Helena P. Schrader's Blog, page 2

Characters of "Cold Victory:" GALYNA NICOLAEVNA BORISENKO

Galyna, a Ukrainian-born WAAF, is playing a dangerous game. When she was still a child, her idealistic and loyal Communist father was arrested for 'treason' and disappeared.  Her mother's second husband, a senior officer in the Soviet Secret Police, helped her to leave the Soviet Union and join her grandmother in exile. Now she is a translator at RAF Gatow, and the Soviet Secret Police think they know how to make Galyna spy for them. Galyna hopes to outsmart them.

 

 

In this excerpt, Galyna meets with her mother and step-father in their home in Potsdam for the first time after being 'recruited' as a Soviet spy.

WAAF CorporalGalyna Nikolaevna Borisenko was so frightened that her hands were trembling.That made the teacup rattle in the saucer, and her stepfather Maxim DmitrivichRatanov smiled faintly in satisfaction.

Seeing that hehad noticed, Galyna lashed out at him, “Don’t think that betraying mycolleagues and my adopted country is easy for me! Say what you like, theBritish gave me refuge. They gave me an education, training and status. I’vebeen happy in the WAAF.” She threw this last remark at her mother, who sat atthe head of the low table commanding the samovar.  Lovely if mismatchedantiques surrounded the trio. The furnishings had been stuffed into thedilapidated and damp rooms of the Rote Haus am Neuen Garten, which onceupon a time had housed the head gardener of the Prussian kings. In May 1945, ithad been taken over by the Soviet Military Administration in Germany and, morerecently, assigned to Colonel Maxim Dmitrivich of the Soviet Secret Police. Thebrick house snuggled under willows on the banks of the Heilegen See in Potsdam,and the windows should have revealed the calm waters of the shallow lake.Instead, they were draped in fog.

In the past,Galyna’s mother, Anastasia Sergeyevna, had ridiculed Galyna for her serviceuniform, saying it made her look fat. Likewise, Anastasia had dismissed thepossibility that Galyna could find friends among the ‘cold’ British. Now, shetried to calm her daughter with a patronizing, “Of course, of course, you hadno choice but to make the best of things, but now you can do something trulyvaluable.”

“Don’t talk thatCommunist rot with me!” Galyna shot back. “I’m not a child or an idiot! I sawwith my own eyes what collectivisation did! I know the so-called Kulaks hadnothing left, and yet you stole every last crumb from them, even their seedgrain! And when you had taken everything, you still demanded deliveries offood! You drove them to cannibalism!” Galyna spoke passionately, causing hermother to recoil and her stepfather to raise his eyebrows. Galyna turned on himto declare in a calmer but more contemptuous voice, “I haven’t forgotten thatStalin was happy to betray millions to Hitler, either. I don’t believe black iswhite just because Stalin says it is!”

“You can believewhatever you like,” Ratanov answered laconically, his eyes half closed. “ButStalin is always right.” He paused before adding, “Because he silences anyonewho says he is wrong.”

“And you areproud to serve a monster like that?” Galyna challenged him.

“You sound justlike you did at 15 when I sent you to live with your grandmother in Finland.I’d expected you to have grown up by now.” His tone was cold and derisive.

“I’m only here tohelp my father. You said that if I cooperated, the terms of his arrest would beimproved.”

Ratanov’seyebrows twitched. Galyna wasn’t sure if he approved her spirit or pitied her naivety.He said nothing.

In accordancewith the advice given her by the RAF intelligence officer Ft/Lt Boyd at Gatow,Galyna continued to stress her reluctance to cooperate, “Don’t think I’m anidiot. I’m not going to help you until I’ve seen proof that my father is stillalive. I demand to see a recent photo of him!”

Ratanov shruggedand dismissed the request with a bald, “I don’t have one.”

“Then get one.”

“Or what?” hesneered.

“I will return toGatow and get on the next plane back to England.”

“You won’t get asfar as the Glienike Bridge,” Ratanov told her with a shrug.

Galyna had beenwarned to expect this kind of threat, and she had planned her response. Sheturned to her mother and asked, “Will you just sit there, Anastasia Sergeyevna?Will you let your husband threaten your daughter? Will you let him seize andtorture me as you let him torture and deport my father? Is that the value ofyour motherly love?”

“Don’t be foolishand cruel!” Anastasia retorted hotly. “Maxim would never harm you. We only wantyou to understand the importance of being on the right side of history. Theforces of Imperialism are doomed. Progress is unstoppable. The SocialistMotherland has conquered Hitler and humiliated the corrupt imperialist powers.All across Eastern Europe, people have been liberated —”

“Enslaved. Shot.Deported,” Galyna shot back in sincere anger.

“Propaganda. Liesand propaganda. Only reactionary elements have been shot, and of course, theGermans had to be deported along with the Poles. We’ve seen how untrustworthyethnic minorities are. They stab you in the back as soon as they get thechance.”

“Including theUkrainians?” Galyna asked, lifting her eyebrows.

Her motherfrowned. “Ukraine is a Soviet Republic, and it should be the home of allUkrainians. There is no reason for Ukrainians to live in Poland or White Russiaor Russia. Besides, that is not the point. Socialism brings prosperity —”

“Is that the termyou use for famine?”

“Stop acting likea stupid fool!” Ratanov interrupted the exchange. “You are here to give usinformation about Gatow, not talk back to your mother like an impudentteenager.”

“Not until I knowmy father is still alive and that my treason will serve a purpose,” Galynacountered, her voice was firm even if her face was red and her hand stilltrembled.

“Your treasonserves the Socialist Motherland and Progressive forces all over the world.”

“I don’t care. Icare only about my father. I will not assist you unless you provide proof thatmy father is still alive.”

“Very well,”Ratanov snapped. “I will request a photo from the appropriate authorities. Youwill see it next time we meet. For now, I would urge you to think morerealistically about your situation. We have discarded the German puppets of theWestern warmongers who claimed to govern Berlin, and we have replaced them withreliable men loyal to us.”

“The Berliners donot recognise your Opera government. They plan to elect a government twodays from now.”

Ratanov snortedand made a dismissive gesture. “The Western warmongers may try to gainlegitimisation for their terror tactics by staging these so-called elections,but it will do them no good. We have things under control. Most people willstay at home. What do they have to gain by voting? They now have a competentand reliable city government determined to improve living standards rather thanstarve them to death! The Berliners want bread, peace and unity — not terrorbombers day and night and isolation from their brothers and sisters in thesurrounding countryside.”

Galyna glared athim. She didn’t know any Germans and had no way of knowing what the Berlinerswanted, much less if or how they would vote.

“And don’t thinkyour employer,” (Ratanov turned the word ‘employer’ into a term of derision)“will be saved by the Amis either. Colonel Howley and General Clay will soon besent home in disgrace.  The Americanpresident understands that he must come to terms with Stalin, and he wantshotheads like Clay and Howley to disappear—”

“Although I can’texpect someone like you to understand,” Galyna interrupted him, “that doesn’thappen in America. Texas isn’t Siberia. American generals don’t get shot or‘disappear’—”

“Believe that ifyou want to, but they can still be withdrawn from Berlin — and they will be. Youcan’t be so stupid as to believe your bankrupt and weary old Empire will remainhere after the Americans have left, can you?” He snorted to show the questionwas rhetorical.

Galyna got to herfeet. “If the Airlift is about to be called off, then Gatow is of no value andyou don’t need my services, so I think I’ll leave now.”

“But you only hadone piece of cake!” Anastasia protested.

“You keep tellingme how fat I look,” Galyna countered with a saccharine smile, “It’s better if Ieat less.” To her stepfather, she added. “When you have that photo of myfather, let me know. I’m not coming again until I know my father is still aliveand my cooperation with you has a purpose that I care about.” Shesnatched up her handbag and greatcoat from the chair near the door anddisappeared into the fog.

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Characters of "Cold Victory" : CHARLOTTE WALMSDORF

 Charlotte Walmsdorf is a victim of the war. Her brothers were both killed fighting for Hitler, and her fiancee went missing. Her parents were killed by a strafing Soviet fighter. The family home was overrun by the Red Army and turned over to Polish refugees. She was gang raped by Soviet soldiers in the closing days of the war. Yet she survived and struggled to make a living, first as a journalist, then teaching English, and finally running the office of Air Ambulance International. She also fell in love with David Goldman and everything seemed to be getting better -- until her fiancee returned from Siberia.

In this excerpt, Charlotte drags herself through another day, which seems to her like everyday of the rest of her life.  She is living with her cousin, Christian, in his apartment in the American Sector in Berlin; her fiancee Fritz has moved into the guest bedroom since his unexpected return from a Russian prison camp.

