The Sins of an Ordinary Man

By Michael Stoner

An astounding story, riveting from beginning to end, that covers 3 generations of a family caught in the maelstrom of WW I and WWW II, which left the most disturbing skeletons in the closet. Reminiscent of the excellent television series "Heimat" from the 1980's.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 6, 2006
• ISBN: 9781466957367

Book preview

The Sins of an 

Ordinary Man

to Benj

Michael Busch

© Copyright 2005 Michael Busch.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey

Decimal Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from

the Library and Archives of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be

obtained from their online database at:

www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-6703-0

ISBN 978-1-4669-5736-7 (ebook)

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER I

It had been a raw, bone-chilling November evening. The rains had eased but the bitter wind from the Sound, having already stripped the leaves from the elms, proceeded to scatter them indiscriminately over the finely manicured lawns of University Avenue. The big house at 698, set back behind a high, carefully trimmed hedge, stood in silent darkness. It had only been a matter of a few hours since its owner, an old man in his eighties, had suddenly died there.

It was early evening and lowering his newspaper, John Patrick Stoner had risen unsteadily from his armchair. He remarked to his wife, Julia, that he was feeling tired and was going upstairs to lie down for a few minutes before dinner. When fifteen minutes later, Julia went up to check on him, she had at first believed him to be still peacefully asleep, and only when he failed to respond to her gentle and then more vigorous shaking, did she realized that her husband was dead.

That same evening Michael Stoner had been working late, going over newly delivered architects’ drawings for the proposed plant expansion. It had been critical that the architect’s dimensions made adequate allowance for the installation of two high-speed, computer-controlled cutting machines on order from a German manufacturer. Each machine was purchased at a cost of nearly a quarter of a million dollars, and Michael knew he could ill-afford even the smallest mistake in the building design. He telephoned his wife, Rose, and advised her to start dinner without him, following which he settled in with pen and calculator to examine the drawings in detail.

Outside, he became vaguely aware of his office staff wishing each other a ‘good night’ and leaving one by one or in small groups. A vice-president poked his head in the door to exchange a few words before bidding Michael a ‘good night’, and it had only been the steady hum of machinery from the shop floor below that told him there was still life in the building following the arrival of the evening shift.

When the telephone on his desk first rang, its shrillness in the otherwise quiet office startled Michael. It’s sharp, penetrating sound forewarned of bad news and almost fearfully he lifted the receiver. It was Rose. Her voice quickly betrayed that something was indeed amiss.

Michael-Michael my love, please brace yourself! she cried. I have bad news. It’s your dear father. Julia just called. He suffered a heart attack and died only minutes ago. Michael sat stunned while his mind grappled with Rose’s words. Of course he had known this moment was bound to happen sooner or later. After all, Dad had been at an age when death was always a constant companion. Although fit and active, he had only a month ago celebrated his 80th birthday. The notion that the Old Man would no longer be there to argue with about politics and economics, to bounce business ideas off or to simply sit with under the elms in the garden moved him deeply.

Michael-are you there? It was Rose’s distant voice.

Yes. I am here, he replied softly. I am going over to dad’s house.

It was but a short half-hour drive from the plant to University Avenue and the traffic was light. As Michael nosed his car out of the parking lot and into traffic, he pictured his father’s face with its high forehead below a shock of unruly silver grey hair. He was reminded of the smile that had so often charmed friend and foe alike and the furrowed scowl with which he dismissed those who displeased him or those he regarded as fools. No more would Michael hear his father’s level voice with its clipped manner of speech or the hint of Irish when the voice was raised in confusion or anger, and never again would he see the sparkle of pleasure in his eyes when bouncing a grandchild on either knee.

Michael brushed a tear from his face and was reminded just how little he had really known his father. There was so much he had wanted to know. What had his father’s childhood been like? What sort of people had his other grandparents been, who had died before he was born. Or why had his Uncle George volunteered in 1940 to fly for the Royal Air Force? Above all, he had wanted to know more about the tragic death of his own mother. Now, as he headed towards his father’s house, he resigned himself to the notion he might never learn the answers to these questions.

There had of course been many occasions when Michael had asked. He remembered the pained look on his father’s face each time he replied:

One day Michael I shall tell you the whole story, but right now it’s too painful. He always said the same thing. With that response he would dismiss the subject and pointedly turn his attention to other matters. It was only as the children grew older that they noticed the absence of any family on their father’s side. No aunts, no uncles or cousins. Absolutely no one! Were they not part of a large, well known Boston family? These questions had been voiced out loud on many occasions by Michael and his sisters, to which however they never seemed to obtain a satisfactory reply. Their father would mumble something about an unbridgeable rift in the family and thereafter change the topic. Michael and his two sisters had learned that their father’s parents were both dead and his only brother, a fighter pilot, had been killed early in the war. The Old Man seldom spoke of them and when pressed, merely shrugged while muttering how they had all died so tragically young.

There were also many unanswered questions about their mother who had died when they were all very small. The Old Man’s face would crease with pain at the mention of Vivian, and it was largely left to Julia to fill in the gaps and help Michael piece together the frightening events that led to her death.

The Seattle Examiner had written how a gang of thugs had kidnapped Mrs. Vivian Stoner, wife of up and coming industrialist John Patrick Stoner, and had then attempted to collect a million dollar ransom. John Stoner, a decorated war veteran, had somehow managed to track the kidnappers down and, while attempting to release his wife, had been fired upon by one of the three gangsters. The first bullet had struck Mrs. Stoner in the heart as she bravely sought to shield her husband. She died instantly. The second bullet had wounded John Stoner. He was gently criticized for not calling the police and for taking the kidnappers on single-handedly.

