{"product_id":"thief-of-glory-isbn-9780307446497","title":"Thief of Glory","description":"\u003cb\u003eA boy coming of age in a time of war…the love that inspires him to survive.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFor ten year-old Jeremiah Prins, a life of privilege as the son of a school headmaster in the Dutch East Indies comes crashing to a halt in 1942. When the Japanese Imperialist army invades the Southeast Pacific, and his father and older stepbrothers are separated from the rest of the family, Jeremiah takes on the responsibility of caring for his younger siblings. But he is surprised by what life in the camp reveals about his frail, troubled mother—a woman he barely knows. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmidst starvation, brutality, sacrifice and generosity, Jeremiah draws on all of his courage and cunning to fill in the gap his father and brothers left behind. Life in the camps is made more tolerable as Jeremiah’s boyhood infatuation with his close friend Laura deepens into a friendship from which they both draw strength. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the darkest sides of humanity threaten to overwhelm Jeremiah and Laura, they reach for God’s light and grace, shining through his people. Time and war will test their fortitude and the only thing that will bring them safely to the other side is the most enduring bond of all.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Thief of Glory\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Emotionally riveting and exquisitely raw, \u003ci\u003eThief of Glory \u003c\/i\u003eis an unforgettable\u003cbr\u003e tale about survival, not just of the body, but of the heart and soul, with an ending\u003cbr\u003e that will echo in your mind long after you’ve closed the book. Brouwer is a\u003cbr\u003e master storyteller.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eSusan Meissner, author of A Fall of Marigolds\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “In \u003ci\u003eThief of Glory \u003c\/i\u003eSigmund Brouwer plunges readers into the mysterious embrace\u003cbr\u003e of the Dutch East Indies during the convulsions of the Second World\u003cbr\u003e War. Few authors have such an ability to immerse an audience in the sights,\u003cbr\u003e sounds, smells…and horrors! Brouwer makes you live it…sharing each moment\u003cbr\u003e of an exotic and terrifying time and place in a gripping, personal way.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eBodie and Brock Thoene, authors of Take This Cup\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sigmund Brouwer’s \u003ci\u003eThief of Glory \u003c\/i\u003eis a powerful story, richly told. Young Jeremiah\u003cbr\u003e Prins is a complex and fascinating hero, blessed with great gifts and\u003cbr\u003e challenged by choices to use them for good or evil. The details of life in a Japanese\u003cbr\u003e civilian prison camp are revealed in unflinching but compassionate realism,\u003cbr\u003e and the characters depict the human capacity for both great selfishness\u003cbr\u003e and great heroism. This is truly one of the best books I’ve read this year.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Sarah Sundin, award-winning author of On Distant Shores\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand In Perfect Time\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ve been a fan of Sigmound Brower’s books for ages, but \u003ci\u003eThief of Glory \u003c\/i\u003ecocooned\u003cbr\u003e me in rich words, vivid descriptions, and true-to-life characters, making\u003cbr\u003e this book hard to put down. A fan of World War II, I’ve read countless\u003cbr\u003e tales, but World War II in the Dutch Indies was new to me, fresh and heartwrenching at the same time. A true glimpse of light amongst darkness, made even more special due to the inspiration of Sigmund’s parents’ story. \u003ci\u003eThief of\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eGlory \u003c\/i\u003eis going on my keeper shelf!”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eTricia Goyer, USA Today\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ebest-selling author of over forty books,\u003cbr\u003e including Chasing Mona Lisa\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eSIGMUND BROUWER\u003c\/b\u003e writes for both children and adults. In the last ten years, he has  given writing workshops to students in schools from the Arctic Circle to  inner city Los Angeles. One of the writers in Orca's Seven series, he  has published well over 100 books for kids, from YA fiction to picture  books to nonfiction, with close to 4 million books in print. He recently  won the Arthur Ellis award for his book \u003ci\u003eDead Man's Switch\u003c\/i\u003e, which was also a finalist for the Red Maple as well. \u003ci\u003eDevil's Pass\u003c\/i\u003e,  from the Seven series, was shortlisted for the John Spray Mystery Award  and the Red Maple. Sigmund and his family live half the year in  Nashville, Tennessee, and half the year in Red Deer, Alberta. For more  information, visit www.rockandroll-literacy.com.