Waiting in linefor rations had taken five hours and forty minutes today. Charlotte was chilledto the bone despite wearing her dead brother’s Wehrmacht greatcoat over hermother’s thickest jumper and woollen underwear. Her feet were sore fromstanding so long, too. As she dragged herself back in the direction of theapartment house, she shuffled more like a woman in her sixties than in herthirties, and she did not want to think about the future.

On the blank brickwall exposed by the collapse of the house in an air raid, two young men werebusy tearing down the SPD posters that had been put up the day before.Charlotte looked at them warily, prepared to make a run for her apartmentbuilding, but they were too thin and shabby to be Russians. She relaxed enoughto watch them roll out a new poster and affix it to the wall with theirglue-soaked brushes. It was a photo of Berlin burning after an air raid. Inlarge red letters dripping red drops to suggest blood, it read: “Votingstrengthens the warmongers! Voting means more night bombing!”

As if Hitlerhadn’t started the war! As if Stalin hadn’t been his friend!

She had watchedthe youths for too long. One of them noticed her. “Hey! Frau! Do you livearound here?”

“What business isthat of yours!” She answered, turning to hurry away.

He shouted afterher. “This block of houses has already been allocated to the Red Army. They’llmove in before the New Year. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to make themfeel warmly welcome!” He and his companion laughed.

Charlotte fled,trying to tell herself it was just empty threats and intimidation. “Bullying”was the word David would have used.

The thought ofDavid almost made her stumble. David, David, David. He had given her thepractical, thick-soled, warm shoes on her feet and the soft woollen gloves onher hands. Most of all he had given her back the will and a reason to live.Charlotte had hoped this Christmas would be filled with thankfulness and joyfor the first time in five years, but that dream had shattered with Fritz’sreturn.

She paused beforethe door of her apartment house and looked up toward the top floor. Fritz wasup there now, waiting for her and the rations. She wished she didn’t have to goup to him. Even queuing in the cold was better than being with Fritz. He watchedher every move and his eyes seemed to take her clothes off and seek topenetrate her soul at the same time. He pressured her to tell him everythingthat had happened since they parted in the autumn of 1942.

She’d told himwhat she could: what it had been like in Silesia on her father’s estate withonly women and prisoners of war as labourers. She’d tried to describe what itwas like as the front came closer and the refugees swept through, full ofhorror stories about Russian atrocities.  She informed him of herbrothers’ deaths and explained her father’s decision to flee by horse-cart.She’d forced herself to recount how the strafing Soviet fighter had killed bothher parents, her mother’s maid and one of the horses. She’d attempted to conveyhow numb and hopeless she’d felt when she arrived in Berlin. She’d tried tomake him understand her relief at being given refuge in her cousin’s house. Yetwhen she admitted that her cousin had been part of the plot against Hitler,Fritz had spat out “treasonous filth!” and she had said no more.

That didn’t stopFritz from trying to drag more information out of her. He’d asked her whathappened after the war, but she kept her answers vague. She claimed she’dsurvived as a freelance journalist, which was partially true, but she hadn’tbreathed a word about Air Ambulance International — or David, of course.

What was thepoint? She’d broken off with David, admitting to herself that her hopes for alife with him had been a fantasy. He didn’t know about the rapes. He wouldnever have married her after he found out.

Drawing a deepbreath, she put down the string bag with the rations, took out her key andunlocked the front door. Once inside, she started wearily up the shallowstairs. In the dark of the unlighted interior (there would be no electricity inthis part of the city until six am tomorrow), fear closed around her like astagnant fog. Those young men had said the Red Army would move in as soon asthe Western Allies withdrew. Everyone queuing for rations had been talkingabout how the Amis and Brits would pull out after the election. Not enoughplanes were getting through. Food reserves were running out. Rations could notbe cut any more. Some people claimed that the announced evacuation of childrenand chronically ill was a sham. What was really happening, they said,was that the Allies were sending their own children home. The Allied troopswould be on the last planes out, and then all of Berlin would belong to theIvans again.

Charlotte stoppedon the landing to get hold of herself. Her heart was pounding not from exertionbut from fear. She would not let them do it to her again. Her cousin Christianhad given her a pistol, one of several he’d bought on the black market. She hada dozen bullets as well. She would kill herself rather than let them touch heragain.

Sometimes, sheindulged in imagining what it would be like to kill one or two of them first.She would aim for their faces. Once upon a time, when she had been the daughterof a count with a large estate and had gone hunting with her brothers, she hadbeen a good shot. She was not unfamiliar or uncomfortable with guns. If theywere trying to come in the front door, she could position herself in thedoorway of the corner room, just three or four metres away. From there, withthem confined in the hall and silhouetted against the light on the landing, shethought she could hit them in the face. Out of hate. Out of revenge.

But she mustn’tthink about it, she told herself. It was bad enough that her thoughts rotatedaround this final moment of her life in the dark of her sleepless nights.

She continued upthe stairs to the fourth floor and again put down the bag of rations to letherself into the apartment. The interior was dark, silent and icy cold. Theydid not have enough coal to heat anything except the kitchen oven, and that foronly a couple of hours a day. Charlotte could see her breath.

The sound of thedoor clunking shut behind her provoked a growl from the far end of the hall.“Is that you, Lotte? Where have you been?” Fritz demanded, adding in aself-pitying tone, “I’ve been waiting for you for hours!”

“Yes, Fritz, it’sme!” Charlotte answered, trying to sound cheerful. “I told you I was going outto get our rations.”

“That was hoursago!” Fritz complained, limping to stand in the doorway of the “Berliner Room”that occupied the corner of the house. “Don’t you realise I can’t do anythingwithout your help!”

It was too darkto see more than his shape, but Charlotte could picture him all too well: theway his left eye couldn’t stay focused and drifted off to the side; his mouthwith only half his teeth and the others rotting and stinking horribly; themutilated right hand with only two remaining fingers with perpetually filthynails. Christian and she had found clothes to replace the rags he’d arrived in,but they had no hot water to give him a proper bath. Although Christian hadmade him strip down and stand in the tub to be sponged off with water heated inthe kettle, the stink of the Gulag clung to him.

“The lines arevery long,” Charlotte explained. “I had to wait five hours and forty minutes.”

“Arrogantbastards,” Fritz snarled.

“They’re doingthe best they can,” Charlotte reminded him.

“Really? In thatcase, they’re incompetent fools. Bumbling idiots! We could organise things muchbetter!”

“What do youmean?” The question cracked like a gunshot from Christian, who stepped out ofthe front salon. He lived there now that Fritz had moved into the secondbedroom.

“People never hadto wait in long lines for rations in German-occupied territory. Everything wasproperly organised and went like clockwork!” Fritz bragged.

“Right into thegas chambers!” Christian flung back, adding, “Nobody stood in line for rationsbecause we killed or deported them instead.”

“I should haveknown a traitor like you wouldn’t be proud of his country!”

“You’re proud ofmurdering millions?”

“Stop it!”Charlotte shouted. “Stop it!” It was directed at both of them.

“This is myhouse,” Christian answered in a tone of voice his subordinates in the Luftwaffewould have recognised. “I’ll say what I please.”

“Don’t,Christian! Please don’t!” Charlotte pleaded, tears forming in her eyes. Shedropped the rations and, pushing past Fritz, ran to her room at the far end ofthe hall, slamming the door. Behind her, the angry voices of Christian andFritz exchanging insults continued. She flung herself onto the bed, covered herhead with her pillow and started sobbing. Part of her wondered if she shouldbother waiting for the Ivans to come. Maybe she should just shoot herselfnow? 

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Characters of "Cold Victory" : DAVID GOLDMAN

 David Goldman, a German-Jew with a Canadian passport and a wartime record with the RAF, has invested the fortune inherited from his father in the establishment of an aviation company. His firm is not only flying freight into Berlin as part of the Berlin Airlift, it is also flying patients out in an air ambulance. But while the business is doing well, David's private life is a shambles after the German woman he fell in love with, Charlotte Walmsdorf, rejects him to marry her returned fiancee.

 

During the war, David was badly burned while flying a Hurricane in combat, and his face was 'reconstructed' by the famous plastic surgeon Dr McIndoe -- just as was the face of the young man in the portrait above, Wing Commander Bob Doe. 

This excerpt from the start of "Cold Victory" depicts his state of mind at this low point in his life.

Sammy lickedDavid’s face to wake him. As the dog’s rough tongue brought him back toconsciousness, he groaned. His shoulder was killing him from lying on it fortoo long on the floor. He dragged himself upright and looked around. He was ina small, old-fashioned sitting room with an empty wine bottle beside him and adirty wineglass on the table. Where was he and what day was it?

