Aryan, the Last Prussian

By Donald J. Przebowski

This is the story of a Prussian family, and their values. Duty, honor and country, as with all patriots, were a Prussians most precious valuesa sacred trust. Karl von Braun, the last Prussian, is born into an historical period of political and national turmoil, and is morally trapped between Prussian tradition and National Socialism.

Various scholars have labored to explain the reasons for the rise of Adolf Hitler and National Socialism. This fictional novel considers the depression that followed World War I, philosophical principles, the effects of the Treaty of Versailles, and the tradition of Prussian militarism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 15, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462839797

Donald J. Przebowski

My first novel, Aryan, The Last Prussian was concerned with man and society. This novel focuses on man and religion. I offer my gratitude to Bryant Cramer, Ms. M. Hoffman, Ms. Michelle Louie, and Kolap Vanny for their intellectual contributions.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Third Reich endured for approximately twelve years. It is an historical period that challenges the intellect to understand its causes, the atrocities, and the cruelty of the human race. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, by William Shirer, is the most comprehensive account of the events and reasons for National Socialism. This fictional novel utilizes various facts and dates from that historical work. There is little doubt that the Treaty of Versailles lighted the fire of National Socialism. The Treaty imposed military restrictions on Germany that denied her the national right to protect herself. The reparation payments repressed Germany’s ability to recover from the economic depression that followed World War I. Winston Churchill said: "It was an armistice for twenty years." There is also little doubt that philosophical principles and the traditional nature of the German people to accept totalitarianism paved the way for the rise of Adolf Hitler. However, at the close of World War II, there was a trial of the German judges who were influential in the rise of Adolf Hitler, and during his reign. One of the judges was Ernst Janning. Ernst Janning was the Minister of Justice of Germany. The courtroom speech by Ernst Janning (played by Burt Lancaster), in the movie Judgment at Nuremburg, may be interpreted as the most enlightening speech concerning the reasons for the rise of National Socialism and Adolf Hitler.

Janning’s speech lends light to the political turmoil in Germany that followed World War I. It also reveals the hunger, desperation, and fears of the German people, as well as their national pride and patriotism. The speech also reveals that ordinary—and even extraordinary men, under the stress of a national crisis, may choose to sanction national laws and policies that appear to only effect the individual rights of the few, but inevitably lead to the loss of liberty for all. In addition, the excerpt also discloses how influential leaders may become intellectually and morally blind to the catastrophic impact a law may eventually have on the system of justice of a nation—and even more—what a nation stands for.

It is important not only for the Tribunal to understand it, but for the German people. But to understand it, one must understand the period in which it happened. There was a fever over the land, a fever of disgrace, of indignity, of hunger. We had a democracy, yes, but it was torn by elements within. There was, above all, fear. Fear of today, fear of tomorrow, fear of our neighbors, fear of ourselves. Only when you understand that, continued Janning, can you understand what Hitler meant to us. Because he said to us: lift your heads! Be proud to be German! There are devils among us: communists, liberals, Jews, gypsies. Once the devils will be destroyed, your miseries will be destroyed! It was the old, old story of the sacrificial lamb.

Janning stopped. He seemed to look inside himself.

What about those of us who knew better? We who knew the words were lies and worse than lies. Why did we sit silent? Why did we participate?

There was a pause. Than Janning cried out.

Because we loved our country!

What difference did it make if a few political extremists lose their rights? What difference does it make if a few racial minorities lose their rights? It is only a passing phase. It is only a stage we are going through. It will be discarded sooner or later. Hitler himself will be discarded sooner or later. The country is in danger. We will march out of the shadows! We will go forward!

And history tells us how well we succeeded, your Honor!

He looked up at the judges’ bench, to Haywood.

We succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. The very elements of hate and power in Hitler that mesmerized Germany mesmerized the world!

Janning remembered. The words were flowing now.