Michael recalled how the dog-eared news clipping reported how his father had subsequently shot and killed all three of the thugs. It continued also by describing a second incident that same night in a nearby dock-side tavern in which two men were shot dead in what was believed to have been a drunken bar-room brawl over an unidentified female. Both victims had been well known to police. The bartender had described in a statement how he had attempted to intervene, but had been driven back by one of the knife-wielding men. Because of poor light inside the tavern, he had been unable to offer a description of the assailant who departed with the woman. The two shootings were thought by police to have been unrelated, but Julia knew otherwise. She never discussed the tavern incident and instead gently described to the children how the shock of their mother’s death had plunged their father into a state of deep shock and lasting depression.

The Seattle Chief of Police led the investigation himself and in his final report he stated that the kidnapping had been partially motivated by money and partially by a desire for revenge. The leader of the gang, it had been discovered, was a former SS officer who had been convicted of war crimes and had served a ten year prison sentence in France. His conviction, it was believed, was largely based on evidence supplied by John Stoner while working for army intelligence in Europe. It was generally presumed that following his early release, the German had been out to get even.

To the three children their father was a hero. Not only had he been responsible for putting one of those wicked Nazis behind bars, but he had single-handedly taken on and killed the three SS thugs who had come all the way to America to exact revenge. The tragedy was that their mother had also died in the shoot-out. Somehow, when looking back, Michael had always felt there was more to the story but, upon seeing the wave of anguish that always came over his father’s face whenever the subject was raised, he could never quite bring himself to press the matter.

As he drove, Michael’s sadness became tinged with a touch of anger-anger at having allowed himself to be brushed off so easily and anger towards the Old Man for leaving so many questions unanswered. After all, had he and his sisters not the right to know about their family, even if father had been an outcast from a prominent Boston clan and desired to have nothing more to do with any of his eastern relatives? He had even gone so far as to forbid Michael and his sisters making any contact with those thought to be uncles, aunts and cousins? But why had he been an outcast, and why, throughout all those years, had there never been a move towards reconciliation? So many questions and so few answers!

Michael sighed and pulled into the sweeping gravel driveway of his father’s house. Julia, his stepmother, met him at the door.

He’s upstairs Michael. Dr. Rossi is with him. She was pale and her eyes were red from crying. Poor dear Julia! She had loved father so very much. Michael reflected on how he and his sisters had always called her by her first name. Never mother or mum-just Julia. She didn’t mind and once even explained how, since she was not their birth mother, she didn’t qualify for the very special title of ‘mother’. The truth was Julia had always been a wonderfully devoted stepmother, raising not only her two daughters but also Michael and his two sisters. She was a sweet-natured, gentle person who always looked for the best in people. It was to Julia to whom Michael and his sisters had most often turned for love, advice and approval. It was she who had nursed them when they were sick, read to them before bed and listened to their many stories. It was she who had sat in the stands cheering at Michael’s little league games. She always thought he had played marvellously even when he had struck out. It was Julia who taught each of them to read and it was she who struggled with them over their early homework assignments. Upon briefly scanning Michael’s school report cards, she would always emphasize the few positive comments such as: ‘Michael is an intelligent boy and could do better’ or ‘with more attention to his studies this student could achieve a B grade or better.’

As a small boy, Michael vaguely remembered a beautiful, fair-haired woman, smelling richly of perfume, kissing him goodnight. But his memories of his real mother were hazy and, for the most part, prompted by a collection of black and white photos adorning a shelf in his father’s study.

Unlike Julia, their father had always seemed a more distant figure. Certainly, the business demanded much of his time, but he seldom, if ever, came to one of Michael’s baseball or ice-hockey games, and only once did he attend a school play in which sister Jessica had a lead part. Halfway through, she had looked out over the audience and saw to her dismay that father’s seat was empty. He had been called away. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his children, yet he had difficulty in giving expression to his affection. Whenever he strongly approved of something Michael or his sisters had accomplished, he might simply reward them with a nod and a smile as if their accomplishment had been expected all along. Even as a small boy, Michael could not recollect ever having been embraced by his father, and he remembered merely shaking the Old Man distantly by the hand as he was about to depart on his first tour of duty in Vietnam.

During the latter years, Michael’s father had also not always been easy to live with. He became more inflexible in his views, more easily irritated by differing opinions and retreated more frequently into his study where he would remain for hours in isolation reading and writing-about what no one really knew. Despite his often distant behaviour, Julia, always patient and understanding, stood faithfully by his side and would tolerate no criticism of her man. Perhaps of them all, she knew him best. Michael put his arm around Julia’s narrow shoulders and together they climbed the stairs.

I am going to miss him dreadfully, she murmured.

John Patrick Stoner lay on his back. His eyes were closed and his large hands lay folded over his chest. A look of peaceful serenity was stamped on his face. Michael noted how shrunken his six-foot frame appeared and how his skin, the colour of chalk, was stretched tightly over his temples. Even the scar above his right eye was now barely visible. The Old Man in death, he thought, appeared almost child-like. For a fleeting moment, Michael believed his father might suddenly awaken and demand to know what all the fuss was about, but not this time and never again. Now his only son, not yet fifty, was the new Old Man of the Stoner family.

Michael glanced around the large, darkly panelled bedroom. The heavy oak furniture, a fashion of another era, only added to the sadness of the moment. His gaze then came to rest on a half-packed suitcase. Julia, following his eyes to the suitcase, touched his arm.

