Crusader (A Novel of WWII Tank Warfare) by Jack Murray (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

fell like tears over the grave of Renata Brehme. Aside fromPeter Brehme and the minister, only Manfred’s friend, Erich and his family,were in attendance along with the town mayor, Stefan Lerner, his wife , Marita,and the ever-faithful, Leni. Renata had lost all ties with the people of thetown in the last few years.

Brehme nodded in gratitude to them as they stood graveside andwatched the coffin lowered into the ground. Rain drizzled gently onto Brehme’shat and dripped slowly down. He was dressed in civilian clothing rather thanhis uniform. There were enough damn uniforms about the place, he thoughtbitterly.

Lerner stepped forward after the minister had finished the briefservice of interment. He looked sympathetically at his old friend and shookhands. There was nothing that could be said, but he said it anyway.

‘I’m sorry, my friend. It was too soon, yet not soon enough. It’sa terrible illness.’

Brehme nodded mutely. He attempted a smile, but it died on hislips.

‘If you need anything, Peter, you know that Marita and I arehere.’

‘I know, Stefan. Thank you for coming.’

Gerd Sammer stepped forward as the Lerners departed. By no meanswould Brehme have thought of the Sammer family as friends. However, the boy wasa friend of Manfred. He shook hands with Gerd Sammer. Then Sammer’s wife, Angela,kissed him on both cheeks. The usual sentiments were exchanged and forgottenseconds later. Erich Sammer stepped forward. Like Manfred, he was a young man, servinghis country, serving the Reich. A young man to be proud of, thought Brehmebitterly. He looked at Erich and hoped the dislike on his face was not obvious.He was here; that was something. Brehme accepted that he should show somegratitude. In truth, he was appalled. The black uniform the boy had wornspecially to the funeral, the false sentiment, the hypocrisy of sympathy.

‘Thank you for coming, Erich. Manfred will appreciate that youthought of us.’

‘Of course, sir. Please accept my condolences for your loss.’

Brehme nodded. Erich was still shaking his hand. It occurred toBrehme that the hateful child was probably expecting him to say something else.

‘You are well?’ asked Brehme after a few moments.

‘Very well, sir, I’m going to be married this time next year.’

This time next year? You may not be alive then son, thoughtBrehme. Then he realised that this was both unkind and unlikely. The boy hadmanaged to avoid getting his hands dirty so far. Brehme didn’t doubt he’d finda way of shirking the rest of the war. Oddly, Brehme admired him for this. Asunspeakable as he and the rest of the family were, at least he’d had the senseto figure out a way to avoid the fighting. Had he, Brehme, not done the sametwenty five years earlier?

‘Congratulations, Erich. Who is the lucky girl?’

‘Anja Mayer, sir.’

The name meant little to Brehme beyond the suspicion that she wasthe daughter of the Nazi oaf who’d probably talked Manfred into volunteering.You’ll make a perfect pair thought Brehme. He heard Erich say something abouttelling Manfred the good news, but he’d stopped listening.

The Sammer family departed leaving only Brehme, Leni and theminister. Then, citing the coldness of the morning, the minister left followed,soon, by the tearful Leni. Brehme stood and watched the grave digger fill inthe hole. A wooden cross sat at the head of the grave. Renata Brehme, born July23rd, 1893. Died September 7th, 1941.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed. Half an hour, an hour, itmattered not. Slowly Brehme trooped back to the house. Leni was there and hadprepared a feast of food for anyone who might have returned from the burial.Brehme looked down at the banquet on the table. His stomach was empty, yet he feltno hunger. There was so much food. They both stood and looked at the table tothe sound of a ticking clock. Leni’s face reddened as she caught Brehme’s eye.

‘I’m not sure I shall be able to eat all of this, Leni. Why don’tyou take some of it back for your family?’

Leni nodded and watched Brehme leave the dining room. She heardthe sound of his office door closing echo around the empty stillness of thehouse. Brehme made no attempt to hide his sobbing. Leni stood transfixed by thesound. It was like an animal in pain. She felt tears begin to sting her eyesbut not from any sense of sympathy for Brehme. It was fear; an overwhelmingsense of foreboding.

-

Brehme sat at his desk. He stared down at the blank sheet ofpaper. It had to be done. He dipped the pen into the inkwell and began to writein slow deliberate strokes. The letter would not be long this time. When itcame to these matters, he believed in being direct. His upbringing, hisprofession, his approach to fatherhood had been built on simple, compellingideas of right and wrong, good and bad. The space between his emotions and hiscapacity to articulate them was too great, even on paper.

He scratched out a letter, blotted it then held it up to read.With a sigh he realised it communicated little to his son of what he wasfeeling. The facts were there, unvarnished by sentiment, shorn of emotion.Perhaps this was for the best. Manfred was a bright boy. He knew his mother wasill. He would see it for what it was: a sad, perhaps tragically early end to alife that it had already served a purpose.

The words began to blur. He could no longer see them clearly.Meaning was lost except in the tears that fell. He wiped his eyes and realisedthat death was all around. It was happening now in Germany: the bombing, the disappearanceof the Jews. It was happening in North Africa, England.

Renata Brehme’s death was but one more sad event in a world whereloss was inevitable, hope extinguished and sorrow unrelenting. Brehme didn’texpect people to care. Even Manfred, separated as he was by distance, would notfeel the same sense of grief. The regret, the pain, the sense of guilt would beBrehme’s alone.

He folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. A fewminutes later he was outside the house and walking into town to make the post.He felt the wind turn the rain in towards