The April Manifest

By Chet Pointer

The trains ghostly whistle howled in the cool, damp night. After several hours, the nerve-cutting screech of the cattle cars wheels had left a sharp hum in Jacobs ears.
After more uncountable minutes that became hours, the train finally came to a halt. He could hear the sounds of doors slamming on their railings as they were opened. Many commands were being shouted, and the vicious barking of dogs echoed from outside the car. He could see lights through the slits of the confine. When the door to their car slid open, the same locking slam of it on its railings cut through him. The sounds from the outside became much clearer and coldly more frightening.
He clutched his violin tightly and felt the rush of the crisp night air. For a moment, it cleared the stench of the confining car where theyd been locked into and hauled. An old woman asked the most poignant question that stuck out in his mind.
Where are we?
He didnt know who answered her.
We are at deaths doors, someone whispered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499075168

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The April Manifest

EDITED.jpg

Chet Pointer

Copyright © 2014 by Chet Pointer.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014917387

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-7515-1

                Softcover         978-1-4990-7517-5

                eBook              978-1-4990-7516-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/29/2014

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CONTENTS

April 29, 1945

Present Day… Northern California…

Autumn morning…

Denver, Colorado…

Fuller Estate…

Denver, Colorado…

Fuller Estate…

The Sheriff’s Office…

The calm before the storm…

Poland, 1943…

The mission begins…

Stanley’s Predicament…

Lake Tahoe, Nevada…

Stanley on the border…

Thieves…

The Situation…

The Mojave Desert…

January, the next year…

April 29, 1945

A dolf Hitler had killed himself in the concrete bunker that had shielded him from the final thrust of the allied powers. Once the Russians had crossed the Oder River in the east, there was little to stand in their way. The Americans and the British were closing in on the west. The bomb-ravaged ruins of Berlin were the epitome of war torn Europe. Those living were left with the shock of utter defeat. The view was that of a devastated continent. The future could only be something better than what was left of a broken war machine. It had been a mighty machine that had to be stopped in the only fashion available; shear brutality. The allied bombers had finally ceased pummeling the industrial infrastructure and the military complexes of Germany.

The ravaged cities stilled smoldered and smelled of death. One hundred thousand people had perished in a nightlong firebombing of Dresden. Victorious troops could finally contemplate the prospect of returning to their homes. The defeated could only look at where the hate driven leadership had guided them as blind sheep. It had been the worst conflict in human history, and the number of lives lost could only be summed up with a rough estimation. There were millions.

Some were innocent victims, some were criminals against humanity, and many were only tools of the events that had transpired. What had started with the Germans crossing the Polish border in 1939 would soon end. History would then see the introduction to the new age of atomic warfare. That would be on the other side of the world; in Japan.

Only those with profound foresight could wonder if it was truly a turning point in history or merely another chapter on humankind’s plight.

On a desolate stretch of autobahn, well away from Berlin in the north, a single limousine rushed towards the Alps. The driver was fleeing all of the Allied Forces; especially the Russians. The benefit of capture by the Americans or the British was that they respected the full dignity of military justice. The Russians, still fueled by the memories of Stalingrad’s siege, would be much swifter in the administration of such penal matters.

In several hours, he would be entering the low hills and eventually the Swiss Alps. His hope was crossing the border into Switzerland unhampered. Other than the clothes on his back and a loaded pistol, all that he had was a single briefcase. Inside that satchel were the ‘keys’ to the wealth he needed for his disappearance and subsequent escape. He was no longer a Colonel in Hitler’s Gestapo; the ‘Schutzstaffel’; the SS. He was running to another life.

His journey would not go as planned.

He exited the large autobahn and began navigating his way through the gloom of secluded woodland. At a dim curve of a road, machine gun fire shocked the solitude by riddling the limousine. The driver was still alive when the vehicle careened off the road and slammed into a grove of trees.

From the darkness across the road, another man emerged and approached the wreck. He was also running to another life. He drew a pistol. After a single shot through the driver’s window, he opened the car door and pulled out the Colonel’s body. He retrieved the briefcase.