We found ourselves with sudden powerful allies. Things that had been denied to us as a democracy were open to us now. The world said, go ahead, take it! Take the Sudentenland, take the Rhineland, remilitarize it; take all of Austria, take it! We marched forward. The danger passed. And than one day, we looked around and found we were in even more terrible danger. The rites began in this courtroom, and swept over our land like a raging, roaring disease! What was going to be a passing phase had become a way of life.1

In the words of Victor Hugo: "There is nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come." Once Hitler was in power, who would rise to speak against him? If someone did, there would be no echo. Germany’s leaders had turned deaf to morality. Hitler was the perfect leader, in the perfect nation, in history’s perfect time.

 -1-

THE WESTERN FRONT

November 11, 1918

The iron youth of Germany waited. The promise of glory that made their blood boil, in the beginning of the War to end all Wars, had been engulfed by defeat. The inimitable images of the lovely, young maidens whose charming hands offered fresh flowers as the troops marched towards France when the war began, was a remote memory. The rumor of peace swelled from trench to trench all along the Western Front.

Major Erich von Braun was well over six feet tall and was blessed with a Herculean frame—a massive chest and broad shoulders. Life on the Western Front had reduced his Herculean frame by forty pounds; each pound was replaced by an ounce of Prussian pride. Despite the filth and the mud, he always tried to remain clean. From his Prussian father he had inherited proud Nordic features, along with the Prussian values of honor, duty and country. To Erich, those values were a precious gift—a gift far greater than inheriting wealth. To Erich, wealth was transitory; honor was eternal, and what one cherished. He added to those values an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He realized on the Western Front that knowledge was a formidable force, and could be as effective as a machine gun. He continuously studied the maps, and the battlefield. He directed his forces accordingly. To Erich, emotional control was essential for leading men into battle. An officer should set an example by remaining calm and rational during battle. When there was chaos; he remained calm. Calmness during a battle is a rare gift, and when possessed by a leader, it commands duty and respect from others.

The promise of peace did not convince Erich that the British or French would not launch another attack against his weakened position. Despite the fact that it was not yet light, his stern, blue eyes were focused on the bloodied battlefield in front of him. Erich realized, as did others, that despite the return of regiment after regiment with new recruits, the German lines grew weaker with each day. A breakthrough by the British and French seemed inevitable, especially if they attacked with those metal monsters. The Germans, who had experienced an attack by tanks, referred to them as giant insects with the ability and agility to crawl over, and crush every defensive obstacle in their paths. Erich could visualize the metal monsters ripping bodies apart, crushing his men, and overwhelming his defensive position. He could hear their engines roaring like wild animals, their tracks clacking and clacking, rumbling forward. There was nothing to do but wait, and hope that the metal monsters were not part of any final assault by the British and French. If the metal monsters came, he would have his men do what’s logical—he would tell them to run like hell!

Erich had a great respect for reality, especially for the British and French artillery, and their machine guns. While others prayed, Erich planned. His men were confident that for each attack, Erich applied the most logical plan to save their lives. There were rumors about him. One rumor was that Erich claimed that if there were a god—He was ignoring the Western Front. It was also rumored that he questioned the very virtue of war. These remarks, no doubt, infuriated his superiors. His superiors dedicated themselves to convincing the soldiers that God sees all, God is virtue, and sacrifice for the Fatherland was morally superior to any other value. The longer the War went on, the more Erich was heard to challenge the tactics of the generals. By September 1918, everyone, especially

Erich, knew that Germany would lose the War. Sending men to charge the British or French machine guns was the folly of foolish generals. Erich realized that most of the men he was ordered to send through the twisted, barbed wire, and into the fiery mouths of the machine guns would perish. Since few returned, no one would ever realize how many soldiers were sent—he sent less than ordered.

He hadn’t worn his Iron Cross since the time he was awarded it. He received it for the daring, flanking maneuver in which his platoon annihilated an entire British company at the beginning of the War. There was no doubt in Erich’s mind that the rumors of peace were true, he wore the Iron Cross. In Erich’s mind, it was a symbol of hope. The inimitable hope that he would never bear witness to such human cruelty again. A little while longer and it’ll be over, Erich thought. Maybe if I close my eyes to reality, a giant hand will move the hand of a central clock that controls all the clocks in the universe. Did the Greeks have a god of time, he wondered? I can’t remember? He shook his head as if he’d forgotten something important. I know those bastards will launch their last shells. There’s no place to run. It’s safer here in the trenches. What makes our superiors think that the British and the French will cease firing their artillery before eleven? The young recruits can’t even tell the difference between the sounds of the shells. They don’t know whether the incoming shells are shrapnel or high explosives. They flock together like silly sheep instead of scattering. The shelling will begin again. I know it! I must scatter those fools. He turned and slowly walked along the trench.

