him to the fishes where he belonged.

Mosha lunged, but officers held him back.

From the safety of Rivka’s arms, Avy made a sound of pure agony, a wounded animals cry.

In the sterile conference room of Holy Name Medical Center, Detective Brennan laid out the geography of their stolen years.

According to Rohan, Donald promised them a treat, he said, his voice heavy.

A secret trip to a new playground.

He hid them on the bus floor and drove them to a pre-arranged spot.

There, Rohan was waiting with drugged candy.

They were taken to a soundproof bunker built beneath an unregistered cabin deep in the woods.

Why? Mosher’s voice was hollow.

They were part of a small, fanatical neo-Nazi cell.

They saw families like yours as invaders.

your sons.

They were symbols, a way to strike at the next generation.

Rivka closed her eyes, the pain of physical force.

What happened to Elaf? Brennan consulted his notes, his face grim.

3 years in, he tried to escape.

He was 10 years old.

Donald panicked and restrained him.

Rohan.

Rohan struck him with a wooden beam.

Avi witnessed the entire thing.

They put Elav’s body in a barrel and sank it in the same lake where we found the backpacks this morning.

The story unspooled, each detail a fresh horror.

Avi was kept in near total isolation, a life of darkness and unspeakable abuse, a tool for their hatred.

The Nazi items found that morning were from a recent house cleaning, an attempt to dispose of incriminating evidence.

Later, they sat in the quiet hallway outside Aby’s room.

Through the small window in the door, they could see him sleeping, sedated, looking impossibly fragile.

The boy was gone, replaced by a young man who was a stranger to them, a survivor of a war they never knew was being waged.

“I want to knit again,” Rivka said suddenly, her voice thick with tears.

I’ll make him a shawl, something warm, something from home.

Mosha nodded, his hand covering hers.

I need to go to temple to speak with Rabbi Goldstein.

We must say kadesh for Elav, a proper goodbye.

He paused, his gaze fixed on his sleeping son.

And we must make a prayer of thanksgiving for the one who came