Ironic Cross

By bruce meder

1868: War is looming in Europe. Successful businessman, Wilhelm Müller has a painful decision to make. His only son, 14 year old Martin, must flee Germany before Napoleon declares war. Martin is distraught: how can he leave his beloved younger sister, Elizabetha? Half a century later, war has broken out again in Europe. It is no surprise that Elizabetha's son, Kurt Schneidder, is conscripted into the German army as a sniper - he has always been a crack shot. Meanwhile, Martin's sons enlist in the New Zealand Tunnellers and find themselves digging beneath German lines in Northern France. In the aftermath of the "war to end all wars" inflicted wounds are not always physical, nor are they short lived. Amidst irony and futility can unknown and concealed wounds ever be healed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781446710593

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IRONIC

CROSS

bruce meder

Rainbow Juice Publishing, Coffs Harbour, NSW, Australia. 2021

Rainbow Juice Publishing – Coffs Harbour – 2021

Rainbow Juice Publishing

14 Camperdown St

Coffs Harbour

NSW 2450

Australia

Copyright © bruce meder 2021

ISBN: 978-1-4467-1059-3

A picture containing background pattern Description automatically generated

bruce meder asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First printing: 2021

Cover art: John Thiering (www.johnthieringart.com)

This is a work of fiction. Some characters appear in the public record. Any resemblance to actual persons (apart from those in the historic record,) living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For George Herbert Meder

(3 November 1887 – 10 August 1917)

and all the other young men and women who did not come back.

Over all the hill-tops

Is Rest,

In all the tree-tops

You can feel

Scarcely a breath:

The little birds quiet in the leaves

Wait now, soon you

Too will have peace.

Johan Wolfgang Goethe, Wanderers Nightsong II, 1780

I felt then as I feel now; that the politicians who took us to war should have been given the guns and told to settle their differences themselves, instead of organizing nothing better than legalized mass murder.

Harry Patch – last veteran of WW1 to die, in 2009, at the age of 111 years, 1 month, 1 week, and 1 day.

PROLOGUE

(1917)

1917 – Northern France

Corporal Gregor Muller inched along the fighting tunnel towards a low glimmer of friendly light in the distance. He bowed his head although, at five feet eight inches, he did not have to stoop far to keep below the tunnel roof. In front of him, he held a small cage, a little yellow canary perched calmly inside. Gregor wondered if it ever thought of the potential dangers it faced here, thirty feet underground. Thirty feet of French soil, thirty feet below the mud-filled trenches and craters above. Thirty feet below rotting corpses and the fruity smell of death. Did the canary know anything of any of this, or of the silent killer lurking unseen in these tunnels? He stopped and studied the canary with a renewed sense of respect. Oh, to be a bird, he thought. I’d just fly away, get away from this hell underground. The opening lines of a poem he had read in a book of poetry he had found in the Denniston Library came to him. He recited them into the stodgy silence.

‘I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes.’ He could not remember how the rest went, nor could he remember who the poet was.

‘What was that you said?’ Trevor’s voice, trembling, came from behind him. Trevor was a baby-faced eighteen-year-old Englishman from Dorset. ‘Has the canary died? If so, shouldn’t we turn around and get out of here?’

Gregor ignored the second question and did not turn. He felt for Trevor, he had similar concerns his first time down here too. Trevor would learn.

‘Oh, nothing Jumbo, just the lines of a poem that suddenly came to me.’

‘A poem! Oh, for Christ’s sake Greg, you don’t know any poems.’ The reprimand came from the fourth man in the line of four, Gregor’s brother Henry. ‘Stop mucking about up there and get moving. We’ve got a bloody job to do, no time for reciting poetry.’

Gregor peered over his shoulder into the darkness behind him. ‘Okay, okay Henry! Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Besides, I got better grades than you at school, so stop lecturing me. Anyway, it’s time to shut up. From here on we make no sound.’

Gregor turned back in the direction they were travelling and began his slow, measured shuffle again. Moving below ground was always slow, especially when one of the group, Albert, was over six feet tall, and had to duck lower than his comrades. Gregor was patient though, more than he could say for his older brother.

Gregor and Henry had arrived in Falmouth at the beginning of 1916 aboard the troopship Ruapehu from Auckland in New Zealand. They were miners, and so had been obvious recruits to the New Zealand Tunnellers. They had joined with some four hundred other miners and quarrymen to form the Engineering company. Following a brief training camp in New Zealand and then in England they headed to France and now, along with thousands of other New Zealand, Australian, Canadian, French, and British soldiers and tunnellers, they were battling the German army along a five-hundred-mile front stretching from the Belgian coastline through France all the way to the Swiss border.

The glimmer of light became brighter the closer they got. A further two minutes shuffle down the tunnel and the tunnel widened out to a space about eight-feet square. From the ceiling of the space a single bulb glowed from a bare wire.