Michael, I was going to call you. Did you know he was going to France? Two days ago your father purchased an airline ticket to Paris. He said he had some unfinished business to attend to. I told him for such a long journey I ought to go with him, but he replied it was something he had to do on his own. He never did tell me what it was. What business would father have had in France? Michael pondered. He hadn’t represented the company in business matters in over ten years and there were certainly no outstanding dealings in France, or for that matter anywhere in Europe. Where had he being going? Michael suddenly felt very tired and leaving Doctor Rossi to call the undertaker, escorted Julia out to his car.

You’ll come and stay with us for a few days. We’ll collect your things in the morning.

John Patrick Stoner was buried on a Monday afternoon. The rain lashed down on a dark canopy of umbrellas held aloft over the many who had gathered in the cemetery. Dutifully, as befitting the occasion, the nearby poplar trees sighed mournfully as they swayed in the wind and the rain. The pattering sound of the downpour threatened to drown out the voice of Father McGregor reading at the head of the grave from his wind-swept bible. Standing between his two sisters, Jessica and Maggy, Michael idly studied the sombre faces gathered there with heads bent against the driving rain.

Seated under a light shelter with a blanket wrapped around her legs was Julia, looking pale and lost. To her left sat Luigi Carboni, one of the Italians who had been so much a part of the company’s early success, now through infirmity confined to a wheel chair. Luigi had first been a staunch supporter of Mac, Michael’s grandfather, and then later of his own father. To Julia’s right stood the untidy figure of Carl Hoskins, father’s closest business associate and friend from his earliest days in Seattle, similarly grey and now leaning heavily on a stick. Hovering behind Julia were her two daughters and their families. To his credit and his deep affection for Julia, the Old Man had always made them as much a part of the Stoner family as he had his own children.

The mayor was absent, but had ordered a city councillor to attend in his place. She, who had known John Stoner not at all, stood close to Julia with an expression of deep sorrow dutifully imprinted on her face. Michael reflected upon the uneasy relationship his father had had with City Hall, and how he had loathed the petty bureaucracy of the many city administrators who, he had often said to those who cared to listen, were no better than the mafia, demanding payoffs and bribes. The Old Man seldom saw the need to curb his tongue and was not afraid to make his views widely known, gaining in the process few friends and many enemies on the Hill. Despite all, John Stoner had over the years become a prominent man in the Seattle business community, admired by some, despised by others, but ignored by no one.

The mayor had reasoned that while John Stoner might have had many enemies, rendering it perhaps unwise to be seen at the funeral, he also had many friends and admirers making it politically prudent to be at least represented. His most junior councillor was therefore assigned the task, and she now sniffed and blew her nose at the appropriate intervals.

The dean of the university came in person, and his gleaming patent leather shoes were streaked with mud. The man now lying in his coffin had donated large sums to his institution over the years, and it had been just last year that the faculty of commerce building was renamed the ‘Stoner Building’. To John Stoner’s amusement, he had also been granted an honorary doctorate. Michael remembered how his father had chuckled when he heard the news:

Me who had to struggle just to get through high school! he had declared triumphantly. Now the dean wore a worried look as he glanced nervously over in Michael’s direction. Could the son and principal heir be relied upon to be as generous as his father? Wasn’t he alumnus? Oh yes, but had flunked out in his sophomore year and took himself off to Vietnam. Never mind, Michael Stoner might very well wish to carry on with his father’s philanthropy-must get to speak to him for just a few moments to arrange for a luncheon.

The deputy director of the Puget Sound Hospital, another recipient of John Stoner’s magnanimity, wiped the rain from his face and wondered where in the hell it was in his job description that he had to stand outside in the cold and the wet. He had ruined another perfectly good suit. It was his third funeral this month, and it was high time someone else stood in. He glanced impatiently at his watch.

Michael had closed the plant on the afternoon of the funeral and had given everyone a half day off with pay in memory of his father. He was pleasantly surprised and greatly touched to see the high number of workers who had come out in the rain to pay their final respects. The entire office staff were there standing in a silent group, perhaps more to acknowledge Julia as a friend and former colleague as much as anything. Many from the shop floor had known John Stoner and had worked with him in the early years following Mac’s death. Known as a stickler for detail and as someone who would not tolerate shoddy workmanship, they respected his knowledge and his willingness from time to time to descend from his corner office, climb into coveralls, and turn on a lathe or a milling machine. He was also known for having taken a keen interest in the lives of the men and women who made up his work force and, in the beginning, knew their names, their spouses’ names and even the names of their children. Later on, when the plant grew in size and more shifts were added, this became more of a challenge, yet Mr. Stoner had a word for everyone whenever he descended to the shop floor-be it criticism or praise.

His fellow industrialists and even the union were dismayed when he introduced an innovative employee medical plan, partially funded by the company. He was also responsible for establishing the Seattle Metal and Machine Company Bursary to assist the children of employees with the tuition costs of higher education. As it was by then, more than fifty young men and women had been able to attend college or university thanks to monies from the SEAMAC bursary. His wages, although not high, were fair for which he demanded a fair day’s work, and anyone caught cheating punching in or out he dismissed without hesitation.

There were of course those who only saw John Patrick Stoner as a ruthless capitalist and a union buster; a man who bent the rules, ignored those who were of no use to him and made enemies out of laggards and layabouts, whom he unceremoniously fired. Those who had experienced the Old Man’s wrath and quick justice were not in attendance that afternoon and, no doubt, would have rejoiced at the news of his passing.

