Traces of Evil(Draft): Chapter One: 1923

In the poverty-stricken neighborhood where the Gruener family lived, tuberculosis was a well-established part of life. But in the fall of 1918, something new visited their Frankfurt community that remained until 1920. It began as a fever and sore throat. Headaches, body aches, cough and nose bleeds were common. Doctors advised their patients to take up to 30 grams of aspirin per day. For some, this regime appeared to work as their symptoms improved. Days would pass before this mysterious manifestation returned worse than ever. Aspirin could not help them. In that first October of the influenza outbreak, the Gruener family lost seven of their thirteen children. By the end of 1920, the virus had completed its sweep through Germany and 287 000 Germans had lost their lives.

“Schändlich!” the headline from the Frankfurter Zeitung met Werner’s eyes every morning upon awakening since June 1919. On the wall opposite, tacked there by his father, its coffee-stained appearance bellowed “Shameful!” It was a constant reminder of Article 231, the War Guilt Clause, of the Versailles Treaty. It was deemed a direct attack on Germany. Scrawled on the wall beside it his father had written “November Criminals!” A nickname given to the German politicians who had signed the armistice in 1918. His father’s inebriated screeching voice echoed through his head. “Germany was made to feel inferior, less a country. Why? Because Germany was blamed for the war! I spit on this Weimar Republic.”  

Werner glanced around the one-bedroom, shoe-box-size apartment. The room was empty except for him, but he could still hear the screams of his siblings and his father’s stumbled step as he ascended to their lodging after the tavern closed. Beatings spared no one on payday.

He stretched his neck and glanced at the closed bedroom door. Payback had felt good! he mused. He rolled onto to his side and slowly, very carefully, sat up. Thud! The parallel hardware and serpentine springs gave way. “Ouch! Ouch!” A subdued scream was muffled between tightly compressed lips. His makeshift bed, which masqueraded as a couch during the day, had finally succumbed to the rambunctious trampoline antics of his brothers and sisters. He missed them but for no other reason than they deflected his father’s physical abuse occasionally away from him.

 Barely breathing, more out of fear than the pain which had become his constant companion, Wernerlistened carefully. Except for the occasional snort, snoring beyond the closed bedroom door continued uninterrupted. He combed his fingers through his thick blonde hair and sighed with relief, then slid his lank frame up the inclined cushions until his feet hit the cold, plank floor. Pushing off the couch frame, he stood. Jagged pain stabbed from waist to shoulders. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on breathing while his tongue marked time digging at the freshly punched gap in his upper mouth. Tentatively, his fingers explored the swollen upper lip and cheek before he pulled away.

Boots in hand, he sat at the kitchen table and breathed deeply several times. He glanced around the claustrophobic apartment. Odor of alcohol hung heavy in the air. He laced up his last boot over a stockingless foot and tilted his look toward the bedroom door. A year had passed since his soused mother left with his five surviving siblings. He understood why she left. Why did she not take me? A queried daily ritual that scratched across his mind like a hungry wolf scrapping a tasty morsel from its prey. Neurons flexed their images. He knew his father suspected it was he who had turned him in to police. Jailed fifteen months. That was enough time for his mother to pack up and leave. But why did she not take me?!  The crumbled separation order still lay on the floor where his father had discarded it during one of his drunken rages. A thin wedge of sunlight that slithered between unkempt curtains shone its reminder on it. Werner had learned from a local merchant, that his mother had relocated to Düsseldorf. Information kept tighter than a clam shell within him. Degrees of hate separated him from each parent, feelings sharply skewed in one direction more than the other.

His gaze focussed on the pantry; its scarcity punctuated by blue molds checkered on the outer edge of a half loaf of bread. His stomach rumbled as he put on his cap and jacket. He knew better than to check the ice box for food. Anger ate away at him. Once a good student, the extensive physical violence he suffered at the hands of his father forced him to run away many times. But he always returned to this hellish den. His hand touched his swollen lip and cheek. Not this time. And he knew he meant it. The streets had become his school. He had learned through petty crime how to clothe and feed himself. His home was the streets, and he navigated its nooks and crannies with finesse and purpose. Without looking back, he closed the door softly and descended to the street below.

Thick rolling clouds cast a pall over the late February morning rush while winds swept surroundings with a knife edged chill to its bite. Head down slightly, Werner snaked through the throng of people. His focus on shoes and the threads of the approaching gentry. A few carefully placed bumps later netted Werner four purloined wallets fat with Marks. He turned down an alley and after stuffing the money in his pocket discarded the empty wallets to a trashcan before exiting onto a large expansive courtyard with tenement buildings on its perimeter.

“Werner! ”  Heimrich Schmid, the local dog catcher, waved him over. “What happened to you? Never mind, let me guess. Your old man again. By the way, happy birthday. Nineteen?” Werner nodded. “Nice gift he gave you,” he said, with a scrutinizing glance.    

Reflexively, Werner raised his hand to his face then shrugged it off. “Shut your hole and give me a smoke?”

“Tut! Tut!” Heimrich replied with a smile, passing him a pack of Eckstein cigarettes. “Keep’em . I’ve got more,” he said, patting his jacket.