Gradually thingsstarted to come back to him. After the police had failed to arrest the manliving in his uncle’s gracious house on the Havel, he’d been slipped the keyswith the hint that no one would object to him re-occupying family propertywhile his restitution claim worked its way through the bureaucracy. He’dcollected Sammy from the Priestman’s home in Kladow, taken all his personalbelongings out of the apartment over the company office on Kurfuerstendamm, andmoved into the house here on the Schwanenwerder. The main house with its highceilings and large windows, however, was freezing and lonely.  So, he’dset himself up in the housekeeper’s old apartment at the back of the houseinstead. It was small, cosy and could be heated more easily. In addition, thewindows were nearly overgrown with vines, making it harder for people to lookin. He could also come and go by the back door, avoiding the main entrance thatthe police had boarded up.

David had madehimself quite comfortable, but then the nightmares started. He dreamt of hischildhood, fleeing his father’s contempt and the ridicule of the otherchildren. He heard again his parents’ whispers about bankruptcies, dismissals,terminated contracts and suicides. The memories merged with films ofconcentration camps and photos of mass graves in the forests east of Warsaw.They mutated into his own melted face, the patchwork of skin, the stitches andswelling, the smell of pus and disinfectant.

“Oh, Sammy,”David gasped out and pulled the blond collie mix into his arms. He’d adoptedSammy when his face was at an early stage of reconstruction. The dog haddiligently licked his regenerating skin night after night in an obsessivedetermination to help his new master recover.

Sammy was skinny,he noted with shock, and sat up more completely. How long had he been lyinghere? Why on the floor rather than the bed? When was the last time he’d fedSammy? There was a dog door, and Sammy could get out to drink from the lake,but unless he’d managed to catch a bird or a rabbit for himself, David didn’tthink he’d been fed in several days.

David draggedhimself to his feet. He was wearing four layers of jumpers, corduroy trousers,thick socks and fleece slippers. His head ached, his mouth tasted foul, and hisstomach rumbled. He hadn’t fed himself either. He made his way to the lavatory,relieved himself, and then went into the staff kitchen. He opened cupboardsrandomly until he found some cans of spam and emptied the contents into Sammy’sbowl. While the dog ate ravenously, he returned to the bathroom to strip downand wash himself, brush his teeth and change into clean clothes.  

When he wasdressed again, he returned to the kitchen, gave Sammy a second can of spam, andcut the contents of a third can into slices that he laid on slabs of stalebread. It was dry and unappetizing but temporarily filling. He washed it downwith tap water, left the plate and glass in the sink with a stack of otherdirty dishes, and sank onto the chair to stare out of the window.

There was nothingto see but fog and desultory moisture dripping from the eaves. Then he noticeda sparrow clinging to a dead vine. A microcosm of his life perhaps? Sammyleaned against his leg and whimpered, begging for his attention, so he bent toscratch him behind his ears and massage the back of his neck, murmuringapologies. “Sorry, old boy. I didn’t mean to neglect you. I promise to improve.I should not have come here. It was a colossal mistake. I should have left theghosts alone. I don’t need anything here. It’s a ball and chain around my ankleholding me back, stopping me from flying. We ought to be flying, Sammy. Abovethe clouds. Soaring again.” The thought of a Spitfire on the wing brought thefaintest of smiles to his lips, and Sammy reached out with his tongue toexpress approval.

“At least thatNazi bastard is gone. I can turn the house over to the city and let themrelocate homeless people here.  Whatever.” He shrugged as he registeredthat most of those homeless people would also have shouted “Heil Hitler,”rejected their Jewish neighbours, thought of themselves as ‘supermen’ andgloried in the conquest of half of Europe. But he couldn’t find the energy tobe outraged any more. He just wanted to get away. To leave Berlin and Germanybehind and start his life over again.

He had a Canadianpassport, after all. His mother, one sister and his brother were still there.He could go to the New World and start over again.

But he didn’tmove. He just stared out of the window and watched the moisture on the tip of anaked vine fatten until it was heavy enough to fall with a soft ‘platsch’ ontothe windowsill. He also heard faint laughter echoing in the rooms overhead. Hiscousins were giggling as they played some silly game. His uncle called out thathe was home, and his aunt urged, “Come girls, your father’s home.”

“It’s so peacefulhere,” Charlotte said timidly in his brain. “It’s as if there never was a war. Are those lilacs? They must be glorious when they bloom. And look! Isthat a peacock? Do you think it escaped from the Pfaueninsel?” Charlotte wasalways so timid and hesitant in his presence. “Is that a stable? Oh, David,could we have horses? I would so love to have horses in my life again.”

David put hishands to his face. Desperate to explain why Charlotte had left him, he’dsearched his memory a million times for some trace of disdain, contempt,superiority, arrogance, or a hint of antisemitism. Instead, all he heard wasCharlotte’s shy, breathy voice as she expressed her thanks for every littlething he did for her. His memories revealed only uncertainty when she talked ofbusiness matters and diffidence towards every decision he made. He was hauntedby the rare tinkling of her laughter and her smiles like rays of sunshinepiercing the fog. How could Charlotte, of all people, reject him?

Christian hadsaid it was because of the rapes, but David’s brain refused to go there. Hesimply could not cope with the thought of Charlotte being ravaged — much lesssix times. He did not believe it. Christian had been trying to manipulate himinto forgiving her. Or maybe Christian believed it. But David didn’t. Charlottecould not have survived being gang raped. She was too fragile. An experiencelike that would have destroyed her. She would have gone mad or killed herself.Ergo it could not have happened at all, and that meant she had some otherreason for rejecting him. There had to be something about him that she couldnot accept....

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Characters of "Cold Victory" : EMILY PRIESTMAN

 Although Emily is the wife of Wing Commander Priestman, she is much more than the woman at his side. She is also a veteran pilot, having been a ferry pilot with the ATA during the war, and the business partner of David Goldman, the owner-manager of the aviation company "Emergency Air Services." But it isn't Emily's positions that matter, but rather the fact that she has a gift for holding things together and helping people to get along. 

 

In this excerpt, Emily is at a low point, realizing that her husband's posting puts an end to her work with the air ambulance as well.

Emily had a quickwash and dressed in her Emergency Air Services (EAS) uniform of black trousers,double-breasted, black blazer and red silk ascot. Although she liked thisattire and was proud of the golden cloth wings above the left breast pocket andthe three golden stripes on her sleeve, she wondered how much longer she wouldwear it. She could not let Robin return to the UK alone, so his dismissal asstation commander meant that her days flying the air ambulance were also comingto an end.

Despite her bestefforts to appear calm and resigned about the situation, she was inwardly seething.She found it unfathomable that Robin’s dedication and effectiveness at Gatowhad gone unnoticed. She also considered it unforgivable that he was beingpunished for doing the right thing: saving orphans, malnourished children andpeople with chronic diseases from unnecessary suffering. The fact that he hadbeen requested to organize the evacuation by the senior British officer inBerlin made things even worse. None of it made sense!

Part of herwanted to protest publicly. She’d been briefly tempted to go to the press. Whatwould the public think if they learned that the RAF leadership preferred blindobedience to responding to the needs of innocent children? There was a womanreporter with the Times who loved breaking stories of bureaucraticobtuseness and incompetence. Yet Emily held herself in check. Robin didn’t wantany publicity. He identified too strongly with the RAF to want any criticism ofit to be made public. 

Coming down thestairs to the ground floor, Emily told herself that rather than pursuing mentalfantasies of revenge or protest, she ought to start packing up their personalthings in preparation for returning to the UK. Robin’s replacement might comewith a wife and several children. He would expect to move into the officialresidence immediately and, according to Robin, that might be as early as nextMonday afternoon.

Emily crossed theicy dining room to join their house guests at the breakfast table. Kit Moranwas another pilot with EAS, while his wife Georgina worked as a teacher at theBritish school.  “Good morning!” Emily greeted the others as she closedthe glass doors behind her to keep as much warmth inside as possible.

Her guestsresponded with cheerful greetings and then Kit announced, “Georgina and I were justwondering whether the Station might host a Christmas party for some Berlinchildren. Although the sickest children are being flown out, hundreds ofthousands remain, and what sort of Christmas are they going to have? Therearen’t any Christmas trees or decorations, let alone presents and feasts.”

“What I wasthinking,” Georgina took up the topic enthusiastically, “was to approach someof the nearby German schools. If we work with the teachers and focus on theyounger children, we might be able to organise a party for three or fourhundred children. We could ask the staff at Gatow to donate presents. I’m surewe’d collect plenty!”

Listening to her,Emily was reminded that Georgina was a vicar’s daughter. She was used to bothorganizing Christmas events —and asking for charity.

Kit, clearly inthe spirit of things, pointed out, “I think that a hot meal with turkey, realpotatoes and hot chocolate might be more appreciated than gifts. I wasthinking, that while we can’t take the Halifax off the Airlift, you might beable to sneak in a flight to the UK and back with Moby Dick” (that was whatthey called the air ambulance). “The Wellington,” Kit reminded them, “had abomb capacity of 4,500 lbs, which means that Moby Dick could carry more thanenough turkeys, potatoes and Christmas pudding for several hundred kids.”