The priest fell silent and the only sound was the relentless rain drumming down onto the sea of umbrellas and the poplars swaying in the background. Maggy, the dead man’s youngest child, was first to scoop up a handful of wet soil and gently sprinkle it over the gleaming casket. She wept quietly, her tears mingling with the rain. Dear Maggy! Poor dear Maggy! reflected Michael. When still only in her very early twenties, she had fallen in love with a roguishly handsome man, who everyone knew to be a scoundrel; everyone except Maggy that is. Even Julia, who rarely spoke unkindly of anyone, urged her to take some time to think it over.

Take a holiday dear. Go to Europe for a few weeks and see if you still feel the same way when you get back, she had urged. But no! Maggy wasn’t going to be parted from her handsome gold digger, and, in defiance of the Old Man, she left home and married him. They had two children before he finally abandoned her. Michael speculated that her no-good husband had seen that it was going to be a very long time, if ever, before he and Maggy were to become recipients of any part of the family fortune. After her husband’s departure, a crestfallen Maggy had returned to the house on University Avenue with her two toddlers in tow and father, to his credit, took them all in and even gave her a temporary job in accounting.

Michael smiled inwardly as he was reminded of his father’s reaction to Maggy’s scheming husband who had arrived one day in search of a cash settlement in return for not contesting the divorce.

Settlement! John Stoner had roared. Get me Police Chief Blakey on the telephone. Tell him I am being blackmailed by a worthless scoundrel, who has the gall to walk out on his wife and two children leaving them penniless. Needless to say, the handsome rogue, whose good looks were already fading fast from too many cigarettes and too much alcohol, quickly agreed to a divorce before departing empty-handed with his tail tucked between his legs.

Poor dear Maggy never had much luck in her choice of men and soon after entered into another disastrous marriage, only to return yet again to the sanctuary of the house on University Avenue, this time with three young children in her wake. Once again, Father and Julia took them all in before supplying Maggy and the children with a small house of their own. She found work in a nearby library, and for the first time in many years, Michael believed she had also found happiness.

Jessica was next in casting a handful of wet earth into the open grave. She had no tears and had at first flatly refused to attend the funeral. In the end, it had taken a lengthy telephone call from Michael during which he reminded her of her duty to Julia before she had reluctantly agreed to come. Ever since the day she returned from San Francisco with her short-haired girl friend and loudly announced at the dinner table that she was gay, relations with her father had become even more tenuous and distant. Of course she had expected an unholy uproar, and she had been ready to do battle, but instead, there had followed only a shocked silence. The look on the Old Man’s face had said it all.

Are you ill? You should see Doctor Rossi, was all he had murmured, before turning away and pointedly continuing his conversation with the person seated next to him.

Michael remembered how Jessica had jumped to her feet and, seizing her partner by the hand, had stormed out of the house, vowing loudly never to return. But return she did and on more than one occasion had during those visists sought to enlighten the Old Man. He however stubbornly refused to acknowledge that she might be in any way different and persisted with his view that the whole issue of being gay was an illness or disease to be cured with proper medical or psychiatric treatment. He obstinately closed his mind and ears to her reaching out for his understanding, and for this she could not bring herself to forgive him.

Julia made numerous attempts to bridge the divide, but, although Jessica, in sole deference to her stepmother, returned to the University Avenue house for special occasions, she never stayed long and rarely exchanged more than a few words with her father.

Many years had passed and yet she still couldn’t bring herself to forgive and forget. Now as he lay in his grave, she was angry-angry with the Old Man for his lasting onstinacy and angry with herself for not having been more patient and persistent in her efforts to make him understand. Both father and daughter were in temperament very much alike-proud and unyielding.

Finally it was Michael’s turn to scatter a damp handful of rich, dark soil onto his father’s coffin. Strangely, the evenly dug opening reminded him for a moment of a slit trench, and he saw before his eyes, as if it had been just yesterday, the look on his father’s face when, after finishing his sophomore year at university, he had come home and announced that he had joined the army and was going to Vietnam. The Old Man had been aghast.

Why, Michael? Why now? Why not finish your education? He had begged. There had been a strange fear in his eyes. With the self-righteousness of immature youth Michael had replied loftily:

Was it not President Kennedy who once said: ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but ask what you can do for your country?’ Michael remembered how, with trembling hand, his father had taken him by the arm. There had been more than just a touch of urgency in his voice as he tried to explain how the war in Vietnam was all wrong, how the Americans had no business being there and how in the end they will be defeated, just as the French had been.

Defeated! No way! Nobody can beat the United States. Anyway, even if they could, it’s my country right or wrong, Michael had replied with the same brash cockiness. An expression of helplessness came over John Stoner’s face as he stared at his only son and reflected where and when he had heard those same words spoken before. Besides, Michael added softly, I thought you might be proud of me. You served Uncle Sam with distinction. Why shouldn’t I?

Following two tours in ‘Nam’ Michael had returned physically unharmed, but bitter and angry. The country that had sent him and his buddies out to fight and die in the jungles of South East Asia now turned its back on its returning warriors-casting them aside as an embarrassment. In protest he grew his hair long, smoked pot and departed for the Hippy commune of the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco where he believed he might find peace and understanding.

Ironically, while Michael was slogging through the leech infested jungles of Vietnam, his sister Jessica and friends were busy taking to the streets of Washington DC in noisy anti-war demonstrations. They chained themselves to the White House fence and screamed ‘Pig’ and ‘Nazi’ at the policemen who cut them loose and hauled them off to jail. Jessica always remained a day or two longer behind bars than her other well-heeled protesting friends because John Stoner steadfastly refused to put up bail and sternly forbade Julia to put up the cash from her own resources.

