WHAT IS SONJA'S SECRET . . . ?

SONJA SEIDLER is a beautiful, passionate German concert pianist whose rendition of Bach's Goldberg Variations awes the international audience.

Peter Danzig is a charismatic American symphony conductor, invited to perform at the annual Bach Festival in Leipzig.

Ilya Koslov is a dying Soviet general who holds the key to their future.

The factors which drive these dynamic characters to an unforgettable climax during the last days of the Cold War ultimately reveal Sonja's secret.

THE SONJA FACTOR,

a sizzling new offering by Stephan Zimmermann,

author of

THE CHRISTMAS STRIKE and THE SCAM,

is now available on the Internet,

Published by Lulu.com

Soon in U.S. bookstores everywhere.

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for ordering information.

(Special bulk order pricing available -- ISBN 1-4116-0707-4)

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Leipzig, East Germany - January, 1949

The massive, dark silhouette of St. Thomaskirche seemed as if carved of black granite as it towered in the midst of an immaculately well‑kept park. The entire landscape was covered in a deep, pure blanket of snow. The cold, blue canopy of sky stretched tautly from horizon to horizon, unmarred by clouds on this clear, frosty January day. There was a stillness in the air which emphasized and accentuated the crisp, clean harmonies of a Bach cantata. Organ strains and young boys' voices rose to the heavens from deep inside the bosom of the protective church.

Had a passerby stopped to listen, he would have recognized the familiar hymn, often sung at festive occasions. Weddings, baptisms, the joyous events in life. Despite the calamity of the war and the oppression of the occupation, religious services at these events were still an ingrained part of the people, and neither bombs nor hunger had been deterrents to the faithful. St. Thomas', the musical home of Johann Sebastian Bach, was a virtual mecca for the devout, and Leipzig one of the safe havens for those seeking respite from the ravages of war in music and culture. But on this day there were no passersby, and the music winged to the firmament, heard only by the small group of people huddled inside the giant cathedral and perhaps by the lone freezing sparrow, plumped up against the bitter bite of winter, perched on the icy skeletal branches of a chestnut tree just outside the sanctuary.

The massive walls of the church echoed the chords of the music, filling the immense vault with glorious sound. There was reassurance in the young, tender voices as they climbed the scales and reached the exalted high notes, then effortlessly descended again in the perfection which Bach had created. Twenty choristers' throats braved the coldness of the day, their hands in mittens, wooly scarves covering their heads and ears. Their faces were stoic, moved only by the motion of lips. An occasional swipe with a thickly covered arm removed traces of wetness from a running nose, and sheepish eyes glanced to see if anyone had detected the unruly gesture. The choirmaster himself, a young man with an unkempt mop of black hair which would not stay out of his red face, was bundled up in sweaters, scarf and a fading blue jacket as a last defense against the sting of January.

The young couple kneeling in front of the baptismal altar and font seemed oblivious to the cold and the vanes of breath they exhaled with each repetition of the baptismal litany. Their faces betrayed the joyousness of the occasion: a new child born into a new world, where war might be no more than a parent's somber memory, not to plague the infant's future. The man, physically aged beyond his twenty‑seven years, gently rested his hand upon his wife's, as she tenderly held the baby cradled in her arms to receive the holy water. The priest, a man who had seen too much anguish and pain during his nearly seventy years, held the trio in his gaze, still caring, still strong in his faith that life and life eternal were the only meaningful reasons for existence.

The service completed, the priest gave his final benediction, the choir sang a recessional, and the couple turned to the small group of older men and women sitting in the first pew. Most had frostbitten hands and noses. Age and memories of two wars were etched in their wrinkled faces. They were friends and relatives, come to share the happiness of the new birth, welcoming the new soul into God's family, and enjoying the luxury of the music which had given them strength for decades. Music provided a sense of identity and community in a world gone mad. With the old people sat a very young girl, perhaps four or five years old, bundled in a red coat and white mittens. Her white hat and scarf hid all but a tiny curl of ebony black hair. She was the image of Snow White as her blue eyes watched the man, woman and baby approach. Occasionally, she directed an enchanted glance at the dancing sunlight which created a kaleidoscope of colors through the centuries‑old stained glass of the church windows.

As the parents carried her new little brother toward her, the little girl rose from her seat. Prettily and politely, she bowed to the altar and then reached for her father's hand. He looked fondly at his daughter, said a few hushed words to the assembled group, and moved down the aisle, holding his wife and daughter by their hands. He glanced toward his newly baptized son, the father's pride unmistakable.

Eyes shut automatically as the massive door to the church swung open, held ajar by a young acolyte in his early teens. The contrast was painful. The dimness of the church had been soothing, encompassing and inviting. Even the cold had not seemed as penetrating as it did now, brightness besieging the senses from all directions, reflected off the glaring snow. No one saw the four men in green‑gray uniforms purposefully running toward them across the snow. Only a second later, a harsh, foreign voice penetrated their senses.

"Stoy. Stop."

Realization came like a lightning flash. The man, letting go of his wife and daughter's hands, broke into a run, slipping on the icy path leading from the church. He caught himself and slipped once more. Just as he recovered again, and as his wife was able to open her eyes and comprehend the horror of the situation, a single shot rang out, hollow, empty; a sharp crack as if a twig had snapped from an overload of snow. The man crumpled and fell, limply, as if a rag doll had been dropped from a chair. A small rivulet of blood colored the snow where his head lay, obscured from sight by his grotesquely bent arm. The little girl, seeing her father lying still in the snow, a soldier running towards him, screamed. Instinctively, she ran back into the womb‑like shelter of the church. The woman, surrounded now by three of the soldiers, clutched her infant as if the baby's heartbeat would still and comfort her own. She sobbed uncontrollably as she was dragged to the waiting car with its doors agape, then roughly pushed inside, the baby still in her arms. Through a tearful haze, she saw the fourth soldier bending over her husband's lifeless form. He looked over his shoulder and waved the car away. His face bore a terrible scar which ran from his cheek across his left eye and disappeared underneath the visor of his cap. As the car lurched off, careening slightly on a patch of ice, the woman, squeezed against the right rear window, permitted a forced breath to escape her, eyes wide in panic: Sonja!

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