The Rift

by H Schmidt

  But near the Rominten Forest, it was different. Animals were not nearly so abundant. It took cunning and patience. He remembered the great herds of buffalo and how the task was only to decide which one to shoot. Here, the skittish red deer were few, and your opportunities were few and far between, and success depended upon making each opportunity count.

  A movement. On that part of the trail where the ground cover and thicket allowed only glimpses of what moved, Friederich caught movement. He reached over and touched Tomas, placing his finger over his own lips then pointing toward the sound. Last night, as they sat before the fire at the cabin, they had listened to the calls of bucks, that sound like no other which began which a highpitched squeal and ended with a roar from deep in the throat. Now, the father felt his own heart racing and imagined the small boy’s. He saw the head first. It was a doe. He saw the look of disappointment on Tomas’s face, pleased that he knew the difference. Friederich nodded at the boy, pointing behind the doe. He was there, the silent signal told his son.

  For a brief moment, she seemed to sense the new danger as she turned the corner. The head darted back a forth, the great, black eyes looking right at where they lay hidden in the laurel thicket. Satisfied that there was no danger, she turned toward them and moved down the trail for several steps, then stopped again. Her ears twitched as she smelled the air for danger. As she started to move again, the head appeared.

  The buck seemed to move more slowly, like a great athlete who measures each movement. Not as cautious as the doe, he seemed to rely on her to sense the danger in front of them. Friederich could hear the gasp of his son as the great head raised and the antlers tilted back. Almost two meters at the shoulder, his dark roan coat glistened in the sunlight that lighted the spot where he stood. The buck moved again until the shoulder and head were visible. Slowly, Friederich inhaled, then forced his breathing to slow. With one motion, he raised his rifle, sighted over the front and back sights to a spot behind the shoulder.

  The great red deer stood erect, sensing the danger near him. In an instant he would vanish.

  Friederich squeezed the trigger.

  Suddenly the world around the hunter and his son and the two deer inside the forest canopy exploded. The roar of the rifle froze the scene before the father and son. Friederich saw the thin wisp of smoke head toward the roof of the forest and smelled the burned powder.

  For a brief second, the hunter looked apprehensively at his target. Did I miss? At impact, the buck jerked in surprise and terror, the eyes seeming to follow the doe as it vanished. He tried to move with her, but his legs failed him. He dropped to his knees, his hind legs danced for a moment, then buckled. Finally the great head, which seemd to fight death, gave way and the red deer lay still.

  ---

  Above the two, Rupert and Gustav sat on a limb watching the father and his boy gut the buck. “Sir Gustav, the young boy is a bit timid. See how gingerly he removes the intestines.”

  “You forget, Sir Rupert, the boy has never done this before. When we were his age, we had done such hundreds of times. We must learn to be patient. You must admit his father is not the least bit squeamish.”

  Rupert turned to Gustav, looking at him carefully, tilting his head in an exaggerated manner. “What are you looking at, Rupert?”

  “You don’t remember, do you?” “What?”

  “My birthday.”

  “I thought we agreed that after one hundred fifty, we would stop counting.” “I didn’t.”

  “Happy four hundred thirty-two, Rupert.” “Thank you.”

  ---

  Christmas, the third of the war. Like so much now, bittersweet. Friederich was home from the front. Tomas and the two girls were thrilled when they saw their father get out of the gray staff car at the end of the road leading to the castle. Tomas had read the letter from his father, telling them he was now a colonel and commanded his own battalion. He had received his promotion personally from General Hoffman. Erika thought he seemed more gaunt, more moody. Friederich had been like his father, always positive, never withdrawn. But as she watched him in the firelight, she could see he had changed.