It was some weeks later one holiday weekend, and all were gathered around the dinner table in the house on University Avenue. Jessica had arrived with a plain-faced young woman companion and Michael with a dizzy, mini-skirted blond wearing white lipstick. The news of the Mi Lai massacre had just been broadcast, and Jessica turned to Michael with disgust written all over her face:

How can you support a government and an army that commits such criminal acts? How do sane, civilized men like you end up killing innocent women and children? Explain that to me Michael, she demanded jutting her face out provocatively. Michael angrily dropped his knife and fork. He was angry at her self-righteousness, angry at her superior tone and angry at her blatant assumption that just because he had been in Vietnam, he too was guilty of murdering innocent civilians. Moreover, Michael felt deeply shocked, yes even betrayed, by those who had carried out the massacre and could offer no explanation. He was also slightly drunk and, instead of brushing aside Jessica’s obvious challenge, he became even angrier.

You people! You people make me sick, he cried in exasperation wagging a finger in Jessica’s direction. You, who have never been closer to war than the TV set in your living rooms will never know. You just sit at home watching and judging as if the rules of a football game apply. You have no idea what it’s like out there. Sometimes there are no rules or the only rule is that of survival. When you enter a village and are greeted by the villagers only a fool assumes them to be friendly. When you search that village and you discover an arms cache, you know as soon as your back is turned, those same weapons would have been used against you and your buddies. So don’t tell me you wouldn’t burn down the huts of those found hiding weapons. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t shoot back at those trying to kill you, and sometimes it is impossible to tell who the real enemy is. And yes-innocent people do die in war. He caught sight of Julia’s pained face, but he was on the boil. How could any of you understand that? All of you seated here with your holier-than-thou attitudes just make me want to puke! With that, Michael rose angrily from the table and stalked out of the room.

To this day he could see the growing look of contempt on Jessica’s face, yet as he glanced towards his father at the head of the table, he had been surprised to see sadness, empathy and even understanding. It occurred to Michael for a brief moment that his father might just speak out. Perhaps refer to his own experiences during the Second World War. But no, he had remained silent.

The funeral ended just as the rain let up. A faceless column of people squeezed Michael’s hand murmuring the familiar platitudes:

A great man-a pillar of the community-a true captain of industry-he will be sorely missed! and more. Finally they were gone, and Michael was able to take Julia by the arm and escort her to the car.

On the following Wednesday, Michael heard from his father’s solicitor, Norman Roth. Roth, the elderly lawyer, and the Old Man had known each other since the early sixties and Hyman Roth counted himself among the few men who John Stoner had considered a close friend.

Michael when do you want the will read? May I suggest you, Julia and your two sisters come to my office? Any day this week or early next would be fine. They arranged for Friday morning, and Michael notified Jessica and Maggy.

Only you girls please. We don’t want the whole motley crew in attendance just yet. He notified Julia, but she replied:

You go without me, dear. You can tell me all about it, but I don’t feel up to it just now.

At 10 a.m. sharp on Friday, Michael and his two sisters met in Norman Roth’s office. Although the old solicitor was officially retired, he continued to look after the affairs of select clients, of whom John Stoner had been one, and for that he had access to the facilities of his old firm Hancock, Kaufman and Roth on the fifteenth floor of the Rainier Building.

Typical of John Stoner, the will was blunt and to the point and even sought to direct the affairs of the family from the grave. Maggy and Jessica both came into possession of commercial and residential properties that would more than see to their needs for the rest of their days. Julia’s two daughters were also included, each given small sums of money together with ownership to an apartment. Julia was to continue to occupy the house on University Avenue as long as she wished, but should she choose not to, then the house was to go to Michael and a sum was to be extracted from the estate to buy her a suitable home. Moreover, Julia was to continue to receive an income from the business for as long as she lived. The shares of the business came to Michael in their entirety together with a sizeable sum in stocks, bonds and investment certificates. He knew that tied to this generosity was the responsibility of managing the family businesses and seeing to it that they continued to prosper.

The total as of today amounts to over eighteen million dollars-a tidy sum indeed, remarked the elderly solicitor. There were smaller amounts set aside for various grandchildren for their education or initial house purchases and a sum of one thousand dollars for each of the Puget Sound Hospital and the university. These last two amounts are curious, remarked Mr. Roth. But knowing your father, I think he is sending a message that the big hand-outs are now over, unless you, Michael, decide to continue them. With that, the meeting ended, and the three siblings got up to leave. Before he reached the door, Michael heard Norman Roth call him back. Oh Michael, by the way, your father asked me to give you these. I have no idea what they are, but they are addressed to you and to you alone. With that, he handed Michael a large manila envelope together with a carefully wrapped brown paper parcel. I think your father said it was a manuscript or some such thing. About what, he would not say.

That afternoon Michael returned to the plant. The chief engineer was waiting for him, so he locked the envelope and the manuscript in a cupboard and turned his mind to the building addition.

Construction can begin tomorrow if you are satisfied with the drawings, remarked the engineer.

Let’s just take another close look at them, you and I, replied Michael, and the two men pored over the blueprints and discussed the precise location of each machine, the proximity of wiring, the thickness of the concrete floor, the installation of air filters and many other items. The manila envelope and the carefully wrapped brown paper package remained locked away for more than a week while the pressing issues of the business took centre stage.