Listen carefully, especially you recruits. When you hear the sound of the artillery press your bodies against the forward wall. I don’t want to see one man without a helmet! You recruits, he pointed towards them, spread out—don’t cluster—move—now! You veterans, I expect you to instruct these young recruits, he commanded. The task complete, Erich returned to his position and waited.

Captain Johann Schmidt was as slender as Erich because of the many meals that escaped their rightful destiny since September 1918. A hungry soldier is a tired soldier, and Johann was exhausted. The color of Johann’s eyes appeared to transform themselves according to his mood. In the light they appeared green, perhaps as a sign of hope; in the darkness they changed to brown. Since the beginning of November his men noticed anger in his voice. The attractive smile he wore when the War began had disappeared, and was replaced by bitter lines around the corners of his mouth. His men had witnessed a kind of metamorphosis in Johann. At the beginning of the War, he had confidence, and his decisions in battle were based upon careful reasoning in order to protect his men. The more the War went on, and on, the more he seemed plagued by indecision. His personal survival, and the avoidance of being wounded, seemed more important than the men under his command. In the beginning, Johann relied on his ability to understand each tactical situation. Before a charge, he would study the maps, the terrain, and even courageously crawl out of the trench to reconnoiter the first fifty yards before he ordered his men forward. Now, the devotion to studying maps and terrain was replaced by prayers. Since September 1918, Johann prayed frequently, and he never left the trenches. He became a cautious leader. Caution in battle often causes more casualties than boldness. No one blamed him for his feelings, for most of the soldiers realized the truth—Germany would lose the War. Survival of the fittest had become a way of life. The battle-hardened veterans realized that nothing significant could be accomplished. The end was near, and it was no time to be foolish. Most of the young recruits never returned from their first charges against the barbed wire. Their inexperience and lack of training made them fall like foolish flies.

Johann heard the orders from Erich, and walked along the trench repeating them. Okay, you heard the Major. Don’t bunch together. Up against the forward wall—all of you. Keep your foolish heads down!

Sergeant Hans Gruber was called Bulldog because of his physical features. He was only five feet eight inches tall, but the War had made him seem larger in the eyes of his men. His forearms were thick and muscular. He had tremendous strength. He had a flat nose, puffy cheeks, large thick lips, and large ears. His fingers were short and stubby, and appeared to be too thick for his hands. His most remarkable feature was his short, chubby, but powerful legs. He relied on his powerful legs to carry him faster than anyone else during a charge through the enemy’s barbed wire. The men referred to him as the fearless Bulldog. They followed him out of half-fear, half-respect, and because they knew that his anger could be more dangerous then facing the British or French machine guns. Bulldog was incapable of smiling, and each attempt seemed to turn into an awkward, almost childish grin. He had mastered the art of humiliation. He yelled at his men, kicked his recruits into obedience, but always returned with the fewest casualties. Bulldog had full control of his men. He was bold almost to the point of carelessness. When he had left wounded men behind following a charge against the enemy he never looked back. None of his men would ever mention it to him. The men feared that, out of spite, Bulldog would select someone to go back to the enemy line to return with the wounded. Bulldog never complained about the War, and his cruel view of life seemed almost appropriate for the Western Front.

As the night lifted its shroud, Erich could see the morning dew glistening on the barbed wire. He watched the morning mist rising from the craters, gradually turning into grotesque forms and shapes as if the souls of dead were attempting to escape from the battlefield. He could see British and French bodies hanging helplessly over the barbed wire: the idiotic conclusion of the last, glorious charge the night before. A slow but steady stream of blood was flowing down the arm of a British soldier. Hopefully, he is unconscious or dead, Erich thought. A few yards away from the British soldier there was a French soldier whose head was lying on the ground while the rest of his body was entangled in the barbed wire. His hand appeared to be reaching for his head. To go to Heaven in parts confuses the Infinite.