In a corner, sitting on an upturned wooden box, Sergeant O’Brien was fiddling with a geophone device. Without looking up he grunted and whispered.

‘’Bout time you showed up. This the bloke with the good ears?’

‘That’s right Sarge,’ Gregor whispered back. ‘We’ve nicknamed him Jumbo. I mean, just look at him. His names Trevor McDougall, and this is his offsider, Albert Marshall. They’ve been assigned to this listening post.’ Gregor set the bird cage down at his feet.

Sergeant O’Brien did as Gregor suggested and studied Trevor McDougall.

‘Ha ha, okay I get it. Jumbo huh. Elephant eh! Can’t be because you’re big – ya look more like a beanstalk. Hearing like an elephant have ya? Hope so. Well anyway, here you are. This danged geophone’s not working just at the moment. I’m going back to Christchurch to find some sparky fellow to have a look at it.’

Christchurch was the name the miners had given to the large cavern named after New Zealand’s largest city in the South Island. It was the centre of the New Zealand Tunnellers operations and acted as their sleeping quarters, kitchen, mess hall, planning room, and rest area.

Gregor watched Trevor stare at the small box sitting on the ground at O’Brien’s feet. Wires, cables, and headphones were attached to an electrical looking device.

‘How’s it work?’ Trevor kept his voice low.

‘That’s just it. It don’t work,’ Sergeant O’Brien whispered. ‘It’s supposed to pick up sound vibrations in the earth so that we can hear them. But it ain’t working at the mo.’ He stood up, carefully ducking below the crossbeam. ‘How good are your ears then?’ O’Brien asked, his gaze moving from Trevor to Albert.

‘Sir,’ replied Trevor, saluting from his crouched position.

‘Easy on son,’ Sergeant O’Brien whispered. ‘We don’t go in for all that sir-ing and saluting business down here. Takes too much effort, and too close to the enemy, Frity’s likely to hear. Don’t want that. Besides, I’m only a sergeant. Just call me Sarge. I’ve been told you two have got exceptional hearing. Need fellows like you. Best defence we’ve got against being blown to bits is blokes with good hearing. Hope your hearings as good as an elephant. And you. Your ears good too?’ He pointed at Albert Marshall. ‘Take ’em on up to the listening post, will ya Greg. Go with them Henry. I’ll see if I can get a sparky to fix this blasted thing.’ Sergeant O’Brien sat back down and began fiddling with the geophone again.

Gregor picked up the bird cage, checked the canary, and set off, with Trevor, Albert, and Henry following him. It was the exceptional hearing of Privates McDougall and Marshall that had caught the attention of their Commanding Officer in the British company fighting in the trenches above. Over a glass or two of port one evening he had offered their services to Major John Duigan, the Commanding officer of the New Zealand Tunnellers. Duigan had jumped at the offer, good ears were a godsend in the tunnels. Neither McDougall or Marshall had ever been below ground before, let alone into this claustrophobic, dark, and cloying warren.

After thirty yards they came to an area at the end of the tunnel, widened enough to allow a man to crouch comfortably enough to listen for enemy activity. Gregor held a finger to his mouth, then cupped his ear with his hand and pressed the side of his head to the tunnel wall. Easing himself away he gestured to Trevor that he should do the same. Trevor inched forward and did so.

‘Can’t hear a thing, Corporal,’ he whispered.

‘Well, that’s good then,’ Gregor whispered back. ‘Silence means Fritzy’s not working right now. This’ll be your possie for the next six hours. You and Albert take it in turns to listen. If you hear anything, you know what to do.’

‘Yeah, we tell the Sarge back there.’

Gregor placed the bird cage in the middle of the tunnel and signalled to Henry to head back the way they had come.

‘And if anything ever happens to this bird here,’ he said, gesturing at the canary, ‘I’d suggest getting outa here quick-smart.’

Back in Christchurch Gregor and Henry found Sergeant O’Brien talking with an electrician, who was fiddling with the wires of the geophone.

‘All in place, Sarge,’ Gregor said and went off to find a packing case to sit on.

Gregor undid his helmet straps and lifted his helmet off his head. Even though his brown hair was closely cropped, he felt a relief to get the helmet off his head. He wiped the back of his hand across his flat forehead. He looked around the cathedral-like space. Bunks stood alongside many of the walls, half of them containing sleeping men. In one corner a kitchen had been set up, and Gregor could smell onions being fried up, possibly in preparation for the lunch-time meal. Men were chatting in small groups, some of them playing cards. Gregor decided to not join any of them. Instead, he pulled his pipe out of a pocket in his trousers, and patted down his jacket pockets looking for his tobacco.