“We could evenbring in oranges!” Georgina enthused.

Her husband,however, had detected Emily’s reticence and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“It sounds like awonderful idea,” Emily admitted, “and weather permitting, I think David wouldbe willing to authorise the use of Moby Dick to bring in food. However,” shedrew a deep breath and then added, “I’m afraid, the station commander will haveto approve the use of RAF facilities and access to the station for so manychildren, their teachers or parents.”

“But why wouldn’tRobin….” Georgina started confidently only for her words to fade away as herhusband flashed her a warning with his eyes.

Emily drew a deepbreath and announced, “Robin is no longer station commander, and we have noidea who will replace him, much less if he might be inclined to approve aChristmas party for German children or not.”

“But when….why… Idon’t understand,” Georgina admitted, looking from her husband to her hostessand back.

“Theevacuations,” her husband drew the right conclusion. “I heard rumours thatGroup Captain Bagshot had not approved them and was furious.”

Emily nodded.“Robin won’t make a public announcement about his departure until he knows moredetails, but I should have said something privately. This is RAF housing, youunderstand, and when we turn it over to Robin’s successor, you will have tomove out. I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t worry,”Kit assured her. “We can take rooms in the Malcolm Club with the others.” Theother four members of Kit’s crew along with the second pilot and flightengineer of the air ambulance rented rooms at the Malcolm Club at RAF Gatow.

Before Emilycould say any more, a voice rang out from behind them. “Hello? Anybody home?”

“That’s Kiwi!”Emily exclaimed in astonishment, leaping to her feet to open the glass doors.She called through the dining room towards the front entry, “Kiwi! We’re in thebreakfast room!”

A moment laterthe tall, fair-haired New Zealander breezed in. He received welcoming kisses onboth cheeks from Emily and handshakes from the Morans. Then he tossed aside hiscap and laid his damp greatcoat over the back of an unused chair as he sat downat the table. The sound of his arrival brought one of the housemaids out of thekitchen. She asked politely if she should bring another place setting and morecoffee, which Emily welcomed.

“Did you just flyin?” Emily asked eagerly.

“Hitch-hiked withRafair.”

“Which meansthey’re flying?”

“Some flights aregetting through — not as many as are needed. They’re prioritizing the largeraircraft. Albatross” (the nickname for Moran’s Halifax) “ought to be able toget cargoes, so I came to find out what’s going on. Are we in business oraren’t we?”

Silence answeredhim. Kit and Georgina looked at Emily.

Drawing a deepbreath, she explained, “Robin’s been relieved of his command—”

“What a flamingcock-up! Excuse me, ladies. That bastard Bagshot!” Kiwi grasped the situationat once. “I should have known!”

“That doesn’t initself close down EAS,” Emily hastened to point out. “I will, of course, resignand return to the UK with Robin, but you can take command of Moby Dick, Kiwi.”

“That’s not theissue,” Kiwi replied. “The point is that David’s so cracked up over Charlottedumping him that he’s stopping running the company. It’s bad enough thatCharlotte is no longer handling the customers, but for most of November, Davidhandled them himself and we managed to limp along. Since last Saturday, he’sstopped doing even that. I’ve called the office a dozen times, and all I get isthe frightened secretary who doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.  DoesDavid intend to fold or what?”

“I can’t answerthat, Kiwi,” Emily admitted. “I haven’t seen David this week either. Robin’sdismissal took me by surprise and the weather was an excuse not to probe. Itdidn’t help that Robin thinks the Airlift is on the brink of collapse. If themajority of the Berliners boycott the election or vote outright for the SED onSunday, then HM government will probably withdraw the British garrison.”

Kiwi counteredwith, “Look, we call ourselves ‘Emergency Air Services’ and that means we flyprecisely where and when things are risky and unstable. We’ve got two fullyserviceable aircraft sitting in a hangar at Gatow, not to mention idle groundand aircrew. We ought to be flying until they shoot us out of the sky.”

“Agreed,” Kitseconded him. “Albi’s had a cargo stowed for eight hours. If Gatow’s open, I’llmake a run to Hanover with it.” He stood as he spoke, bending to give Georginaa quick kiss.

“Emily?” Kiwiasked.

“There’s noreason why the Halifax shouldn’t be flying whenever visibility allows.Regarding the ambulance, however, we can’t fly until we have a flight planbased on what patients need to go where. Either David or Charlotte is going tohave to start working again.” She hesitated, but it had to be said. “And whileI agree that we ought to keep flying, David writes the cheques. We haveto find out what he wants.”

Her remark wasmet with silence. It wasn’t only the people in this room who depended on EASfor their livelihood. The company employed German office staff, eight otheraircrew and seven ground crew, including a man paralyzed from the waist down.Closing EAS would be a disaster for all of them. Emily knew that, but David hadfounded the company, and he was its majority shareholder and chief executiveofficer.

“I’d better goand talk to him,” Emily concluded, knowing that this was much more importantthan packing up her things.

“Thank you,” Kiwireplied, adding “And try to talk some sense into him, would you?”

“I’ll do mybest.”

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Characters of "Cold Victory " - Wing Commander Robin Priestman

 Cold Victory has a large and diverse cast. There is no one character who dominates the book and deserves the title of "main protagonist." Nevertheless, as the senior officer at RAF Gatow -- at this time in history the business airfield in the entire world -- Robin does take precedence of the others. Besides, he's was the hero of "Where Eagles Never Flew" and is familiar to my loyal readers as a Battle of Britain ace and squadron leader.

 

This excerpt is the first scene in which Robin appears in Cold Victory and highlights the situation he finds himself in at the the start of the book. 

The drizzling rain from the low overcast sky suited WingCommander Robin Priestman’s mood. Although somewhat better than the dense fogof the previous few days, the ceiling was still too low to allow a return tofull operations. The tower was landing aircraft with ground-controlled approach(GCA) once every five instead of once every three minutes, and due to worseweather at the departure fields, there were intermittent gaps in the incomingtraffic.

Hearing the silence, Robin left his desk and went to gaze intothe gloom. Spread out directly before his window were the hangars andhardstandings where the aircraft off-loaded inbound cargoes and a couple of thecivilian charter aircraft loaded outbound cargoes. Further in the distance werethe parallel runways, one surfaced with pierced-steel-plate or PSP for take-offsand one made of concrete and surfaced with tarmac for landings. Roughly twodozen Yorks were being off-loaded just below his window, while a squadron ofDakotas was drawn up beyond the farthest runway preparing to embark childrenbound for the West. But no aircraft were moving.

Robin sighed. He was no longer the station commander, merelythe “acting station commander” until his replacement arrived. He could notallow that subtle change to alter his efficiency or his outward appearance andbehaviour. He had been careful to arrive sharply at 7:30 am as usual. He haddressed in his best blues with his shoes polished to a shine and the creases ofhis trousers smartly pressed. He attempted to look and sound cheerful wheneverhe interacted with other personnel.  

In the privacy of his office, however, it was hard to maintainthat façade of normality. Although he had accepted the assignment to Berlinreluctantly, in the eleven months since his arrival, his lingering wartimehostility toward the Germans had melted away. In its place, first mistrust andthen gradually hatred of the Russians had taken root. He had come to see Stalinas every bit as bad as Hitler — if not worse. Stalin had institutionalisedinhumanity and was actively trying to spread his reign of terror to the wholeof Germany and ultimately the rest of Europe. He had to be stopped. As aresult, with each day of the Airlift, Robin’s commitment to aiding the besiegedBerliners had grown. It had long since reached the point where his work herewas not a job but a mission. Only, as of Sunday, it was not his missionany more.

There was a knock on the door, and he called “Come in” overhis shoulder. Flight Lieutenant Boyd, the intelligence officer, entered. “I’vegot today’s papers for you, sir.”

Robin returned to his desk but remained standing as Boydspread the press clippings out in front of him. Most of the headlines declared“SED Putsch!” or “Attempted Communist Coup!” He also noticed an articleheaded with the words: “Mayor Reuter requests Allied protection.” According tothe translations tacked to the Soviet-controlled newspapers, the tone in theEastern media was triumphant: “Workers and Farmers End Tyrannical Government,”“Capitalist Puppets Thrown Out!” “Democratically Elected Council Boots OutReuter Terror-Clique!”

“I’d like to draw your attention to the following item,” Boydcontinued his briefing by pointing to one of the clippings. “In this article,the Soviet Military Administration promises to increase coal rations and toprovide 250 grams of chocolate per household per month to those registered inthe East.”

Robin snorted, then with a glance at his intelligence officer,he asked, “Do you think many West Berliners will take the bait and register inthe East for the sake of a little more coal?”

“It’s hard to know,” Boyd admitted. “Everyone I’ve been ableto talk to scoffs at the idea — pointing out that it highlights Sovietstinginess and contempt. But it’s the people I can’t talk to who may beinclined to take up the offer.”

