The Curse, the Diary and the Cross

Early March, 1872

The chilly evening wind wrapped itself around the young woman as she looked out into the swift current of the Weser River. Her thoughts went back to yesterday afternoon as she stood at the graves of her parents, Greta and Achim Heidsheim.

Within a matter of two months both were gone. The brutal death of her father and the witnessing of her mother succumb to pneumonia, with no will to live, and a broken heart left Donya Heidsheim confused and enraged.

She turned to look at the little cottage that now belonged to her. Her home of security where once she was surrounded by love—now an empty shell with only memories of those familiar voices that once encouraged her in life.

She stared at the three Bibles in her hands—the one her parents gave her as a child and the two that her mother and father had given to each other. Wrestling with her conscience from the night before left her exhausted, frustrated and angry. She looked up at the heavens. The clouds passed by her rapidly appearing to give the full moon movement.

“I hate you,” she whispered as tears ran down her face dripping on the bibles.

Donya, you are allowing hatred and deception to rule your heart. Your parents taught you truth. The thoughts echoed in her mind taunting her.

“I hate you, I hate you,” screamed Donya as she looked out into the expanse of the Weser River. Her vision was clouded by tears. Then her mind’s eye saw him. The old white haired man she had seen many times in her dreams.

“Donya, don’t give in to this anger. Call out to God and He will give you the peace you need.”

“Leave me alone,” her voice took on a low deliberate guttural sound. She drew in a deep cold breath and stiffened. “How many have put their trust in you and all you have given them is misery?”

She lifted the three Bibles and threw them into the Weser River. Falling, the books opened as the wind jostled the pages, hitting the water. They floated away swallowed up by the turbulent current.

“Donya,” the soft gentle voice startled her. She turned around noticing the silhouette of a man approaching her from the shadows of her home. She couldn’t make out his features.

“Donya, don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm,” as he continued walking forward allowing her to assess him. Then he stood before her staring intently. The air around him was electrified with energy against his black clothes. His appearance captured her. Tall, handsome, his deep-set eyes penetrated her stare consuming her gaze. His build not overly muscular but lean and strong. His teeth white, his lips appealing. Instantly she felt drawn to him.

“Who are you?” speaking in a soft tone.

“My name is Ganav. I serve the true god Nachash and he has heard your anguish. I am his prophet. I’ve been sent to avenge your wounds. What has happened to your father will not go unheeded. The Jesus God doesn’t want to hear you because he’s a god that doesn’t care.” Finally reaching her he held her gently in his arms as he stroked her face. She yielded to his advance. He kissed her. His breath entered her. Inhaling, the prospect of revenge brought her a sense of peace. Then he pulled back and for a moment faced away. Then turning slowly again, in his arms he held a young child. “Donya, behold your son.”