It was not until late the following Friday that Michael remembered the packages and removed them from the locked cupboard. His father’s neat handwriting stared back at him as he read his name on the face of the brown envelope. Picking it up, he weighed it thoughtfully in his hand before slicing the envelope open and extracting a sheet of paper. It was an undated letter written on his father’s letterhead and addressed to Michael Patrick Stoner. It read:

‘My dear Michael,

By the time you read these lines, I shall have paid my final dues and have shuffled off this mortal coil. On many occasions you asked me about my younger years, about my parents, your grandparents, and about my experiences during the Second World War. Each time I put you off. For that I owe you my deepest apology because, good or bad, you have every right to know.

For over half a century, I have knowingly and deliberately deceived those I love. I have allowed people all around me to believe I was someone other than who I really was. Even my dear Julia didn’t know, although there were times when I caught her looking at me as if she guessed that something wasn’t quite right. I was sorely tempted to tell her the truth, but I feared the burden it might have placed on her and the family.

I promised you that some day I would tell you the full story, and in the attached parcel you will find the truth. My truth! As you read through it, you will, no doubt, experience feelings of shock, incredulity and yes even anger. You will rightly despise me for being the coward that I was for failing to reveal my true origins while still alive. The truth is, I lacked the courage to face the consequences which would have surely been imprisonment followed by extradition. My greatest fear however was of bringing shame upon the family and suffering your contempt and hatred. Now in death, I have sidestepped all earthly accusing fingers and all words of condemnation, although I may yet have to answer for my actions in the highest of all courts. What you do with my manuscript is in your hands. Married to your lovely Jewish girl, Rose, will likely make it hard to share these lines with her and, in the end, perhaps ease the decision to simply burn these pages once you have read them. I would likely do the same, were I you.

Within my clumsily written lines, I have tried to describe your ‘other’ family, the people about whom you often asked. You need have no shame of your grandparents, Vera and Peter Steiner, for they were both wonderful individuals, cut from the very finest of cloth. Gentle, kind and compassionate both, they were devoted to each other to the end. Your uncle George too was as sensitive as he was intelligent. He cut a dashing figure in his uniform and broke the hearts of many a pretty girl. He was tragically cut down in his prime. I know that had you met them all, you would have loved them, just as I know they would have loved you, for in you are embodied some of their finest characteristics.

The most painful chapter in my life was the tragic death of your dear mother. It was no secret that our marriage was a stormy one, but you must believe me when I say that I loved your mother with every fibre of my being and would have gladly laid down my life for her even as our marriage was coming unstuck. I thought of her every day and fervently wished it had been me struck down by that fatal bullet. You will discover as you read through these pages, that I was responsible for her death as surely as if I had pulled the trigger of the gun that shot her. An apology to you and your sisters for robbing you of your mother’s love can never suffice. I take that heavy burden with me to the grave.

So my dear boy, in the end you will uncover the mystery of the man you and your sisters called father. I know that too often you saw me only as a distant figure, but I beg you to believe me when I say that I loved all three of you with all my heart and was always proud to be your father.

Johan Patrick Steiner

With trembling hand, Michael put the letter down. His eyes burned for he had never had a letter from his father like this. He noted how it was signed ‘Johan Patrick Steiner’ and not ‘John Patrick Stoner’. That was no mistake! What was the reference to Rose all about? He stared hard at the carefully wrapped manuscript as if trying to deduce its contents. Almost reluctantly, he cut the string and unfolded the brown paper wrapping to reveal a stack of neatly printed pages. Wondering what Pandora’s Box he had just opened, Michael picked up the top page and began to read.

CHAPTER II

This story begins in simpler times when most still possessed faith in the loftier institutions of monarchy, church and country; when loyalties of ordinary folk to King or Kaiser, community and class remained yet largely unchallenged, and only in far off Russia were the first ugly rumblings of modern-day revolution being heard. The conflict, that later became known as the Great War, which was to shake the equilibrium of European society to its very core, still lay some months ahead. Names like The Somme, Paschendale and Verdun were not yet linked to the mind-numbing slaughter of countless numbers of Europe’s finest young men, and not even the most feverish of minds could yet conceive the butchery, the wasteful and hopeless deaths yet to come in French, English and German mud-filled trenches.

Happily, in the spring of 1914 only a few had any inkling of what lay in store for the months and years ahead, and this certainly held true for the slender, fair-haired young man leaning casually against the ship’s rail, watching, with fascinated delight, the hustle and bustle of the boarding activity on the quay below. His name is Peter Frederick Steiner, twenty-four years of age and a passenger bound for Berlin.

The London boat train pulls in amid clouds of steam and disgorges its Continent bound passengers. Snorting automobiles jostle with horse drawn cabs for access to the ship’s gangway. The coarse voices of bullying porters compete with those of hawkers offering cheap souvenirs and scandal-filled magazines while nearby a solitary ‘Bobby’ in his high helmet calmly gives directions and watches out for pick pockets.

The young, fair-haired man watches intently while a gleaming Rolls Royce automobile is gently lifted from the dock and lowered into the bowels of the vessel. Wheezing derricks lower crates, mailbags and barrels into the hold as if feeding a ravenous, prehistoric beast. Stiffly attired first class passengers arrive with sweating porters in tow and are greeted by smartly uniformed ship’s officers, who lead them to their first class cabins. Second and third class travellers follow, some with porters, but many bearing the weight of their own luggage. Women in long dresses and feathered hats cling to the arms of their escorts and delicately pick their way across the quay, stepping over rails, puddles and horse droppings.

Commercial travellers in frock coats and bowler hats quickly board, only to set up their ubiquitous card games in the ship’s lounge. A cluster of nuns in their black and white habits flutter penguin-like up the gangway followed by a group of Dutch travelling musicians resplendent in their colourful vests and straw boaters.