“Not that it hurts us in any way,” Robin reflected. “The morecoal the Berliners get from the Soviets, the less we need to fly in. As for thechocolate….” He shrugged. “Why would any child want Russian chocolate whenAmerican chocolate rains down on them from the skies?”

“My view exactly. You may be more interested in this piece.”Boyd indicated an article he had circled. “The SED’s counter-mayor has promisedto give workers a 30% pay rise while declaring his intention to expropriate allfactories and businesses employing more than five people.”

“At least he’s honest and open about it. Anything else I needto know?”

“Not just now, sir,” Boyd replied. Robin thanked him and theflight lieutenant withdrew.

Before Robin could settle into his work, however, there wasanother knock. This time the head that looked in was that of Lt. Colonel GrahamRussell of the Corps of Royal Engineers. Graham was not his subordinate; he wasa friend.

“Got a minute, Robin?” Graham asked.

“For you, yes,” Robin answered.

Graham closed the door behind him and advanced across the roomto stand just in front of Robin’s desk. “I had to talk to you because I’veheard a terrible rumour at Army HQ.”

Robin raised his eyebrows.

“Herbert made an off-hand remark that you were on our way out.Surely that isn’t true?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“But why?” Graham sounded stunned.

“Because I went ahead with the evacuation of the children andother vulnerable citizens without clearing it through Group Captain Bagshot.”

“But the Berlin City Government requested theevacuations?”

“Correct.”

“I must be missing something,” Graham admitted and looked atRobin expectantly.

“General Herbert is Commandant of the British Sector ofBerlin. He has no authority over the Airlift. He asked General Tunner to handlethe evacuations and Tunner said ‘no,’ but gave explicit permission for the RAFto do whatever it liked. Herbert asked me for RAF action, bypassing Bagshot,and I agreed without clearing it. Bagshot, unsurprisingly, was livid about mybreach of military protocol and sacked me on the spot.”

“Did he order the evacuations halted?”

“Even he recognised that I’d made that impossible by mypromise to the City Council and by starting the evacuations on a large scalebefore running cameras. Which is why, no doubt, he was so determined to have myhead.”

“I can’t say how sorry I am about this. Your friendship,Emily’s hospitality — it has meant the world to me,” Graham stammered out. [...]  "I can’t believe you’re being cashiered for doing whatGeneral Herbert asked you to do. Does this mean you could face additionalunpleasantness?”

Robin drew a deep breath, “It could. The Air Ministry doesn’tlike ‘insubordinate officers’ and I may be handed a bowler hat instead of a newassignment.” Robin tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, but Grahamsaw through him. They were alike in this; the service was their life.

Graham asked in a low voice, “Do you regret it, Robin?”

“Not for a moment. Look out there, Graham.” He pointed towardthe row of Dakotas and the dilapidated Berlin buses disgorging children besidethem. “Every child that gets out of Berlin today is one who will not besubject to Stalin’s terror tomorrow. Every child boarding those Daks will havea chance to grow up without the fear of famine or arrest or a trip to theGulag.”

Graham nodded grimly. Eleven days in Soviet detention hadconvinced him that the worst rumours of brainwashing, slave labour and massmurders were true. Graham had learned to fear the Russian bear.

Robin was watching the invariably chaotic embarkation of thechildren. Despite efforts by teachers and parents to keep the kids quiet andstill, they were too excited to do as they were told. Even from this distance,Robin could see children drifting off to look at the planes and saw franticadults trying to herd them back to the side as a Lancastrian tanker on approachfell out of the cloud and plonked down hard on the runway.

“Do you think the kids appreciate what we’re doing for them?”Graham asked from behind him.

“They understand, Graham,” Robin answered seriously, “theyunderstand more profoundly than you could imagine.” He turned to look back atGraham and asked, “Haven’t you noticed anything unusual on my desk?”

Graham looked blank and then directed his attention to theStation Commander’s desk. It took him a moment before he exclaimed, “The TeddyBear!”

Robin reached over and took the ragged, threadbare andlopsided stuffed animal from his desk. He looked down into the beady eyes ofthe toy for a few moments before turning it around and holding it up to faceGraham. “Meet Bertie the Bear, a wise veteran of — I’m told — 62 air raids,including one that destroyed the house in which he lived. Bertie, his friendLiesl explained, kept his beloved friend safe day and night, even when theIvans broke into her apartment and did terrible things to her mummy. Bertie,she said, was the only thing of any value that she could give to me. I tried toconvince her that he wanted to stay with her, but she said ‘no.’ She said, ‘Youare keeping us safe from the Ivans. I want Bertie to help you, so you can makesure my mummy will not be hurt like that ever again.’”

In the silence following his words, the sound of the rainseemed stronger.

“If I were still station commander, Graham, I would askpermission to increase, not reduce, these evacuations. I would seek to get notjust the children and chronically ill people out of Berlin, but the singlemothers and some of the youths as well. Did you know the Boy Scouts have askedpermission to help off-load the aircraft? Not one of them weighs what theyshould at their age, but they insisted they could double up to carry ten-poundsacks of coal!”

Graham nodded understanding, and Robin concluded with adefeated shrug, “But I am no longer station commander, and God knows how mysuccessor will feel about the evacuations — or the Berliners themselves.”

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Release of "Cold Victory" -- Book III of the Bridge to Tomorrow Series

 The Bridge to Tomorrow Seriesshows how the West stopped Russian aggression without war during the BerlinCrisis 1948/1949. This bloodless victory of democracy over tyranny has manylessons for the present day. Thecomponents of Bridge to Tomorrow go beyond the political chess game andlogistical achievements to explore the social and psychological impact of thispivotal historical event. A diverse cast of characters enables the readerto see unfolding events through different, even conflicting, perspectives. 

 

In Russian-blockadedBerlin, courageous women — lawyers, nurses, nuns and prostitutes — lead the fightfor democracy as they defend a rape victim accused of murder and help rescue a downedwoman pilot.

You know you’re winning when the enemyturns to dirty tricks ….

With the Airlift gaining momentum, the Russians turn to moredevious tactics to thwart the forces of democracy. Key players — or their lovedones — are targeted in unscrupulous attacks. Simultaneously, the policy of“collective guilt” has been replaced by “collective amnesty,” enabling former Nazisto worm their way back into positions of power. Yet throughout this dangerousdance with the henchmen of dictators, women are steadily rebuilding Berlin andGermany.

Award-winning novelist Helena P. Schrader takes the reader awayfrom the limelight and into the shadow side of the Berlin Airlift to explore thesocial, psychological and long-term impact of this seminal event.

Based on historical events, Cold Victory reminds readers thatstanding up to tyrants isn’t easy — but it is necessary.

Over the next weeks, I'll be introducing the characters with short excerpts highlighting each. 

 

  Praise for the Bridge to TomorrowSeries

“The War andPeace of the Berlin Airlift” — BookTrib

 A “tour-de-force”— IndieReader

 “…any fan of historical fiction (or well-crafted literary fiction) willfind Cold War immensely rewarding – and eagerly await the sequel.” — BlueInkStarred Review

 “…utterlytransporting.” — The Book Commentary

 "Sharp research meets vivid storytelling in anabsorbing novel of the postwar period." Kirkus Reviews

 "...a wonderful mixture of hard historicalfacts...[and] raw portrayals of the human condition." HistoricalFiction Company

 “…a very fast-paced, suspenseful, emotional, andriveting story that any reader will find almost impossible to put down.” FeatheredQuill

 “This is atrilogy worth the reader’s time, attention and emotional investment.” — BookTrib

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An Idealistic Inquisitor: Dominican Friar Umberto di Sante

 Ultimately, the domineering and omnipresent protagonist in any tale about the destruction of the Knights Templar is the King of France, Philip IV. A book that included him as a character, dissecting his motives and strategy, would undoubtedly make a intriguing contribution to literature on the topic. But I did not choose that path. In The Tale of the English Templar, Philip VI remains ominously in the background. The protagonist of the novel is instead one of his servants -- an idealistic young man whose ambitions lead him astray.

 In this excerpt, the student Umberto di Sante is found walking out in the streets of Poitiers with the noble maiden Felice de Preuthun. He is the son of a Sicilian noble house, in Poitiers to study and 'make connections' to enable a career.  Although as a student he is classed as 'clergy' and subject to canon rather than secular law and authorities, he has not yet taken monastic vows.

The Dean,Monseigneur Michel de Saint Laurent, was a man in his early forties. He was avigorous man, built more like a smith or a longshoreman than a priest. He hadbroad shoulders, thick, muscular arms and a stride that shook the earth as ifan elephant were angry. More important, though not a man of noble birth, he wasa relation on his mother’s side of the King’s most influential minister, Keeperof the Privy Seal, Guillaume de Nogaret. It was no secret that he wasdesignated for the bishopric of Albi as soon as the present incumbent finallysuccumbed to the sickness that had incapacitated him for months.