  In all the world, there were no more important people to Friederich than Erika and his children. It had been their presence in his heart that sustained him. Gazing into the crackling fire in the great fireplace, his mind turned for no reason to the rows of dead Cossacks. That day he had watched their gallant advance over open ground, ordered to advance by their general officers without artillery cover. He watched as the German artillery shells tore through them, and the machine guns cut down those who made it through the deadly shrapnel. He recalled those few who somehow made it through, overwhelmed in the trenches by his waiting men. He wondered why did it affect him so? They were the enemy yet he could not lift the deep melancholy that weighed upon him. He found the moods more frequent now, coming upon him at times that surprised him. It had been worse since he received the news about father.

  ----

  It was General Hoffman who had brought the news to him. He remembered it had been raining and the tall man had appeared in his tent, unannounced. It was late, after midnight. The general stood there silent for a moment, his raincoat glistening with the rain. Slowly, he had removed his glasses, and meticulously dried them; his eyes without glasses made him appear vulnerable, uncharacteristic of a man always in command. As he placed the glasses on his face, the look returned. The general had always reminded Friederich of someone apart from the other officers in the German Army, understanding what the rest could not, grasping some meaning from a world of chaos, some plan out of what Friederich saw only as random violence and destruction.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news, Colonel. The Mombasa was torpedoed by one of our U-boats outside Alexandria. Your father was aboard.”

  The general sat down beside him on the bed and pulled a flask of cognac from his pocket. Without saying anything, he handed the flask to Friederich. The younger man reached into the trunk he carried with him and pulled out two glasses, handing one to the general. They sat and drank in silence.

  “It is not easy sometimes to feel the compassion that death deserves, Friederich. As officers, we find ourselves the messengers of death. Deaths at home, deaths on the battlefield. Sometimes, I confess that I perform a duty like an undertaker, pretending to feel sorrow when none is there. We deal in death, we watch it, we cause it, and we are asked, as good officers, to mourn it. Please, Colonel, accept the sorrow I genuinely feel, knowing that it comes from one whose sanity depends on being selective.”

  Friederich recalled the eyes of the general, who had always seemed so remote.

  There were tears in them.

  ---

  The little commandant had been informed by the British naval officer that the Germans were no longer in control of Dar es Salaam, and that he should stay at his post until a replacement could be found. The old man was ordered to answer any questions and provide any information he thought relevant regarding the prison and the prisoners. Two days later, another young British ensign had entered his office, informing him that he was replacing the commandant, and that he should remove himself immediately. Aaron Frieburg had known this was coming and had removed all of his personal records before the British arrived.

  “Am I a prisoner, Ensign Colson?” Frieburg remembered the look of derision, as if he was of little consequence.

  “You are free to leave East Africa. You must arrange your own transport. If you remain, any interference with the British government, and you will be shot.” Frieburg had been able to obtain passage on a British ship bound for Naples, and from there had made it home to his brother, who owned a bookstore in Bremen. He had arrived in November, and had spent most of the month writing to the Colonial Office on the matter of his pay and pension to which he had been entitled. He had the good fortune of dealing with a clerk there who was a distant cousin and who was able to process the paperwork which resulted in a modest but adequate pension. Having settled the matte
r, he then decided to travel east.

  Since the man who he considered his friend had told him about Wilhelm, he felt a responsibility to the family. He would visit the von Mecklenburgs.

  It was the fourth week in December when he got off the train at Konigsberg. A rare winter day on the Baltic, the sun shone brightly, allowing some relief for a man who had lived in Africa for over twenty years. As he walked from the train station, he wondered why everyone in Germany hadn’t moved to Africa. Perhaps if they had, there would have been enough Germans there to chase the arrogant British back to their godforsaken island. His leg ached from the wound forty-six years ago at Sedan. For the last twenty years, he had been able to forget the shrapnel that had lodged in his leg, but the German winter had brought it back.