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eJournal 1—Dutch East Indies\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A banyan tree begins when its seeds germinate in the crevices of a host\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003etree. \u003cbr\u003e It sends to the ground tendrils that become prop roots with\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eenough room for \u003cbr\u003e children to crawl beneath, prop roots that grow into thick,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ewoody trunks and \u003cbr\u003e make it look like the tree is standing above the ground. The\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eroots, given time, look \u003cbr\u003e no different than the tree it has begun to strangle. Eventually,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ewhen the original \u003cbr\u003e support tree dies and rots, the banyan develops a hollow\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ecentral core.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In a kampong—village—on the island of Java, in the then-called Dutch\u003cbr\u003e East Indies, stood such a banyan tree almost two hundred years old. On foggy\u003cbr\u003e evenings, even adults avoided passing by its ghostly silhouette, but on the\u003cbr\u003e morning of my tenth birthday, sunlight filtered through a sticky haze after a\u003cbr\u003e monsoon, giving everything a glow of tranquil beauty. There, a marble game\u003cbr\u003e beneath the branches was an event as seemingly inconsequential as a banyan\u003cbr\u003e seed taking root in the bark of an unsuspecting tree, but the tendrils of the\u003cbr\u003e consequences became a journey that has taken me some three score and ten\u003cbr\u003e years to complete.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It was market day, and as a special privilege to me, Mother had left my\u003cbr\u003e younger brother and twin sisters in the care of our servants. In the early morning,\u003cbr\u003e before the tropical heat could slow our progress, she and I journeyed on\u003cbr\u003e back of the white horse she was so proud of, past the manicured grounds of our\u003cbr\u003e handsome home and along the tributary where my siblings and I often played.\u003cbr\u003e Farther down, the small river emptied into the busy port of Semarang. While\u003cbr\u003e it was not a school day, my father—the headmaster—and my older half brothers\u003cbr\u003e were supervising the maintenance of the building where all the blond-haired\u003cbr\u003e children experienced the exclusive Dutch education system.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As we passed, Indonesian peasants bowed and smiled at us. Ahead, shimmers\u003cbr\u003e of heat rose from the uneven cobblestones that formed the village square.\u003cbr\u003e Vibrant hues of Javanese batik fabrics, with their localized patterns of flowers\u003cbr\u003e and animals and folklore as familiar to me as my marbles, peeked from market\u003cbr\u003e stalls. I breathed in the smell of cinnamon and cardamom and curry powders\u003cbr\u003e mixed with the scents of fried foods and ripe mangoes and lychees.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was a tiny king that morning, continuously shaking off my mother’s attempts\u003cbr\u003e to grasp my hand. She had already purchased spices from the old man\u003cbr\u003e at one of the Chinese stalls. He had risen beyond his status as a \u003ci\u003esingkeh, \u003c\/i\u003ean\u003cbr\u003e impoverished immigrant laborer from the southern provinces of China, this\u003cbr\u003e elevation signaled by his right thumbnail, which was at least two inches long\u003cbr\u003e and fit in a curving, encasing sheath with elaborate painted decorations. He\u003cbr\u003e kept it prominently displayed with his hands resting in his lap, a clear message\u003cbr\u003e that he held a privileged position and did not need to work with his hands. I’d\u003cbr\u003e long stopped being fascinated by this and was impatient to be moving, just as\u003cbr\u003e I’d long stopped being fascinated by his plump wife in a colorful long dress as\u003cbr\u003e she flicked the beads on her abacus to calculate prices with infallible accuracy.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I pulled away to help an older Dutch woman who was bartering with an\u003cbr\u003e Indonesian baker. She had not noticed that bank notes had fallen from her\u003cbr\u003e purse. I retrieved them for her but was in no mood for effusive thanks, partly\u003cbr\u003e because I thought it ridiculous to thank me for not stealing, but mainly because\u003cbr\u003e I knew what the other boys my age were doing at that moment. I needed\u003cbr\u003e to be on my way. With a quick \u003ci\u003e“Dag, mevrouw”\u003c\/i\u003e—Good day, madam—I bolted\u003cbr\u003e toward the banyan, giving no heed to my mother’s command to return.