Felice dipped herknee and bowed her head demurely to the powerful priest.

“The ReverendMother is looking all over for you, mademoiselle!” the Dean told her sternly.“She was about to send out search parties. Report to her at once and pray theVirgin inspires her with mercy.” He dismissed her with a quick flick of hishand. Felice dropped another curtsey and with a hasty, almost inaudible “Adieu”to Umberto, she collected her skirts and ran across the cathedral court,heading for the Convent of Saint Radegonde beyond.

Umberto,embarrassed to be discovered by such a prominent churchman in a potentiallycompromising situation, also bowed and started to take his leave, but theMonseigneur had him firmly by the elbow and started to lead him forcefullytowards the cathedral. “Not so fast, young man. I intend to take a stroll inthe cloisters, and you will accompany me.”

Umberto couldhardly say no, and a part of him was even excited. It was not every student whotook an afternoon stroll with the Dean of Poitiers Cathedral. His colleaguesnever need learn the reason or the content of their discussion. He fell inbeside the Dean and paced himself to match the stride of the senior cleric.

“I’ve beenwatching you for some time, di Sante,” the Dean commenced before they hadreached the cathedral. “You’re an ambitious young man.”

Umberto wasflattered — and impressed that the Dean had noticed, given how little contactthey had had with one another.

The Dean shovedopen the door of the cathedral. It banged loudly; the echo vibrated in thesoaring arches overhead, but the Dean was not in the least distracted. Hemarched across the nave with only the barest hint of a genuflection towards thealtar, heading to the door leading out into the cloisters at the base of thetransept opposite. The fact that mass was being read in the choir disturbed himnot in the least. They entered the tranquillity of the cloisters where the pureRomanesque arcade framed the bubbling fountain in the centre of the garth withits clipped grass.

The Dean had noparticular affinity for beauty. He pounded his way over the graves of deceasedpriests as if he were intent upon wearing away even the simple crosses with theChristian names and dates. “You selected the books for copying not merely on thebasis of the condition of the pages but on the basis of content.” TheDean willingly revealed one of the reasons he was impressed by Umberto.

Umberto notedthis with satisfaction, remembering that he had explained before he was askedthe reason why he recommended the copying of various volumes. At the time, theDean had appeared uninterested and even irritated; now Umberto was gratified tolearn that his effort to attract attention had been more successful than he haddared hope.

“You have a goodhead on your shoulders,” the Dean continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “Yourprofessors assure me of that.” He glanced at the young man next to him and hiseyes narrowed a bit. The boy’s face was too pretty by far. Monseigneur Michelwas not himself a good-looking man: his face was too round, his lips too thickand his nose too stubby for that. But everyone had their faults, he remindedhimself and continued, “It seems to me that you have a great number of optionsopen to you.”

Umberto’s bloodquickened in his veins. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he mightobtain patronage and opportunity so early. He had only been at the universityfor three years. Many youths studied for ten without attracting particularfavour. While his family was rich enough to secure him a church benefice or aposition in a monastery in Sicily, Umberto couldn’t bear the thought of endingthere, so far from the seat of power.

“You will havegiven thought to your future,” the Dean surmised. “What is it you actually wantout of life?”

Umberto wasembarrassed to admit the dreams that filled him. He could hardly tell a man whohad not yet gained the bishop’s staff that he aspired so high. He reduced hissights accordingly: “A university chair —"

“I thought youhad more sense than that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life arguingabout how many angels can stand on a pinhead?” The disapproval was patent.

“Well, no, I —”

“Let’s not playstupid games with one another. You’re too good for that. You know damn wellthat power lies not in the universities, much less the parishes. There are onlytwo routes to power — the papal court or the crown. You can serve the Pope orthe King of France – and to be honest that is one and the same thing since theKing controls the Pope. To serve the King is the more direct route to reward.”

Even Umberto wastaken aback by the directness of this speech. To be sure, all the studentstalked among themselves about Clement’s utter subservience to Philip IV, butthey always kept their voices down and looked over their shoulders when theyspoke.

“The King hasurgent need of intelligent clerics who are willing to follow his lead withoutany mealy-mouthed prevarication. He’s going to have particular need of them inthe near future. Did you like the sermon by Father Elion, by the way?” The Deanstopped abruptly and asked the question out of the blue.

“Yes. Very much.The man has brilliant rhetoric and real courage. The Bishop did not lookpleased,” Umberto added with a touch of a smile.

The Dean laughedheartily. “No, the bishop was not unduly pleased, but that hardly matters.Norgoret is impressed by Father Elion. He is a man who has a nose for the seatof evil and the fanaticism to root it out.” Umberto wondered how the Dean knewthis, but already the Dean was continuing. “Don’t forget that the King is avery devout man. He cannot abide heresy.”

This was hardly asecret. Philip IV had not hesitated to accuse Pope Boniface VIII of heresy. TheKing had then proceeded to have the Pope arrested — by troops under the commandof Nogaret. Pope Boniface had died not very long afterwards — whether of poison,fear or merely despair was a matter of much lively speculation among thestudents.

“Now,” the Deancontinued purposefully, “for a young man eager to rise rapidly in the Church,there are a number of options. The most obvious course — and therefore, the onemost unimaginative youths pursue — is to become attached to the papal court.”

Umberto wasanxious to show that he was not so ‘unimaginative’ and now spoke up. “My familysupported Charles of Anjou. I intended —”

“Anjou may be theKing’s brother but make no mistake about his influence. The King wants hisbrother to become Holy Roman Emperor to increase his own power. Charles deValois is a cultivated, intelligent man but he has none of his elder brother’sruthlessness.”

Umberto had notnoted that Anjou conducted the campaign in Sicily with particular mildness, buthe knew better than to contradict.

“What you need todo, di Sante, is to join the Dominicans. That is the order most favoured by theKing and all his confessors have been and will be Dominicans.”

The idea of beingthe confessor of a king had never crossed Umberto’s mind, but he liked theimage instantly.

“There is aproblem.” The Dean stopped abruptly and turned to confront Umberto so directlythat the young man took a step back in shock. “You must enter holy orders — youmust become a priest — and you cannot have any female casting a shadow overyour career.”

Umberto blushedagainst his will. “You misunderstood. I saw Mademoiselle de Preuthune alonebefore Notre Dame. I merely offered to escort her back to the convent. We have—"

“I amMademoiselle de Preuthune’s confessor, di Sante. You don’t need to tell me thatshe is not only still a virgin but a sincerely modest maiden. But listencarefully: there is no woman in Poitiers who is more dangerous for you than thePreuthune maid.”

“Monseigneur! Idon’t understand. Of all the maidens now at the convent, she is the mostgenuinely interested in learning —”

“The girl is muchtoo intelligent for her own good! She has a better mind than nine-tenths of thestudents at the university! You don’t have to tell me that. And she reads Greek— which I dare say is more than you can do. But that is exactly why sheis dangerous. She’s not a girl you can use and discard. Her father is arespectable nobleman, her brother is on his way to becoming one of the leadingtournament champions of France, and, to top it off, her grandfather wasknighted by Saint Louis himself. I happen to know her grandfather, di Sante; hemay be over seventy, but he is fearless. If you dishonour the girl, you can besure that he will not hesitate to go to the King himself. Do you want to endlike Abelard?”

Umberto blushed.

“No. You don’t.Look, if I know anything about Sicily, you ploughed more than one furrow beforeyou left home. No one says you have to stop. You have the kind of face girlslike.”

Umberto swallowedawkwardly, unsure if he were expected to admit that he regularly took advantageof this fact.

“I see youhaven’t been fasting.” The Dean read his expression correctly. “No one is goingto blame you for that. Not even after you take higher orders. You don’t thinkthe whores of Poitiers live from secular customers alone, do you? But in thename of God, keep away from maids like Felice d Preuthune. The most importantrule is never sleep with a woman who hasn’t spread her legs for dozens ofothers. Whether she’s a whore or just a woman of low birth or morals, never,never give a woman the chance to claim convincingly that you are the father ofher bastard.”

As abruptly as hehad addressed Umberto, the Dean seemed to tire of him. He stepped back. “I hopeyou have fully understood me,” the Dean declared, and then waved Umberto away.

The Tale of the English Templar is available in paperback and ebook format from all major online retail platforms. 
An escaped Templar,an intrepid, old crusader, and a discarded brideembark on a quest for justice inthe face of tyranny.  Find out more at on my website Buy on amazon.com Buy on Barnes and Noble  

 

 

Pope Clement V

 Philip IV of France would not have found it so easy to destroy the Knights Templar if the pope of the period had been a strong character interested either in righteousness -- or his own independence and power. Whether idealistic or merely self-interested, a man with backbone could have stood up to Philip IV -- and turned the Templars into his army. Clement V, however, was a Frenchman with an apparent admiration for Philip IV. Very probably he owed his election to the papacy to Philip and thereafter lived in fear of displeasing the powerful French monarch. 