Werner had befriended Heimrich about six months ago, and often accompanied him on his rounds. The torture and killing of the animals caught was the mainstay of their routine.

Werner lit a cigarette and purged the smoke through his nostrils as he peered at the newspaper under Heimrich’s arm. “Anything of interest?” he asked, nodding toward the paper. He knew it would likely be the nationalist newspaper Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung.

Heimrich eyebrows lifted and fell with despair as he held up the paper. The headline read, General Strike in Fourth Week. Below it: Germans outraged by occupation of Ruhr by French and Belgium troops.

He passed it to Werner then came alongside of him and poked his finger at the page. “This here, it says it all.” His words spat out with venom.  “Any great nation that has been driven to despair has always found the ways and means for its revenge.”  He stared at Werner.

“We were stabbed in the back by those who stayed at home and a passive government.” Pensively, he gazed over Heimrich’s shoulder. “Beware of the dog, the beast has spikes.”

“Yours?”

“You really must learn to take in your surroundings, Heimrich,” he chuckled with a hint of distain. On the poster behind you.” He flicked his forefinger to direct his attention. “Boy! Am I famished! Breakfast is on me.”

Heimrich peered at him with a tilt of the head. “Should I be alarmed? Your meagre wage from me and the amount your father steals leaves little to nothing for you.”

“You worry too much,” Werner replied. “Today’s my birthday! I’m celebrating!” Arm across Heimrich’s shoulders, he began to lead him away. His gaze fell on the poster again. “Can I stay the night with you? I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“An early start?”

“I’m travelling to Düsseldorf.”

“Düsseldorf?”

“We’ll talk over breakfast,” Werner replied. “Do you mind if I keep this paper?”

“I’ve read all I needed to. But why?’

He winked. “Curiosity killed the cat, Heimrich. You’ll find out soon enough.” 

Numbed by war and its aftermath, many Germans perceived predictability as an ill-wind of illusioned comfort wrapped in a blanket of false security. Only the monied people, the powerful, would have seen it differently. Soon the chaos in the streets would melt into something far worse.

Niflheim, ruled by Hel, next to the Shores of Corpses, where the giant snake Nidhogg resided, was about to cast its long dark shadow across Germany.

Two articles had caught Werner’s attention, one an opportunity, the other a necessity.

No Last Act: A Short Story Without “E’s”

This short story came about from a challenge by a former colleague. I think he knew I could not resist. And he was right! After many attempts, here is my humble offering. I expect to follow it up with something more poetic in the near future. It’s the kind of medicine I require to ward off covid fatigue. Take care everyone and stay safe!

Similar to shadows of a dirty shirt, black cumulus clouds, abounding with rain, hangs fat across land and final hours of this train trip. An old match with a long history is playing out.

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.

“Boy! Good pumpkin tart!” Al said, wolfing it down.

“Cocky isn’t your suit, Al. Tummy happy now? Play your knight!” Don said.

“Oooh! Touchy. How did you know I was going to play that?”

“I taught you!  This stuff is in my family’s blood, way back. I told you that.” Don’s look at Al was long as Al’s knight was slid into position. “Thinking about Tina?”

“Stop distracting, Don! I must think about what you will do.”

“You won’t win, you know.” Don slid his pawn forward. “Guard your king.”

“Shut up! I know what I am doing.”

“Okay! You do!” Don said with a shrug. “Still, I must ask. Why did you and Tina—?”

“I caught Tom and Tina kissing at last Thursday’s church fish fry. Satisfy your curiosity? Now, shut up!” Al slid his bishop forward.

“Sorry.” Don’s pawn took Al’s bishop.

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.

Don’s thoughts drift to a panorama passing by. “Amazing!”

“What’s amazing?”

“Look through our window. Mountains,” Don said, “snow still caps its tops.”

“Hmm…Not bad!” A grin forms. “Downpour too distracting for you?  Al slid his rook into position. “Kontrola!”

“Rain sounds similar to buckshot.” Don slips slightly forward to scratch his back. “Do you want to do that with your rook? Think it out.”

“I did!.”

Don shrugs. “Okay.” His knight took Al’s rook. “Party going on in adjoining train car, singing, piano, lots of fun by how it sounds. What do you think?”

“I’m a dingbat! That’s what I think. I must watch what I’m doing.” Arms on his lap, his mind thought through what to do. Finally, Al slid his bishop into position.

Don took his comb out to tidy his thick auburn hair and with a sigh, slid his knight into attack. “I win!”

Both shook hands and put Don’s dad’s wood carvings into its carton.  

“You shouldn’t box your king in,” Don said. “Anyway, not important. Good playing you. You know, my dad would jump up and down with joy to know I was still using his wood carvings.”

“I miss him. Good man. How long ago?”

Don thought. “Six…”

“Sand runs out fast in… hourglass.” Looking away, Al said nothing.

“Unhappy?” Don said. “Don’t. Think only happy thoughts. That is what my dad would say…Sounds raucous in that adjoining car. Want to go?”