  On the way to the castle in the motorcar taxi, he saw a band of men with signs in front of a sewing machine factory. The signs demanded raises for the workers and berated the company for being unfair to workers. Aaron Frieburg had remembered the German people before the turn of the century, full of confidence, full of love for their country. Certainly, there were agitators like Liebknecht and his son, who groused about the rich and the unfair treatment of workers. But he sensed this was all part of living in Germany, and most people were happy with their lives. Now the Liebknecht message was listened to by many more Germans, and people were openly speaking out against the war.

  “Don’t these people know that Germany is at war? What are they doing, asking for more money. The police should knock a few heads.”

  “Where have you been, mein herr? Have you purchased any bread at the bakery or meat from the butcher? People are starving because of the wages they are paid.”

  “It is wartime, driver. People must be willing to sacrifice.”

  The taxi driver looked at the man who sat next to him. He seemed well dressed enough. Was he Jewish? He knew that many of the Jewish merchants had raised their prices more than they needed to. He knew they seemed to be doing well in the war.

  “If we must sacrifice, mein herr, let us share the sacrifice fairly.”

  Frieburg saw the look of hostility. He knew some of his relatives were doing very well. He understood. What he did not understand was the resistance of so many of his relatives who sympathized with Liebknecht and their vicious attacks on Germany. Germany had been good to so many, yet something drove them to tear it down. He did not understand. He decided it best to keep quiet. It was a world new to him and perhaps it was best to listen.

  The driver was surprised when Frieburg asked him to stop in front of the castle. What had this little Jew to do with the nobles in that castle? They have a lot of influence in Germany. He wondered what they were up to now.

  Frieburg had called the castle and talked to the mother. When she heard his voice, she remembered him. She asked if he would spend the night there and she would see that he was taken back to the train station in Konigsberg. As the old man walked toward the castle gate, the driver watched one of the servants walk quickly toward him, taking his bag. He shook his head, thinking he would have something to tell his friends at the beer hall this evening.

  The old man stood for a moment. When he had first decided to visit the von Mecklenburgs, he had not known of the sinking of the Mombasa and the loss of Gustav von Mecklenburg. He had seen the tiny article at the back of the Bremen Times, noting that one of the members of the von Mecklenburg family had been lost at sea. He did not know that the ship had been torpedoed by a German U-boat, which the article saw fit to omit. He had not seen a separate article, on the front page, reporting the sinking of British ships, mentioning the Mombasa by name. After reading of the family’s loss, he thought of making some excuse to himself for not coming, but decided he could not.

  As a member of the German community in Dar es Salaam, the little commandant had grown used to the elegant dinners that its members served. It seemed to be a compulsion of Europeans in Africa to act more European than they ever would at home. It was, Frieburg thought, a caricature of life in Europe. The dinner at the castle was served with the same attention to elegance he was used to in Africa, but he noticed a difference. The choices were fewer, the servings more modest. Only the wine, from the cellar of the castle, seemed to fit the setting.

  After dinner, they had seated themselves in the drawing room. Frieburg saw the strain on Lady von Mecklenburg’s face and again wished he had not come. They had been very gracious. He had wondered, though, why they had not mentioned their kidnapped son during dinner. He had not mentioned Wilhelm, because he expected they would. As they talked of Africa, creating conversation to fill the evening, a light went on. Do they know? Did Gustav take the information with him? He remembered the strange reaction of the father to the news of his son.

  At first he had seemed excited, but when he was told of the likelihood that his son was in America, the tone of his voice changed. Was it disappointment? Should he ask? Not for them, but for him. He had carried the guilt of having a prisoner, someone he considered a friend, withholding information about Wilhelm for twenty years. The commandant could not rid himself of the feeling that he should have known, that during that time he should have become suspicious. “Lady von Mecklenburg,” the little man found the mother and her two children looking at him closely, as if they sensed he wanted to tell them something, “did your husband tell you about the news I gave him about your boy?”