 In the excerpt below, Lord Geoffrey of Najac, at the end of an audience with the Pope on another topic, raises the issue of the Templars.

 “Is that all, Monsieur?” thePope enquired of Geoffrey.

“No.”Geoffrey surprised them all — not least Louis and Marie, who had been preparedfor everything up to now. “Your Holiness, I was myself a Templar novice, and Ifought beside Saint Louis in Egypt. At Damietta, I was wounded and at Mansourah,I was knighted by Saint Louis himself.” He thrust his leg forwards andindicated the spurs with the lilies of France. “I did not join the Temple, butI fought and lived with hundreds of Templars. I am convinced that the chargesagainst them are groundless...." Theroom was deathly still, and Geoffrey could sense that he had managed to movemost of the men around him.

“Itis...” the Pope started rather hesitantly, “certainly possible that the ... poison of heresy, sodomy and corruption hasnot yet spread across the Channel or the Pyrenees. But am I to believe that allthe hundreds of confessions — including that of the senior officers of theTemple —are all lies?”

“Ican remember the feel of Greek fire upon my skin, Your Holiness, and I knowthat I would have said anything to make the burning stop. Anything!” Geoffreystressed. He was staring straight at the Pope, their eyes fixed on one anotherand the rest of the room was forgotten.

“Leaveus!” the Pope ordered abruptly, sitting up and gesturing irritably to all thecardinals, bishops and abbots.

“Your Holiness —” FatherElion tried to intervene.

“Especially you,Father!” Clement hissed.

Geoffreyturned to Louis and gestured for him to withdraw as well. Muttering andwhispering, they all withdrew through one of the various doors until the Popeand Geoffrey were utterly alone. The Pope then gestured for him to come closer.

Geoffreymounted the first two steps of the papal throne and waited. He was separatedfrom Clement by no more than a yard. He could see that the Pope wore whitepowder on his face and a touch of rouge. He smelled of sweet bath water. Heremembered that this was a man who openly kept a mistress, a noblewoman thirtyyears younger than himself.

“Monsieurde Preuthune,” Clement opened slowly, “you are a courageous man. You foughtagainst the Saracen for your faith—"

“Asdid the Knights Templar for nearly two hundred years!” Geoffrey’s fervourcombined with the unexpected hope that he might be able to influence this weakman made him forget himself. Ardently he argued, “I was trained in the Temple,Your Holiness. More God-fearing and devout men cannot have been born. Theyabhorred greed and vanity and simple pleasures and devoted themselves only tothe service of God. It is impossible that these charges of heresy and idolworship are anything more than false accusations designed to discredit them.”

The Popescowled and lifted his hand in startled reproach. He had not expected the sameimpudence from this nobleman he had had to suffer from the King and his ministers.Geoffrey bit his tongue. “As we were saying, you fought against the Saracen forthe sake of your faith, and we know that the Saracens outnumbered the army ofSaint Louis many, many times. You are undoubtedly courageous,” the Popeconceded. Geoffrey sensed, however, that this was not entirely a compliment. Clementcontinued, “You are also a man of simple, straightforward faith. A man of thesword, you are not used to intrigue and the need for discretion. So let us helpyou, my son.” He paused, looked Geoffrey straight in the eye, and then saidslowly and deliberately. “You are a subject of the King of France, and if youdo not wish to hang for treason, then you would do well to forget your Templarpast.”

Geoffreycould not tell if he were being warned or threatened.

The Popeleaned towards him and whispered. “We too are in great danger. We are the King’sprisoner. The King would not hesitate to charge us with the same crimes as the Templarsas he did our predecessor. We are powerless against him. Neitherexcommunication nor any other spiritual sanction impresses him. Do you think wehaven’t tried? Haven’t you noticed how the city swarms with his soldiers?”Since the arrival of the King in Poitiers, Pope Clement lived in daily fear ofkidnapping or outright murder. and driven him to an early grave? Probablywith poison.

Geoffreysaw the fear in the Pope’s eyes and the trembling of his thin hands. Thisself-indulgent, frightened old man was supposed to be Christ’s vicar?Geoffrey’s disbelief gave way to contempt. This old man cared only for his ownsurvival — and his comfort and the trappings of power. He was not evenwilling to fight for the substance of his authority. He was prepared to live asham. He would be content as long as all his creature comforts were met andpeople pretended to respect him.

Geoffrey chose his wordswith deliberation, and he spoke softly but distinctly, his eyes fixed on thewatery, pale eyes of the Pontiff, “If you had not allowed the King to arrestall the Knights Templar in this kingdom, you could have called upon an army!”

The Poperecoiled. His pointed nose was running and a drop of water hung between thenostrils. “What —"

“TheTemplars owed their allegiance to no king, only to you. You could havesurrounded yourself with the best-trained knights in Christendom, and then youcould have challenged Philip — or any king — to any test of strength you liked.They would have died for you, Your Holiness, with the same elan and devotionwith which they died for Jerusalem and Acre. You could have made kings dance toyour tune or set them aside — instead of letting them treat you like a pawn.”

Clementhad gone pale as he stared at Geoffrey. Hastily, he brushed the drop from hisnose with the back of his gloved hand and looked away. He swallowed. Geoffreycould see the Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny throat.

“Withyour permission,” Geoffrey said coldly, and he backed off the dais.

“Wait!”Clement cried, and Geoffrey waited, but it was too late. They both knew it wastoo late.

The Popeswallowed and wiped again at his running nose. Finally, he muttered in a toneof defeat, “Go with God.” Clement hastily gave a hint of blessing, and Geoffreymade a suggestion of a bow. Then he turned his back on the frightened manoccupying the Shoes of the Fisherman and strode out of the audience chamber.

The Tale of the English Templar is available in paperback and ebook format from all major online retail platforms.

 
An escaped Templar,an intrepid, old crusader, and a discarded brideembark on a quest for justice inthe face of tyranny.  Find out more at on my website Buy on amazon.com Buy on Barnes and Noble  

 

 

A French Don Quiote - Geoffrey de Preuthune, Lord of Najac

 While Percy de Lacy and Felice de Preuthune are the principal protagonists in The Tale of the English Templar, it is Geoffrey - more than the principals - who is determined to undertake the quest for justice in face of the French king's tyranny. Once a Templar novice, who never took his final vows, once a crusader under Saint Louis, who lost his faith, he is now a widower and grandfather to Felice. He turns eighty in the course of the book, yet he plays an active, indeed decisive role. 

 In this excerpt, Geoffrey meets Percy for the first time. 

Amoment later [Felice] recognised the massive bay stallion that Niki rode and besideit her grandfather’s ageing destrier. Her first thought was that Hugh had takenhim as a fresh mount, but then she saw Hugh lagging behind on a roan from thestables. Her grandfather himself was astride the old warhorse. She broke into asmile and started to run forwards. Maybe her mother wasn’t just being cynical;maybe her grandfather really would live to be one hundred and nine! Hecertainly looked far from his deathbed as he drew his stallion to a halt andswung down from the saddle. No, he did not spring down; he let his brittlebones down gently. Yes, he was thin with hair as white as the snow that mingledin it, but he was not feeble. He advanced stiffly but determinedly towardsFelice.

Sheflung her arms around him and leaned her head on his bony chest. “Thank you forcoming, Grandpapa.”

Hesqueezed her in reply; already, both of them were looking towards the ditch. Felicetook her grandfather’s hand and led him. The Templar’s eyes were open again,glittering and penetrating. They met Geoffrey’s eyes as they had met Felice’ssome two hours earlier, and Felice felt her grandfather start violently, thenhe went down on one knee as if in homage and murmured in awe, “Master deSonnac!”

The Templar shook hishead. “My name is Percival de Lacy.”

Felice was relieved thathe could speak.

Hergrandfather nodded calmly. “My grandson says both your legs are broken.”

“Andhis feet have been burned!” Felice burst out in indignation.

Geoffrey signaled for herto be still. “May I see?”

Percynodded, confused by the question when he was helpless to resist — even if hehad wanted to. Yet he trusted this man just as he trusted the girl. They werecut from the same sacred cloth.

Geoffreyfolded back the blanket and considered the legs clinically. He had seencountless battle wounds and more than one broken leg; it would have taken morethan what he saw now to shock him. He glanced up at Niki and found that hisCypriot squire was already holding the splint and leather straps which had beenmade for his youngest son years ago. Niki squatted down beside Geoffrey andstarted preparing the splint.

