The Scent of Roses in Winter - Softcover

Kihntopf, Michael P.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1452080372 ISBN 13: 9781452080376

Verlag: AuthorHouse, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

Edward Klein has an obsession. Before he dies of cancer in the mid-1960s, he wants to tell his grandson about his life and something more. But before he can do that he has to take a trip though his past. His combat stress syndrome, stimulated by sights, sounds, and smells, causes him to relive his life from boyhood in the Ukraine living in the German colonies to fighting on the ramparts of Verdun and participating in the revolutions of 1918 -1921. Tempering this trip are the trails and tribulations of two marriages.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Michael P. Kihntopf is retired U.S. Air Force captain (23 years) and retired high school world history and special education teacher. He holds a B.A. in history from Angelo State University, San Angelo, Texas with graduate work at University of Texas at San Antonio. He is the author of two non-fiction books about the World War 1 Eastern Front and four historical military fiction books about the Great War and its aftermath in Eastern Europe. He is the chairperson for the Southwest Branch of the World War I Historical Association, an organization affiliated with the Western Front Association which has chapters worldwide. He has written over 20 articles about many aspects of World War 1. They have been published in magazines such as Command, Relevance, Military History, Strategy and Tactics, and on line at militaryhistoryonline.com. He has also written book reviews for the Military History Journal and the blog Roads to the Great War. Cover: University of Madrid Clinic Hospital, 1936.

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The Scent of Roses in Winter

By Michael P. Kihntopf

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Michael P. Kihntopf
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-8037-6

Chapter One

The apples look good this time of year. I planted two trees in my backyard when I built the house thirty years ago. The apples' green skins glisten in the sunshine just like they did when I was eight in the Ukraine. How hungry I was that day. Being part of a good German family, meal times were set for certain hours and there was no exception. Not even a young boy's need for a boundless amount of food to grow on could change those set hours to eat. Snacks were out of the question unless one was ingenious enough to find something like those apples. A short climb and I was up in the middle of a green sea. A gentle breeze brushed across the leaves giving the illusion of waves rushing toward me. The apples bobbed like clumps of seaweed. As I reached for one of the globes my mind raced ahead to the first bite. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tartness expected from green apples but my common sense reminded me of the last time I ate green apples. The stomach pains were unbearable and I was the brunt of many an adult joke as I raced off to the privy suddenly and often. My hand involuntarily withdrew from the picking and my mouth dried to a Sahara like condition. But I was hungry, I had insisted to myself. I reached out again as a noise at the bottom of the tree drew my attention. I sat very still. At the base of the tree was an older boy dressed in workman's tattered clothing. He was of average height for a teenager but he was extremely muscular. He looked to the right and then the left, never up where he would have seen me, grasped a lower limb on the opposite side of the tree and easily swung himself up on to the same level as I was on not more than two meters away from my perch. Then he settled himself and shuffled his hands against his trousers to remove loose bark and dust. I remained motionless and soundless watching him with great curiosity. He was the first worker I had come this close to. As he inspected his hands to evaluate their cleanliness his eyes looked beyond the fingernails to see me sitting opposite of him. His balance shifted from one of rest to one of flight but before the motion could go into effect, he realized I was only a boy. He fell nevertheless. He hit the ground with a thump landing flat on his back. He made no movement. He just laid there. I thought I had killed him and swung down in morbid curiosity to see the corpse up close. As I neared him I heard the distinctive groan of death.

"There's the last exhale", I said to myself and got nearer. I leaned over the face expecting to see the half open eyes of death. A hand seized my dangling arm.

"Help me up", the corpse said in Russian. I knew my face had paled because the dead boy continued, "I'm not hurt. Breath was knocked out of me. Help me up." I put out my hand but found the boy too heavy for me to do any good. He rolled over on his side, groaned, got to his knees and then rose gradually. He stood a half meter taller than me, a little intimidating but the fear vanished when he smiled. "I'm Nestor." I told him my name and he smiled. "One of the foreigners", he said with a tinge of resentment in his voice.

"I was born here just like you", I said in Russian. At the time I decided to forget how my mother kept telling me that I was not Russian or Ukrainian but German, a part of the colonies that had settled in the Ukraine at the request of the Tsarina Catherine in the 18th century. Nestor simply smiled broader.

"No matter. You scared me. I thought you were a tree spirit or something. Too late I realized you were a thief like me".

"These are my uncle's trees. I am not a thief!"

"Oh, then I am. But I think you are as hungry as me. What say we team up and get ourselves some apples? I won't tell on you and you don't tell on me." I eagerly agreed. The excitement of almost seeing a corpse had made the hunger pains even fiercer. I fell in with his plan. Being taller and older, Nestor got up to the higher branches where the apples were riper and less apt to give us belly aches later. He deftly reached out among the thinner branches, snatched the apples and dropped them to my waiting hands. As I watched him get ready to descend, someone called my name. Through the trees I could see my uncle approaching. An apple hit me in the head.

"Was machts du, Edward?" The figure recognized me. He was a ways off but his purposeful stride brought him closer quickly. "Getting green apples again? Didn't you learn your lesson last time? Your mama will blame me for letting you have them and I'll catch the devil for it. Are you by yourself?"

"Da, Tyotya," I shouted to alert Nestor to remain still. In my mind's eye I saw Nestor freeze and try to hide among the leaves. I quickly picked up two apples and ran toward my uncle so he wouldn't come near the tree and see Nestor. Stealing apples from the Germans meant jail regardless of age.

The apples I was so admiring in my backyard are under attack. Four boys came from the alley. I have no fence to stop them from entering my property. I never needed one. They are different sizes, dirty, and not as quiet as they should be considering what they have in mind. The taller one looks familiar. Where have I seen that face before? There is a rustle of cloth behind me and I know what's coming next.

"Klein, what are you doing?" It was the sergeant. "Have you got your ammunition? Those Brits aren't going to shower you with kisses when you go to visit." It bothered me that he was giving me directions. I had been in the trenches for over six months and he had just arrived two weeks ago as a replacement. He was Landstrum, third line reserves. His age showed in his stooped shoulders and broad middle. The heavy casualties among noncommissioned officers in the first few months of war had forced the regiment to put older soldiers among the units. He was much too old to be out here in the trenches. The wisps of grey hair at his temples gave him a grandfather look rather than a fierce man slayer. He should have been assigned to guard bridges or prisoners of war at home. But he had volunteered to come out here to be close to his son who had been in the next company. When the sergeant arrived he was told his son had been wounded and sent home permanently. The sergeant was stuck in this muck while his son, if he survived his wounds, would do guard duty at home.

"Edward, who are those children," she demanded. "What are they doing? Why are they in our yard? Is that your grandson? The tall one. Do something instead of sitting here at the window and just watching. Chase them away." I resented her too. A native born American, she came from strict German parents and spoke the language like a native. She had all the prejudices that Americans came with. How I tried to educate her but to no avail. She had her own bedroom and I had to ask permission even to touch her much less crawl into her bed.

"Yes, sergeant, I'm ready to go. This should be a really good show. We'll teach them to take us for granted." The old man liked to hear that type of talk. He wanted revenge but not for the harm done to his son. He wanted revenge for his decision. It was the enemy's fault that he was in the muck of the trenches. He walked on to the next soldier to ask the same questions. I relaxed and checked to make sure I had told the truth. Despite the early October coolness I was beginning to sweat. Just like those apples to give me a stomach ache and the runs. Constricting the muscles always caused me to...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: AuthorHouse
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2010
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1452080372
• ISBN 13: 9781452080376
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 184
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Deutschland