Erich waited for the traditional ceremony unique to the Western Front to begin. His wait ended with the usual sounds: squeaking noises came from all over the battlefield, especially from the craters and near the barbed wire where the helpless bodies dripped blood on the already blood-soaked soil. The rats scurried around the battlefield. A feast that would last until the sun woke, or another artillery barrage began. Suddenly, there was a roar and a rumble, and the rats ran in all different directions. Artillery!

The screaming shells streaked across the sky! Erich’s commanding voice could be heard along the trenches. Once again as a reminder, he ordered his men to cram themselves against the side of the trench, and warned the recruits to scatter; not to remain together. Then he crawled as close to the wall as he could, and listened for the screaming sounds of the shelling. Erich closed his eyes. The shells were exploding everywhere, and one could feel the vibrations from the explosions. The noise of war is unique—a cacophony of chaos! The mud, debris and rocks were lifted into the air, and a rain of rocks showered the trenches. Then came the familiar shrieks, screams and whimpering of the wounded. A pause! Silence! Then, from the fiery throats of the British and French cannons the thunder of artillery began again. When the shells exploded in the trenches, the screams increased, and limbs leaped into the air. The sounds of the exploding rounds smothered the voices of the officers who were pleading for everyone to lower their heads, and remain as close to the front wall of the trench as possible in order to avoid the shrapnel. Shrapnel seems to have a power of its own. Soldiers hide, but it finds them. It races through the rancid air searching for heads, piercing helmet after helmet. The British, French and Germans were expending the last of their artillery shells. Erich waited, and waited, and waited. At eleven A.M., "all was quiet on the Western Front."

All along the Western Front there was silence! Erich moved away from the wall of the trench. He looked at his watch, and then his eyes searched along the trench. How many dead this time, he wondered? He felt a familiar sensation in his stomach when he saw the soldiers’ bodies lying in the mud. He approached one soldier who had lost his arms, and the blood was flowing along the muddy crevices at the bottom of the trench. He called for help, and he and one of his men moved the dead body out of the mud. After a few feet further, he noticed another soldier lying face down in the mud. He walked over, and turned the soldier over. He was one of the recruits. There was a large hole in the recruit’s throat, and his eyes stared into infinity. Erich put his rifle down, and moved the recruit out of the mud. He continued along the trench, giving orders in a commanding voice to help with the wounded, and to move the lifeless bodies to a respectable position. When he knew that there were no more wounded or mutilated in his sector, he returned to his original position and turned towards the battlefield.

After a few moments he was fully convinced that the War was at its end. The bloody battlefield was in front of him. When he turned, it would be behind him. It was over! Suddenly, for the first time in months he felt a kind of intoxication for life. Gradually, a flood of emotions overwhelmed him. Images of home began to invade his thoughts. He didn’t want to think about home, at least not yet. There were duties to perform. He thought of speaking to his men for the last time. Telling them that he was proud of them. He thought of telling his superiors to go to hell! Then, he reached the conclusion that it did not matter. His men would know, and going home was all they were thinking about. Suddenly, in a rapid reverie, the image of Iris dominated his senses—just to see her, hear her sweet voice, and embrace her. Then his thoughts focused on the flowering fruit trees on his father’s farm, the pleasant aroma of fresh pork on the stove, and the inimitable taste of German beer. Finally, came the realization that he would have to face his father in defeat, disgrace and indignity. Will he understand? Does he realize what has happened and why? Erich wasn’t certain.

Johann Schmidt slowly gathered enough strength to perform the same task as Erich: searching the trench for the wounded and the dead. First, in the distance lay the bodies of the recruits who had foolishly fled from the trenches. Johann glanced at the bodies, and felt glad that he was not one of them. He sent one of his men to verify that they were dead. He continued walking along the trench to ensure that there were no more wounded or dead. Most of the veterans were standing and waiting. He could see that some of the veterans were actually smiling, for they knew the long War was finally over. He continued down his sector until he was certain that there were no more unattended wounded. Then, he returned to his original place, and waited. It’s not an illusion; not this time. Please God—it must be true. I’m alive! I have two arms, two legs, and not one wound on my body. I’m okay! Home! No more living in the trenches with the clammy foul smells, mud, and death dancing on the barbed wire.