SuddenlyPercy reached out and caught his arm, “Monsieur!” he exclaimed in alarm. “If youhelp me, you endanger not only yourself but your whole family.” The Sheriff hadread aloud to his prisoners the royal writ which had placed them on the samelevel as outlaws and excommunicates. Any person who aided them was threatenedwith arrest.

Inanswer, Geoffrey put his hand to his sword and drew the blade out of its sheathenough to be able to show Percy the hilt. This was composed of a crystal tube encasinga finger bone — as if it were a relic. Then Geoffrey dipped the sword, and Percysaw that the pommel was white enamel with a splayed red cross set in it.

Percyfrowned. Was the old man a Templar then? Perhaps one of the many noblemen whojoined the Order for a fixed term of service before returning to their landsand families? He looked up at Geoffrey, questioningly.

Geoffreysmiled. “I am Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune, Brother. And my oath was never toabandon a brother in danger or distress.”

Geoffreyturned to attend to Percy’s legs, but Percy stopped him again, more desperatelythis time. “Wait! You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Geoffrey looked at him,waiting patiently.

Percywas sweating and his chest heaved in time to his short, shallow breathing. “Idenied Christ. I said I spat upon him. I... No, no, I didn’t confess to idolworship. But I signed the confession. The inquisitor twisted what I had saidbut I signed it. I didn’t —”

Geoffreydidn’t appear to be listening any more. He was examining Percy’s legs with hiscool, wiry fingers and the expression of a physician. When Percy fell silent,he looked back. “I will tell you what I said to Master de Sonnac at Mansourah.I told him: ‘Christ died on a cross in Jerusalem, but he was not the Son of Godand not the Messiah.’”

Hughcried out in alarm, as if expecting lightning to strike at any second. Even theloyal Niki blanched and crossed himself. Only Felice was not shocked. She hadnever heard this, but she knew that something terrible had happened in Egypt,something that had transformed her grandfather and ended his novitiate in theKnights Templar. Now, she understood that her grandfather had been angry withGod.

Percyand Geoffrey stared at one another. Percy wondered why he was not outraged, andthen realised it was that he had had similar thoughts as the weeks and monthsof his captivity passed.

“Ihad not been tortured,” Geoffrey continued, reaching inside his suede leatherbrigandine studded with brass tacks and withdrawing a flask of wine. He slippedhis left hand behind Percy’s head and held the flask to his lips.

Nowine had passed Percy’s lips since the night of his arrest. The wine tastedstrong, and he coughed slightly. Geoffrey waited for the coughing to pass andthen offered him the flask again. “It will go to my head,” Percy whispered,feeling the effect even as he spoke.

“Itis supposed to,” Geoffrey countered and pressed it to Percy’s lips again.

NowPercy drank with a kind of dazed gratefulness. It seemed almost miraculous thatsomeone could want to dull his pain rather than increase it.

Whenhe had drained the flask, Geoffrey laid him back in his bed of snow and warnedsoftly, “Brace yourself, Brother. This will hurt more than the breaking did.” Hetook hold of two pieces of one leg and, with uncanny strength and skill in hisskeletal hands, set the first of Percy’s legs.

Forthe second leg they had to improvise a splint; by the time Niki lifted Percyout of the ditch and handed him up to a remounted Geoffrey, he had lostconsciousness.

The Tale of the English Templar is available in paperback and ebook format from all major online retail platforms. 
An escaped Templar,an intrepid, old crusader, and a discarded brideembark on a quest for justice inthe face of tyranny.  Find out more at on my website Buy on amazon.com Buy on Barnes and Noble  

 

 

The Leading Lady in "The Tale of the English Templar" - Felice de Preuthune of Najac

In my novel "The Tale of the English Templar", the hero, Percy de Lacy, falls into the hands of the King of France's troops -- and the Inquisition. He is tortured into a false confession, but he is rescued by a maiden. She is the subject of today's excerpt.

 

 In this excerpt, Felice is a still a teenage girl attending the Convent of Saint Radegonde in Poitiers as a boarder. She is not a novice. It is the summer of 1307 -- before the arrest of the Templars and Felice is 16-years-old.

Notre-Dame-la-Grandewas filled to overflowing. Not only was the nave packed but the two narrow sideaisles were equally crowded and some of the nimbler students had managed toclimb on each other’s shoulders to reach the window sills, where they perchedprecariously.

Felicedetached herself from the twittering cluster of nuns and fellow boarders fromthe convent of Saint Radegonde and wormed her way forwards to a place betweentwo of the brightly painted columns opposite the pulpit. She was grateful thatthe Abbess had agreed to let them come to the service, but she had no desire tostay with the others. Most of them came only for the sake of getting out of theconvent and had no interest in the actual attraction: a sermon by Father Elion.

FatherElion’s reputation for inspiring rhetoric had preceded him to this universitytown housing the Pope, but so far Clement V had not appeared, although no oneelse of consequence in Poitiers was missing. Felice noted that the entirefaculty of the university had come en masse and secured the best placesdirectly under the pulpit. The Bishop was in his seat in the choir, and hisstaff of priests, deacons and monks clustered around him in the ambulatory,spilling into the side chapels. Although the Pope was absent, the red of ahalf-dozen cardinals stood out dramatically among the throng of black, brownand white habits. Almost equally noticeable amidst the sea of habits was acluster of Knights Templar, in their austere but striking armour.

Felice remembered the rumours which circulated at the university.  It was whispered that the reason the Pope hadsummoned Master de Molay to Poitiers was not to discuss a new campaign to the Holy Landbut because he wanted the Templars and Hospitallers to merge into a singleOrder. Felice suspected that Molay feared he would be replaced as the head ofthe united Order by the more dynamic and charismatic Hospitaller Master, Fulkesde Villaret. Villaret had not answered the Pope’s summons because he was toobusy conquering the island of Rhodes, wresting it from the control of anotorious pirate captain.

TheTemplars were in the midst of a discussion while they awaited the start of theservice, and as they made no attempt to keep their voices down, Felice made noattempt not to listen. Master de Molay was declaring in an irritated andpetulant tone, “Of course, it’s astonishing that a man who was thought dead or,at best, a fugitive in Ireland has been able to defeat the English in a seriesof skirmishes, but a couple of mountain ambushes do not win a war!”

Aknight responded to the Grand Master in heavily accented French and a voicethat was far too loud for the environment. “Robert the Bruce is no’ winning awar — he’s winning a kingdom! You could be betting on the wrong horse, backingEdward II against Robert the Bruce.”

TheGrand Master frowned, passed his hand over his mouth and smoothed down hisbeard in short, nervous pats. Then he shook his head and announced, “I mustconsult Master de la More. He will know the new English King. I will seek hisadvice.”

Atthis moment Father Elion at last made his entry and a ripple of excitement spreadthrough the great church. Felice lost all interest in the banal conversation ofthe Templars and strained to get a glimpse of the famous Dominican. Standing ontiptoe and shifting first left and then right as the crowd in front of hershifted excitedly, she managed for an instant to get a clear view of theDominican friar. By chance, the priest had turned to look in her direction andshe saw him head on. He had a distinctive face — gaunt and hawk-like, butalthough tall, he hunched his shoulders like a vulture.

Sheforced herself to suppress her instant dislike as foolish. She admonishedherself to focus on his words as he began his sermon. He was indeed a giftedspeaker. He spoke with genuine intensity, and he used his voice adeptly,varying tone, pitch and volume. Still Felice was disappointed. He railedagainst wealth, reminding his audience that Christ had been born in a manger ofhumble parents and had abjured all wealth. Only those ready to cast off theirworldly possessions and renounce their inheritance were privileged to followChrist. How banal! She thought. She could have heard the same message from thevillage priest of Najac.

Felicewas glad when the service was over and the great throng started to shuffletheir way towards the portal. Around her, the students, monks and secularclerics were animatedly discussing the sermon. No one else seemed to share herdisappointment. Quite the contrary: from the enthusiasm of the reception, onemight have thought he had presented a brilliant new thesis. Had she been toostupid to hear it? Felice tried to listen more intently to the studentsdisputing behind her. They were repeating Father Elion’s phraseology,flattering by imitation, but she could still detect nothing particularlyoriginal in the words they praised so highly.

Thecrowd clogged the door and the impatient tried to elbow and shove their wayforwards. Felice hated crowds and drew back, letting the others go before her.It made no difference to her that the Abbess and the other girls had passed outof the portal well ahead of her. It was midday and she was not afraid to walkthe streets of Poitiers from Notre-Dame-la-Grande to the convent of SaintRadegonde alone. On the contrary, she was glad to be on her own and not have tolisten to the giggling gossip of the other girls and the nuns.

The Tale of the English Templar is available in paperback and ebook format from all major online retail platforms. 
An escaped Templar,an intrepid, old crusader, and a discarded brideembark on a quest for justice inthe face of tyranny.  Find out more at on my website Buy on amazon.com Buy on Barnes and Noble