An engine started and headlights lit up across the road. The vehicle pulled out onto the road and the gunman got into the back.

That car continued the same journey to the south.

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Present Day…

Northern California…

O n the outside, it was a magnificent example of Victorian architecture. The Fuller House was a grand mansion with powerfully ingrained gables and sharp peaks in its various rooftop facets. As far as ‘facets’ go; it was truly a gemstone of a home. All of four glorious stories and twenty seven rooms, it spread out amidst twenty acres of wooded countryside. It was tantamount to the seemingly ancient and magnificent oaks that cloaked it on all sides. A long narrow drive and stone walkway began with a cast iron gateway. Even the road to the estate was secluded. It was blanketed by deep shadows of the continuing deciduous forest. The nearest town was five miles away. The setting was quite suitable for someone resigned and content with living a quiet uneventful life.

The days with festive evenings hosting elegant galas and lines of fine automobiles crowding the driveway were gone. It now seemed a very lonely place that had been asleep for a long needed rest. The rusted front gate of the drive was now secured with a heavy chain and padlock. A tennis court in the rear showed all the timely signs of no competition. Crab grass grew from the seams of the concrete blocks that had once thumped rhythmically from hustling footsteps and racket reports. The adjacent pool was dry and empty. The paint on its hull was cracked and pealing. Once there was a crowded patio. It was now an empty slab of concrete.

The once glamorous estate; the crown jewel of the county; was now a virtually abandoned and seemingly empty shell.

That was until a brisk October morning when two cars pulled up to the chained gate. Out of one of the cars a sharply dressed attorney appeared with a briefcase at his side. The driver of the other car hesitated a moment and then got out of his car. He had no idea why he was there. The attorney revealed a key and opened the rusty lock. The chain rattled as he slipped it through the bars.

I’m surprised it still unlocks, he said. Henry must have been oiling it.

That’s the old guy that maintains the place? Alex Wilson asked. Are you sure that you’ve got the right guy, Jim? I didn’t even know this man and he left me his estate?

He apparently knew you, the attorney responded. It’s all in here. He pointed at his briefcase. They each took a half and swung open the rusting iron gate. The mansion loomed above them as they left the cars behind and walked up the long driveway. Soon, they reached the front landing of the archaic structure.

Its ghostly gables jabbed sharply into the cloudless blue sky.

Why? Alex threw his hands into the air. What the hell did I do?

He stared up at the aged and haunting gables.

The attorney scratched his head. "Well, it isn’t what you did," he sighed.

It’s what your grandfather did, he thought carefully.

Alex stood silent. He was definitely baffled.

Your grandfather pulled a certain British Captain, William Fuller, from a burning transport at a place called Normandy… The attorney explained.

Alex exhaled a deep breath. Normandy! I knew that grandpa was in the war. He even showed me his medals, Alex shook his head in disbelief. I didn’t know he was there. I was in the infantry myself. You just don’t mess with that kind of history, Jim.

The fact that you were in the military was part of it, Jim continued. Henry is supposed to explain more to you.

That’s the old caretaker who lives here with his wife? Alex ascertained, Right?

Yes, Jim answered. Mr. Fuller has taken very good care of his children and grandchildren, he further explained. He confided in me, that he wanted to thank your grandfather for that incredible selfless act. They corresponded quite often, actually. He knew that your grandfather had a grandson that he was very proud of…You.

Thanks, grandpa, Alex whispered.

Here are the keys, the attorney reached into his pocket. He playfully tossed the keys to Alex. Call me tomorrow. There are just a few documents we need to finalize.

He handed Alex several business cards. This one is Henry’s number. They’re out of town until tomorrow. Here is mine. Give me a call if you have any problems.

Sure, Alex nodded. He was still stymied. Silently, he followed Jim back to where the cars were parked. After another farewell, he drove his car up the drive and stopped at the front entrance. He took a seat on the hood of his car and stared at the front façade of the grand home. The pulse of his cellphone snapped him out of a trance. He quickly pulled it out from his