Hans Gruber’s rough voice could be heard above all others. I told you idiots to keep your damn heads down. Pay attention—if you’re in one piece see to the wounded or dead—move damn it! Hans said with arrogance and authority. I don’t want to see anyone just standing around—the War’s not over yet. If it was up to me—I would attack!

Hans moved closer to one of the recruits who hadn’t listen to warnings. As he moved closer he could see a hole in the recruit’s head. The blood was oozing out of the hole. He leaned over, and with one hand, he turned the recruit over. The recruit was dead! He looked around at the other soldiers, and wondered whether or not they were thinking of the dead soldier’s new boots. He quickly placed one of his feet against the dead soldier’s foot to verify the size. Immediately he removed the recruit’s boots. Then he grinned as he removed his own wet boots, and slipped on the new ones. He looked at the faces of the other soldiers.

Don’t be so damn surprised—he’s dead, he said coldly. Now prepare to move out of this trench before I use my new boots on your asses. The men just stared at him, no one dared to say a word. They all stood up and waited for his next command. Hans stood up with his new boots on, and tried to smile. He looked down along the trench towards Erich’s position.

Erich waved to Hans, and in his commanding voice he yelled, okay comrades—this lovely War is over. All the soldiers stood up. Erich raised his arm and waved upward, leave the trenches!

Johann followed Erich’s lead, let’s go—out!

Hans shouted, get your asses out of the trenches—now! All along the Western Front, a swelling sea of helmets emerged from the trenches.

Erich started walking towards the east. He paused after a few yards, and waited for Johann and Hans. He managed a weak smile as they approached.

I still can’t believe it, Johann said as he approached Erich.

It’s real, Erich softly replied.

Wait for me! Bulldog shouted as he ran towards them.

As Bulldog came closer, Johann noticed his new, shiny boots, where did you get those? Johann pointed to Bulldog’s boots.

Mine were wet—dry boots. Bulldog grinned.

Where did you get them? Erich repeated Johann’s question.

He doesn’t need them anymore—dead. I had wet boots for months—nobody cared. Bulldog said with a cold voice.

What was his name? Erich asked.

Lee—Leer—I don’t know. What difference does it make—he didn’t listen—just another dead man.

If you didn’t take the boots somebody else would have, Johann assured him.

That’s right—right. Bulldog felt vindicated.

The morals of war, Erich murmured.

Johann could almost read Erich’s mind. Erich, it’s over. It’s not immoral to have dry feet. You forget the ones with trench foot. Don’t judge Bulldog.

Erich turned towards Johann with a serious look. I don’t judge our friend. I just wonder about us.

What do you mean? Bulldog asked.

What the War has done to us and Germany. A dead man’s boots are more valuable than seeing that he’s put to rest with honor and dignity.

Johann sighed. Honor and dignity! I felt those values when the War began. When we marched toward the Western Front, I would have sworn that I could see and touch honor. Then, all I could see was the bloody, barbed wire and fallen comrades. One thing is certain—there won’t be any lovely maidens lining the streets to welcome us returning from the Western Front—no march through the streets with banners waving. We lost, and Germans don’t like losers.

Erich could visualize the lovely maidens, with their hands full of fresh flowers. It did seem like a long time ago, and a warm memory rapidly turned cold by the reality of war. Another world, Erich said softly. I guess we’re part of a lost generation. There were fifteen of us from the same class—remember? Erich turned towards Johann.

I remember our university class—you and I are what’s left of it. I don’t know if I’ll ever erase the memories of slaughter after slaughter. Now, I just want a life for myself. The three of us are about to have our lives back, and I intend to make the most of it. Johann insisted.

I must confess, Erich, I never understood you. Honor—ethics—you and your fancy words—always trying to find the reason for something. There’s no reason—no logic—no morals. I’ll take dry boots instead of morals. Force is the only thing that matters in war! Bulldog said arrogantly.

