The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

the Werra. He was still weak from his prior ordeals and as malnourished as most of the rest of the German population. The hills and valleys were bleak with the aching iciness of a begrudgingly resistant winter, judged to be one of worst in recent European history. Max’s well-worn wool uniform did little to protect him from the biting cold, and his slowly healing burns were chaffed and irritated by the material. He walked when he had to and grabbed a lift with passing military vehicles when given the opportunity.

No one asked him about his papers or where he was going. It was obvious that the sickly, scar tissue splotched Luftwaffe hauptmann was in no condition to climb back into the cockpit of a fighter plane or do much of anything else. Some of them might have recognized him as the dashing young ace who had so recently been the darling of the German mass media, but no one said anything. Those days were dead and gone, and they had their own problems to deal with in their own hunger, inner doubts and ever-present miseries.

Finally, one crisp morning early in April he arrived at his destination. Max walked up the country lane, savoring the first tiny hints of spring and the culmination of a long, arduous journey. He was so close; each step was lighter now and he felt a resurgent strength sweeping through his being as the anticipation inside arose.

But what he saw after walking around that last bend was not what he had traveled so far for. The little white church was only a wasted skeleton of itself, charred and abandoned. The adjoining home where he grew up, the hearth for so many happy memories was empty and barren, its contents mostly either vanished or vandalized. Nothing stirred, no hearty cry of welcome was given from within. The site was like an open grave, silent and foreboding.

Beleaguered and beyond heartsick, Max sat on the steps that led up to the blackened structure, mind racing with what might have happened and what his plan of action was from here. He was still sitting there when an old man happened by, trudging along the lane pulling a hand cart. At first, he had not recognized Max and had only given a nervous, furtive glance as he started to scurry on by. But something caused him to take yet another look and through the dried mud, the pinkish burn scars and hollowed eyes he recognized who was in that blueish gray uniform.

“Max! Max Grephardt! Can that really be you?” the old man had blurted out, walking hesitantly toward the sitting figure.

The Luftwaffe hauptmann looked up, somewhat startled at the sound of his name carried by a familiar voice.

“It is you!” the aged neighbor exclaimed in recognition. “Welcome home my son, welcome home! We had all thought you lost in the war, there has been so much bad news lately.”

The old man, one of those who had sat at their dinner table on so many occasions during Max’s childhood, reached out and grabbed the German officer in a heartfelt hug. Grinning widely and giddy with unexpected happiness, he held the younger man in a vise-like embrace that belied his many years and slightly stooped stature.

“Herr Bekker, it has been a long time” Max managed to say in return. “Tell me, what has happened here? Where are my parents?”

Bekker ignored the questions and reached for Max’s small, worn traveling bag. “Here, you must come home with me. So many times I shared a meal with your father and your family at their dinner table. Now is the time for me to repay that kindness.”

“But my parents…” Max insisted.

The elderly German glanced pensively to each side, as if even the charred walls and scattered debris had ears with which to listen.

“I will explain it all to you Max,” Bekker responded. “But not here, not now. These are dangerous times we live in, even at home. Come, do not tell me that you are not tired and hungry.”

Max began to protest again, but the old man waved him off. Yet it was not the wave of the hand that had stymied any further questions, but the look of fear in the man’s eyes. With each holding a handle on the decrepit cart, they started in the direction of Herr Bekker’s home together.

Later that evening, in front of a warm fire that removed a lingering chill from his bones, Max sat with his benefactor staring into the flames. Frau Bekker worked busily clearing the dishes from the table, the end result of a meal like Max had not had in some time. Contemplating their own thoughts, neither man had said a word since the finishing of the dinner. It was Herr Bekker who finally broke the silence.

“It happened several weeks ago” he began, the words slowly working their way up through obvious hesitation and angst. “Your parents had received a message that you had been shot down and no one could say what happened beyond that. For some time, your father had been speaking of the futility of the war, of the wickedness of those who were leading our nation into further ruin. After he heard about you, he became quite open in those criticisms, even while speaking from the pulpit.

“Strangers began coming around, well dressed strangers with an air of authority about them. They were asking questions about your parents, your family, and especially your father. They even attended some of your father’s services.

“We all knew they were Gestapo. We begged your father to not be so open in his beliefs, to be quiet until at least these strangers left. But your father…” he looked up at Max, tears welling in his eyes. He snorted a bit, rubbed his nose and smiled thinly.

“Well Max, what can I tell you about your own father? You know him