Swish! Door shut tight at Al’s and Don’s back; room’s air was thick with carbon smog. Piano-rag had this party hopping, party animals all.

“Join us!” A salutation from a burly barman who pours two scotch at his bar.

“I’m Virginia. And you?” Passing scotch to Al and Don. “This is Sara, my sis.”

Words that got lost in a soup of booming honky-tonk and hoots from partying all around. But it was not important. Swirling to music, two pairs joyfully laughing ring out, oblivious to all in train’s car as hours fly past smoothly.

With a nod, and an invitation and drinks in hand, Al, Sara, Don and Virginia sought tranquility, privacy in a dissimilar car without a hitch.

Talking is what all four sought away from that cacophonous ‘jam.’ Soon it was known, all four want it to last.

Clic-kity-clack, clic-kity-clack. Clic-kity-clack, clic-kity-clack. Clic-kity-clack, click.

Sun’s rays burst through.

A touch, a kiss, bonding starts. Swapping info on locality of flats, a trip’s climax, conclusion, did not finish a last act.  

Let Me Share With You

Storytelling for me represents an act of gratitude to the books and people who have shaped my life. As a writer I feel more akin to a ‘test pilot’ who is never quite sure whether the plane will either get off the ground or return safely, but would never give up that moment to do anything else. “Success” according to Winston Churchill, “is stumbling from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” I heartily agree.

 My first venture into publication was as co-author for the first mathematics series for Prentice-Hall Canada. My degrees in mathematics and education were leading me down a different path until a friend encouraged me to try out for an acting role in a local theatre group. I think my interest in writing really took hold while learning how to transform to a character and interact with other characters within a play. The tools I learned during the thespian stage of my life I continue to apply in my writing now.

When ‘the rubber met the road’ was when I published my first novel, Betrayal of Trust, in 2012. It was shortly after that I turned my attention to short story writing.

Short story writing affords me an opportunity to experiment with my literary voice, different ideas, styles, and approaches to writing. The stories come from a variety of sources: life experiences, photos, a variety of articles, songs, on-line courses. In other words, anything that captures my interest usually ends up in one of my short stories. They are a depository for future novels.

One five-part, short story series I wrote, entitled, The Murder of Arthur Brodley, became the seed for my new novel, Angel Maker. The idea for the opening chapter came from an article I read of the murder of a young child in northern England in 1948.

My decision to begin my first chapter with the graphic murder of Rebecca Grynberg was not taken lightly. I wanted the evil of the man, and the Nazi regime he represented, to be seared into the mind of the reader. The ‘no holds barred’ first chapter went through several drafts and many consultations before I finally agreed to the final version.

Angel Maker is a historical espionage adventure which starts off on the eve of World War II. The crime investigation will take you for an action adventure thrill ride from the shores of Bournemouth, England, across the English Channel to Paris France and into the heart of Berlin, Nazi Germany. Events irrevocably change the characters and endanger the future of their communities and families.

Inspector Alexander Collier’s investigation into the gruesome murder of Rebecca Grynberg soon places his family in jeopardy. Several seemingly unconnected murders propel him into a world of espionage and spies as he seeks the psychopathic killer responsible for her death. To help him, Inspector Collier joins forces with an unlikely group of people that includes a psychic medium, a NKVD Soviet agent, and a British agent with a prosthetic leg she calls “Cuthbert.”

You will meet Collier’s son, Richard, and learn about the strained relationship between them; his son’s fiancée, Elsa, and her Jewish family and their attempt to escape the clutches of Nazi Germany. You will also meet the inspector’s wife, Lila, and experience the deep love and affection between them.

A historical spy thriller, Angel Maker will take you into the murderous mind of a psychopathic child killer. And if, as a writer, I have done my job correctly, the reader will meet evil, impossible to forget. So, hold on to your pages, things will go bump in the dark.

A lot of research has gone into creating a sense of the period for the reader. Many of the events did happen, but some timelines were adjusted to fit in with the story. Angel Maker is a page turner, difficult to put down. And I should know, because I read it through several times before handing it over for publication. I hope, after the final page is read, the reader will step out of their time bubble, and reflect on the present times we live in. As an educator, I could not resist an attempt to teach. What was taught only the reader can decide.

One of my goals is for Angel Maker to be part of a series. Presently, I am working on the next book in that series as well as a novel entitled, Sunnyvale, and my book of short stories, Welcome to My Garden. Anything beyond that will be icing on the cake.

The key is to keep challenging myself; to continue to push the envelope. An example of what I mean is Aidan, the early draft of a fantasy novel. The first drafts of anything I am working on may be found at www.wrightba.com, just tap on the CB app.

I will end with one of my favorite quotes from the ‘Four Quartets’ by T.S. Eliot:

“We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.”

Poetry is an essential resource in any writer’s toolbox. In my youth I would never have said that. Maturity has opened my mind and made me, dare I say, sage in my viewpoint. I sure hope so.

Angel Maker is suitable for youth to adult, and may be bought at:

The Canadian site: : https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1777432103

and the US site: : https://www.amazon.com/dp/1777432103