Reason and logic cannot be separated. Neither can man from his moral code. Knowledge is virtue. An idea can move nations, but I can’t say I blame you, Bulldog. I mean the way things are. I suppose it’s the teacher in me—to try to analyze what’s happen here. I can’t dismiss the mistakes made, or the foolish tactics. Good men died here! Let’s hope that we learn from our mistakes. I hope that a philosophical arrow strikes the very heart of war and it dies forever, Erich replied.

Bulldog laughed. There you go again—arrows strike the heart of war—fancy words to describe killing the enemy. Erich, it’s over—we’re going home. Munich! You have a beautiful wife—she’s waiting for you.

Bulldog’s right, Johann interjected. We control our future. I’m tired—tired of the damn generals ordering useless charges. Tired of the cold, blood, rats, filth, and mold in the bread. That’s what really made me angry. No one cared whether the food was fresh—mold and maggots in the damn bread! How do you explain the pain of being hungry? Men sacrificed because some general wants to become famous by being the first to break through! Now, the politicians stab the army right in its back!

Erich stopped walking. His face turned stern, well, I don’t want to forget the thousands of kids, and the German people shouldn’t be allowed to forget them either. Germany has lost an entire generation! We have a duty to understand it. Knowledge can prevent another war.

The old bastards—politicians make war—young men die. Erich, do you really think that the politicians will accept any blame? Johann asked.

Erich shook his head. I doubt it, but we can’t rely on the historians to write about it, they weren’t here. Who will tell the people the truth? You’re the journalist. He turned towards Johann.

What a book it would be. Johann wore a special smile. I’d make a million marks! Johann insisted.

What will become of us? Bulldog asked with concern in his voice.

What do you mean? Johann asked.

We’re soldiers—what’ll I do? I’m no hero—even if I was—we lost. It’s one of the worst defeats Germany ever had—a disgrace!

We’re not cowards either, Bulldog, Erich insisted.

You don’t understand. Bulldog turned towards Erich, you’re a Philosophy Professor; Johann’s a journalist. I’m, well—nothing without war.

You’re our friend, Bulldog, Erich assured him.

Hey, you want us to stop calling you, Bulldog, now? Johann smiled.

The remark made Erich smile. That’s right—what about that?

Bulldog thought for a few seconds. I like the name—it makes me feel special. Bulldog said proudly. I’m going to rip Mickey’s clothes off, he added.

I want a bath, Erich said.

I want to eat something without dirt, Johann said bitterly.

I’m going to have sex for a week straight. What else will you do—first thing, Erich? Bulldog asked.

Besides a bath?

Yeah, what? Bulldog insisted.

Believe it or not, all I dream about is clean sheets—a warm bed—a warm room—and Iris next to me, and sleep. Erich smiled.

What about you, Johann? Bulldog asked.

I want to find out why my father died, Johann said softly.

You guys won’t forget me? Bulldog said with caution and uncertainty in his voice.

We won’t forget you—that’s a promise, Erich replied.

Good, nothing will ever split us up. Bulldog said proudly.

That’s right—nothing—three comrades—forever. Johann placed his arm around Bulldog’s shoulders.

 -2-

HOME TO MUNICH

When Iris Braun played the piano and sang the world around her seemed to pause. The people who resided in the apartment house would come to their windows to listen. It was as if the spirit and charm of the night were part of her voice. Her voice was full of hope and yearning, and a kind of indescribable joy of life. It was as if the night air adored her sense of life, and it couldn’t bear to not have the rest of the people around her feel its wonder. To the people around her, she was a perpetual spring of joy and virtue. She challenged misery with laughter. She saw sickness as an enemy, and cured it with hope. When she spoke about Erich, her blue eyes became brighter, and her smile warmer. When she walked it was like a symphony in motion. Her hips gently swayed in perfect rhythm with each step. Iris made men dream.