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e For there, with potential loot placed in a wide chalked circle, were fresh\u003cbr\u003e victims. I might not have been allowed to keep the marbles I won from my\u003cbr\u003e younger siblings, but these Dutch boys were fair game. I slowed to an amble of\u003cbr\u003e pretended casualness as I neared, whistling and looking properly sharp in white\u003cbr\u003e shorts and a white linen shirt that had been hand pressed by Indonesian servants.\u003cbr\u003e I put on a show of indifference that I’d perfected and that served me well\u003cbr\u003e my whole life. Then I stopped when I saw her, all my apparent apathy instantly\u003cbr\u003e vanquished.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Laura.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As an old man, I can attest to the power of love at first sight. I can attest\u003cbr\u003e that the memory of a moment can endure—and haunt—for a lifetime. There\u003cbr\u003e are so many other moments slipping away from me, but this one remains.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Laura.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e What is rarely, if ever, mentioned by poets is that hatred can have the same\u003cbr\u003e power, for that was the same moment that I first saw him. The impact of that\u003cbr\u003e memory has never waned either. This, too, remains as layers of my life slip\u003cbr\u003e away like peeling skin.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Georgie.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I had no foreshadowing, of course, that the last few steps toward the shade\u003cbr\u003e beneath those glossy leaves would eventually send me into the holding cell of a\u003cbr\u003e Washington, DC police station where, at age eighty-one, I faced the lawyer—\u003cbr\u003e also my daughter and only child—who refused to secure my release until I\u003cbr\u003e promised to tell her the events of my journey there.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e All these years later, across from her in that holding cell, I knew my daughter\u003cbr\u003e demanded this because she craved to make sense of a lifetime in the cold\u003cbr\u003e shade of my hollowness, for the span of decades since that marble game had\u003cbr\u003e withered me, the tendrils of my vanities and deceptions and self-deceptions\u003cbr\u003e long grown into strangling prop roots. Even so, as I agreed to my daughter’s\u003cbr\u003e terms, I maintained my emotional distance and made no mention that I intended\u003cbr\u003e to have this story delivered to her after my death.\u003cbr\u003e Such, too, is the power of shame.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eChapter Two\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Laura.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beneath the banyan, a heart-stopping longing overwhelmed me at the\u003cbr\u003e glimpse of her face and shy smile. It was romantic love in the purest sense,\u003cbr\u003e uncluttered by any notion of physical desire, for I was ten, much too young to\u003cbr\u003e know how lust complicates the matters of the human race.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The sensation was utterly new to me. But it was not without context. At\u003cbr\u003e night, by oil lamps screened to keep moths from the flame, I had three times\u003cbr\u003e read \u003ci\u003eIvanhoe \u003c\/i\u003eby Sir Walter Scott, the Dutch translation by Gerard Keller. As\u003cbr\u003e soon as the last page was finished, I would turn to page one of chapter one. I\u003cbr\u003e had just started it for the fourth time. Thus I’d been immersed in chivalry at\u003cbr\u003e its finest, and here, finally, was proof that the love I’d read about in the story\u003cbr\u003e also existed in real life.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e I was lost, first, in her eyes—unlike many of the Dutch, a hazel brown—\u003cbr\u003e which regarded me with a calmness that pulled stronger than gravity. She looked\u003cbr\u003e away, then back again. I felt like I could only breathe from the top of my lungs in\u003cbr\u003e shallow gasps. Her hair, thick and blond and curled, rested upon her shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e She wore a light-blue dress, tied at the waist with a wide bow, with a yellow butterfly\u003cbr\u003e brooch on her right shoulder. She stole away from me any sense of sound\u003cbr\u003e except for a universal harmony that I hadn’t known existed. So as the nine-year-old\u003cbr\u003e Laura Jansen bequeathed upon me a radiant gaze, I became Ivanhoe, and\u003cbr\u003e she the beautiful Lady Rowena. Standing at the edge of the chalked circle, I was\u003cbr\u003e instantly and irrevocably determined that nothing would stop me from becoming\u003cbr\u003e champion of the day, earning the right to bestow upon her the honor of\u003cbr\u003e Queen of the Tournament.","brand":"WaterBrook","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302640668901,"sku":"NP9780307446497","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307446497.jpg?v=1767742431","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/thief-of-glory-isbn-9780307446497","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}