The noise from the quay is punctuated by the shriek of a shunting locomotive, by the cries of friends and family bidding farewell and finally by the ship’s horn signalling to those travelling to the Continent to board now and to those seeing off loved ones, to return to the quay side. The orchestra of sound is strengthened by the deep-throated rumble of the ship’s engines as final preparations are made to get under way.

On the one hand, Peter is sad to be leaving England, for during his six week stay he fell in love with the gentle, garden-like countryside and its quiet, soft-spoken people, who had treated him throughout with warmth and kindness. Standing there at the ship’s rail, he silently vowed to return someday.

On the other hand, he was looking forward, not without some trepidation, to his new posting at the Aeronautical Division of Siemens-Schuckert in Berlin. His acceptance into the ranks of this prestigious establishment had been a dream come true. Peter had scarcely dared hope of one day finding work in the field of aeroplanes and flying machines, a passion of his harking back to early boyhood days when his father had hoisted him up onto his shoulders to watch Otto Lilliantal attempt to lift off with homemade wings from a hillock on the fields of Lichtefelde. The later achievements by the Wright brothers in far off United States and the Frenchman Bleriot in being first to cross the English Channel just added to young Peter’s fascination in flying and flying machines. Later, as a youth, he hiked over to the Templehof field to join the thousands of fellow Berliners watch Orville and Wilbur Wright fly their motorized craft before the eyes of the delighted crowds.

Obtaining entry in to the Berlin Institute of Engineering was no small accomplishment for Peter. His father, a low-salaried primary school teacher, lacked the means to pay the tuition. It had only been through a bursary earned by his high marks at the gymnasium school and a strong recommendation put forward by his headmaster that a place was finally made available. Although not known to him at the time, the admitting panel was also duly impressed by his well structured essay on model glider construction.

The institute demanded much of Peter, but he had no fear of hard work and, in the end, passed his final exams near the top of his class. His thesis describing the flying characteristics of a single-wing glider and the anticipated results when such a craft is merged with a light-weight internal combustion engine aroused much discussion among his tutors. His work was replete with calculations and detailed drawings. There were those of course on the examination board who scoffed at such ‘precocious nonsense’, but one member, a kindly-faced senior engineer at Siemens, was quite taken by Peter’s technical analysis. Thus it was, upon successful graduation, he was invited to a series of interviews before a panel of dour-faced directors at the Siemens Factory. To his delight, he was offered an apprentice engineer’s position at a modest starting salary in the newly formed aircraft division under the watchful eye of Herr Senior Engineer Weber. Peter’s father could barely contain his pride. To his son’s embarrassment, he would buttonhole anyone who could be persuaded to listen in order to describe how his clever son, the engineer, had secured himself an important position with the mighty Siemens Company.

Peter was however not expected to start in his new work for two whole months, and his father had suggested that rather than sit idle at home, he do some travelling.

To broaden your outlook on the world, he declared and promptly sat down to write to a distant cousin living in the small Hampshire town of Winchester. Soon a reply arrived with a warm invitation and armed with a borrowed suitcase, an English pocket dictionary and a very small amount of money, Peter boarded the train bound for the Dutch coast. He waved to his tearful mother and broadly smiling father until they were no more than specks on the distant platform, before sinking back onto the slatted wooden seats of the third class carriage. He was going to explore the world, and he could barely suppress his excitement.

By high school standards, Peter’s English was more than just passable. During his final years at school, his teacher, a man who had spent many years in America, left him with a faint yet not unpleasant rolling mid-western accent. Moreover, as an engineer with a love of flying machines, Peter soon recognized the need to be able to read English, for by then many of the leading aeronautical publications were being written by English and American flight pioneers.

Upon arriving in Harwich however Peter was startled to find out just how woefully ill-prepared he was.

My English isn’t going to get me far here. I can’t understand a word, he muttered ruefully while attempting to wrestle his bags from the hands of an overzealous porter before seeking directions to the London train. A vicar in a dark suit and dog collar took pity on him and pointed to a train in the process of getting up steam, and Peter was soon London bound, hurtling at astonishing speed through the rolling East Anglia countryside. With face pressed to the carriage window, he studied the hedge-lined meadows, the carefully tilled fields, the velvet green hills studded with small woods and villages, the towns, the church spires and the row upon row of brick houses that seemed to flank the railway mile upon mile as London drew near. He delighted in all he saw. So much like a park, he thought.

The vastness of London left him in open-mouthed awe, but the extent of the slums and poor working class tenements shocked him. Certainly, he knew that all big cities, including Berlin, were plagued by the blight of unsightly slum dwellings. But the shear extent of them around London left him puzzled. Was this not, after all, the heart of a great and wealthy empire?

Peter found his way on the London Underground to Waterloo Station where he boarded the Southampton bound train.

Yes Sir! It stops at Winchester, an elderly conductor assured him, and only a few hours later he descended onto the Winchester platform to retrieve his luggage before the carriages began to slip by on their continued journey. Tired but elated, he sat down to await anyone who might resemble the grainy photograph of Uncle Hubert his father had tucked into his pocket.

The other passengers soon dispersed, leaving him alone on the deserted platform. After a while, the assistant station master emerged to work the signal for a London bound train and to water the flowers. He eyed Peter with discreet amusement, observing his collarless ‘Jaeger’ jacket with its bone buttons, the knee-length leather britches, his colourful socks and heavy black ankle-high boots.

Is someone coming to meet you, sir? he asked. Peter nodded.