Tonight, the piano was silent. She was completely occupied. Her twenty-three year old, bright, blue eyes were focused on the street below the window of the two-bedroom apartment. She was brushing her long, blonde hair with an antique brush. Maybe I should have gone to the Barnhof, she thought. If I only knew what train he was coming on? She seized the mirror next to her. She examined every detail of her face, especially the lipstick on her sensuous, red lips. Then, she set the mirror down on the arm of the chair, went into the bathroom, and made certain that the hot water heater was working. I know him. He’ll want a bath, first. It’s been two years. Do I look the same? She rushed back to the window.

She pulled the sweater down around her waist. Her large breasts stretched the sweater. She smiled proudly at her figure. She turned her hands over to see if they had healed from the farm work; they hadn’t. He always liked my hands. There’s nothing I can do about that, she thought. She kept glancing at the clock. She opened the window to allow the night air to refresh the room, and sighed. The November air entered the room and she shivered. She waited.

Each second she waited seemed to torture her. Such is the pure heart! A loyal heart dedicated to one person, and the gentle touch of only that person can unleash the emotions of a thousand earthquakes. She felt this flood of emotion, and the anticipation of the moment she had waited for sent tears sliding down her lovely cheeks. Why am I crying? She thought, he’s coming home. The wait is over. I should be racing through the streets, and announcing to the entire world that he’s coming home. Suddenly, she saw a figure in the distance. A man was coming towards her, and he was wearing a uniform. She felt a fierce pounding inside her chest. He walks like a proud Prussian. I know it’s him! I must meet him in the street! She rushed to the door, down the stairs, and into the street. Every emotion within her seemed to be silently screaming. She started to run towards him. The pounding in her chest increased. When she was fifty feet away from him she ran faster. Then she was forty, thirty, twenty feet … Erich opened his arms, and she leaped into them. She smothered him with kisses, while laughing and crying at the same time. Erich held her as tightly as he could; he didn’t want to let her go. She finally stepped back from him and smiled. She looked him over.

I knew you’d come home to me—you lost weight. She wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Some lost more than that.

I know. She gave Erich a warm smile, let’s go home. They started to walk back to the apartment.

Home, finally. There were moments when I had my doubts—the longer the War continued, the more the doubts invaded my thoughts. Erich said softly. How’s the ancient Prussian?

Papa’s fine, he came yesterday. Iris slipped her arm inside Erich’s.

I haven’t figured out what to say.

He understands. He’s furious at the German generals—refers to them as fools and idiots! He said that the unrest in Germany is so serious that even he couldn’t predict what would have happen if we didn’t sign the armistice.

I didn’t realize the unrest was that serious. I wasn’t certain what he knew—what the German papers reported—the propaganda.

There was the usual, but he was more concerned about what you were going through.

How’s his health? Erich asked as they entered the apartment.

He must be immortal. I think his arrogance keeps him healthy. I didn’t change a thing—see. Iris spread her arms out wide, and once again leaped into his Prussian arms. He gently kissed her once again.

Erich’s eyes roamed around the apartment, and his eyes settled on the piano. My tiny palace—you still practice every night?

Every night except tonight. I’ll play later if you like.

He glanced at his bookshelves, full of his favorite books, and took a deep breath. Wisdom fit for kings. My chair is still next to the fireplace. I missed my books, and my home."

Well, it’s yours, Iris waited for a response, then emphasized it again. It’s yours or ours.

What do you mean?

Papa signed it over yesterday.

That’s a surprise—why now—did he say?

He said that a soldier returning home from a war deserves a special gift. Despite his lofty facade—the way he carries on about nobility—victory or death—he loves you, Erich. He’s proud of you—still talks about the Iron Cross.

Erich removed his coat, inhaled the warm air, and sat down in his chair next to the fireplace. He could feel the heat from the leaping flames. When I won the Iron Cross—in the beginning—well, there was still hope that the War wouldn’t last long. Then came the trenches and the machine guns. He said sadly, paused, then continued. It couldn’t have been easy for you either.

I’m fine. I have a fresh chicken for you. She said with joy in her voice.

First, a hot bath.

It’s ready, Iris said proudly.

You’re an angel.

"Of course. Now, remove those dirty clothes. You soak in the tub. I’ll