  Chapter Six

  The hot night made Billy dream of the Colorado high country. This evening, he felt the cold water splashed on his face when he and his father would awake in the sage meadow. In his mind, he heard the gurgling sound of water rushing down the mountain stream and the sight of a mule deer bounding lightly away. An hour ago, he had finished the last interview with Major Somersville. The look of the major as he saluted and left his office told him nothing. Would he face a court-martial? If he did, the charge would be desertion in the face of the enemy, and he could be shot. The time he had alone made it impossible to avoid thinking about the worst. Could he die well? Always, what filled him with the greatest pain was the pain he would cause father. A man so proud of the military men in his family, so proud of his one son. Behind him as he walked, he could hear the footsteps of his shadow, Private Bitters.

  He and the private had been together for over a week. The sneer seemed fixed on his face, even when addressing him as an ordinary soldier to an officer. Once he had smiled at the private, and saw his eyes narrow to slits. Private Bitters, he thought, is beginning to look remarkably like Colonel Lopez.

  Their walk brought Billy past the major’s office. He glanced at the window.

  Inside there were no lights except for the small, red burn of the major’s pipe.

  ---

  The major knew what he would write before the last interview. The general had made it clear what Colonel Dodd wanted. The Seventh Cavalry commander wanted the young lieutenant court-martialed for desertion. It was clear that the general agreed. The major remembered the conversation he had with the general. During the conversation, the general had stood him at attention.

  “The colonel has talked to me about this case. He has pointed out that Lieutenant William Housman did not return to the Seventh for several weeks after he had the ability to do so. In the colonel’s mind, and mine, that is desertion.

  You are responsible for preparing a report and making a recommendation to the board. The young lieutenant, I am told, has friends outside of the army who are likely to defend him. For that reason, Major, I expect your report to be very thorough. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” For a brief moment, he thought of asking for clarification, but knew the question would be a raw challenge to the general. The general saw the uncertainty in the man who stood before him. He knew the question and stared defiantly at the major, daring him to ask. He did not, but saluted and left the office. The question was a command, and the major thought of the conversation throughout the interviews. The report should recommend a charge of desertion. Major Mere
dith Marchand Somersville had always disappointed people. Judged a poor lover by his wife, he had suffered the sniggers of his fellow officers and their wives who spoke behind his back about Virginia’s dalliances with young lieutenants. His two children, now grown, made little effort to disguise the fact that he was the only member of the Somersvilles who had failed at his chosen profession. Two successful physicians, a corporate lawyer in Boston, and he, a passed-over major. Everyone he knew, even his dead father and mother, had judged him a failure. There was one exception. Despite all the stones cast his way, the short, plain, yes homely man, enjoyed who he was.

  A South Carolinian and graduate of the Citadel, his understanding of weaponry, engineering and military tactics exceeded that of his peers who had graduated from West Point and other military schools. In training sessions for young officers and on maneuvers, such skills became obvious to his commanding officers. What also became obvious was his high squeaky voice and small, round body. In dress parades and at officers’ events, he appeared out of place among the strutting young officers. Rather than join with his colleagues in raucous camaraderie, he would drift off to the side, hoping to engage someone in conversation on some serious subject. It had been decided soon after he became an officer that he did not fit the mold of a leader; he simply did not look or act the part.

  That he had remained in the military rested on one event during the Spanish-American War, when the company for which he served was ambushed in a narrow gorge in Cuba. With his company commander dead, the other young officers panicked, he had taken command, rallied the troops to establish interlocking fields of fire, and driven the Spanish from the field. For his bravery, he was given the Silver Star and recommended for the Congressional Medal of Honor.

  Promoted to captain after word of his heroism surfaced, the major’s star soon began to fall. With peace again, the same uncharismatic qualities he had shown before Cuba surfaced, and he was slotted into the Adjutant General’s Office, where he could prepare reports best suited to a man without a real future in the army. The bitterness had stayed with him for years, but gradually the major found other satisfactions in life. He enjoyed reading manuscripts written in Greek and Latin, composing poetry which had received increasing attention in New York and San Francisco, written under the name of Bryan Fordyce.