Ja, I am hoping, he replied. Just then the tall, stooping figure of Uncle Hubert appeared, breathlessly apologizing for his tardiness. He pumped Peter by the hand, muttering something about ‘a splitting image of Great Uncle Herrmann’.

Uncle Hubert was a man in his mid-fifties. Some thirty years earlier he had been invited to teach German and classical languages at Winchester College. Arriving from Marburg University, his terms of engagement were at first to last no more than a year. This was later extended to two years before his tenure finally became indefinite, for Uncle Hubert was a gifted teacher, much admired by his colleagues, although his strong German accent was often the cause of much teasing and mimicry by the boys.

With the exception of a four month period immediately following the outbreak of the Great War during which, to his everlasting indignation, he was interned as an enemy alien, Winchester was to remain Uncle Hubert’s home for the rest of his days. Together with a number of dubious characters of mixed nationality, he found himself incarcerated in Dartmoor Prison. Fortunately, this unhappy experience was soon brought to an end by strong protests from the college. Heeding the outcry led by one Winchester Old Boy who happened to be a close friend of Prime Minister Asquith, the authorities relented and released him into the custody of the college to continue his beloved teaching.

Uncle Hubert proved to be a congenial host and, although a bachelor, he enjoyed the excellent housekeeping services of Mrs. Fry, a plump, good-natured woman whose answer to all of life’s obstacles was a strong, hot cup of tea. Peter took an immediate liking to her.

After his long journey, Peter was permitted a day of rest. But at breakfast on the second day his Uncle peered at him over his boiled egg and exclaimed:

You look far too German in those clothes. I think we need to find you more suitable attire. I dare say Messrs. Buxton and Frost in the high street will be able to make you blend more readily into English country life. He paused, nodded his approval at his own suggestion and sunk his spoon into his egg. Then, as if he had just been reminded of something, he added: There is, you see, some ill-will abroad these days towards the Kaiser and Germany. You know, following the Agadir incident. No doubt you are familiar with that event. Peter had read about the German protest over the French annexation of Morocco and how the Kaiser had even sent a gun boat, ‘The Panther’, into the area to signify his displeasure and to protect German interests. Both England and France saw this as intolerable interference in their colonial policies, and their press were quick to portray the Kaiser as a sabre rattling warmonger. Peter failed to understand why little Morocco should have become subjugated to French interests but, detecting from Uncle Hubert’s tone, that he sided with the English and the French on that score, remained politely silent.

I have only very little money, he declared finally. Not enough, I fear, to spend on clothes. Uncle Hubert waved his hand.

Leave that to me, he said and continued to search the depth of his boiled egg.

By mid-morning, Peter emerged from Messrs. Buxton and Frost smartly dressed in a tweed jacket, trousers of cavalry twill which, unlike his faded German plus-fours, reached down to a new pair of sturdy brogue shoes.

Excellent! You could easily be mistaken for an English country gentleman, exclaimed Uncle Hubert, clapping hands with delight at his Pygmalion-like creation. Despite the transformation, Peter’s closely cropped fair hair and penetrating blue eyes would however continue to betray his Germanic origin.

Following Messrs. Buxton and Frost there was lunch and then a tour of the college. With church-like reverence, the two men stepped into the hallowed halls of the venerable school which, as Uncle Hubert pointed out, had turned out prime ministers, bishops, generals and scoundrels. They passed between high stone walls and entered the cathedral. Uncle Hubert’s energy and historical knowledge proved boundless. He walked Peter the length and breadth of each nave, looking up to admire the many colourful, stained-glass windows and high vaulted ceilings, all the while directing Peter’s attention to countless points of historical interest. Once outside in the sunlight again, Uncle Hubert stopped in front of the remains of a Roman wall to inform Peter that Winchester had once been an important Roman centre and even the capital of England. Then he waved his arm towards a large, gloomy statue erected on an island in the middle of the High Street.

There. That’s Alfred the Great, the saviour of the English language! he declared. You have heard of Alfred the Great? Have you not? he asked. Peter grappled with his superficial knowledge of English history and decided he had absolutely no idea who Alfred the Great was. The young German listened politely as he was bombarded with facts and dates, but could not suppress a sigh of relief when Uncle Hubert finally pointed to a teashop across the street where, footsore and thirsty, Peter eagerly accepted a cup of tea and a sticky bun.

During the remainder of his stay in Winchester, Peter was, much to his delight, permitted to roam at will. He walked the length and breadth of the old town, studying with a keen eye the uniquely English architecture and immersing himself in the local history. He soon discovered the library and museum, where suspended from a wall was what was described to him as King Arthur’s round table. He learned that while in England the Romans had built a great many roads that even now reached out from the town in all directions, and one such road pointed towards the neighbouring cathedral town of Salisbury.

When finally tired of history and architecture, Peter would retreat in the spring sunshine to the banks of the river to watch the college masters flap by in their dark gowns, listen to cries of the boys on the nearby playing fields and observe the nannies and young mothers pushing their prams along the path flanking the bubbling river Itchen. On other occasions, he would spend many a happy hour scouring book stalls in the market place or listening to the barrow boys call out their wares in a language which, in his mind, bore not even the remotest resemblance to English, which made him wonder which language it was that King Alfred had saved. Later, he would treat himself to lemonade and a sticky bun, before making his long walk back to Uncle Hubert’s house in time for one of Mrs. Fry’s excellent suppers that she strangely called ‘tea’.

One evening, Peter announced his desire to explore the surrounding countryside and declared that he intended to walk the Roman road to Salisbury and catch the evening train back.

"There is a splendid cathedral