‘How much longer do you reckon we have to be down here?’ he asked Henry, taking a large pinch of tobacco from his tobacco pouch. He packed the tobacco firmly into the chamber.

‘Was talkin’ to a couple of Scots when I was in Arras a few days ago. They reckon that it won’t be long now, maybe a couple of weeks before the top brass goes for an all-out offensive,’ Henry replied.

Gregor nodded. ‘Pass me that candle will you Henry?’ Gregor took the candle and expertly lit his pipe. He took a couple of puffs and passed the pipe over to Henry. ‘Yeah, well, I guess so long as we’re down here we may as well dig ourselves in.’

‘Bloody hell, Greg, your puns get worse as the days go by. Reckon I’d rather be shot at by Fritz than listen to your puns every day.’

‘Perhaps you’d prefer me quoting poetry. Anyway, best get some rest, we’ve got a shift to do in a few hours.’

Gregor and Henry Muller had been in France a little over a year, along with the rest of the New Zealand Engineers Tunnelling Company. The Company had first been assigned to work to the east of the village of Ecurie, in an area that some wag had dubbed ‘The Labyrinth,’ so criss-crossed and complex were the network of German, British and French trenches. Since then, they and their colleagues had been relocated two miles further south to Arras where they proceeded to connect the dozens of five-hundred-year-old caverns that lay to the south-east of the city, by way of a network of tunnels. It was tiring work, but Gregor, Henry, and the others were used to that. Gregor and Henry had been working in the Denniston mines on the West Coast of the South Island when war broke out. Henry, being two years older than Gregor, suggested they enlist. ‘Hey, Greg,’ he’d said one day as they left the local pub, ‘Let’s enlist. I hear they’re putting together a company of miners. That’s us. Safer too. Down below where the bombs can’t get us, and there’s no danger from snipers.’ Gregor had hedged. He had a wife and kid to think of.

Henry’s assertion of safety had been premature. Already, several men from the Allied Forces had died of pneumonia or carbon monoxide poisoning. The threat of one of the tunnels being blown by the enemy was high. Men with sensitive ears, like Trevor and Albert, were crucial to being forewarned of German digging.

Now, as the two of them shared the pipe, they settled into a quiet, uneasy, mindless state. There was nothing to talk about, unless they talked about the war, nothing to do, even a game of cards seemed an effort. They just sat, passing the pipe back and forth, staring absently around them at the chalk walls, and the dozens of other men sitting or lying on blankets on the cavern floor. Life in the caverns was a mix of hard work and ease, almost stupor, brought about by sheer exhaustion and having little else to do. Off duty the men moved without haste, spoke without eloquence, and ate without relish. Gregor gazed absently around the cavern. His attention was drawn to one man nearby, who was busy carving a picture of a girl’s face into the chalk face.

‘Not bad,’ Gregor muttered.

The man turned around and smiled. ‘My little sister,’ he said. ‘Do ya think I’ll ever see her again?’

‘Don’t see why not, mate. We just gotta get this job done and then we can all go home to our sisters, wives, girlfriends, and families.’

Yawning and stretching his arms above his head, Gregor shifted his gaze to Sergeant O’Brien who was still talking with the electrician, although the geophone was now sitting on the ground at his feet.

Trevor came dashing into the cavern, head swivelling, eyes bright and alert, finally resting on O’Brien. He dashed across the space to O’Brien.

Gregor poked Henry in the ribs. ‘Somethings up. Jumbo looks like a possum in lights. ’Spose we better go see.’

He and Henry strolled wearily over to where Trevor and Sergeant O’Brien were in an animated conversation.

O’Brien’s eyes locked on Gregor, and said, ‘Corporal, go find Chisel and tell him it may be time to blow. And you,’ pointing at Henry, ‘go find Captain Payne and bring him down the tunnel.’

Gregor found Chisel - Lance Corporal Howard Mason - a fine-boned man with prominent cheek bones and a pointed chin, playing cards with three other men at the back of the cave.

‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished this hand, mate,’ Mason told Gregor. ‘There’s no rush, gotta get all the men out of that tunnel first, and get the thing tamped properly.’

Gregor sat down on a crate to wait. He yawned again. He watched Sergeant O’Brien and Trevor disappear into the tunnel. Two minutes later he saw his brother and Captain Payne heading towards the same tunnel. It seemed to Gregor that half their time was spent hard at work and the other half waiting or sleeping.

Albert Marshall pressed his ear close against the wall at the end of the tunnel. Sergeant O’Brien knelt down close to him, and Marshall whispered.

‘I can hear them scraping. Sounds like digging to me.’

‘Well done, Marshall. Keep listening. We’ll have a chin-wag and decide whether to take ’em out or not.’

O’Brien turned to the others, pressed his index finger against his lips, and pointed back up the tunnel.

Twenty yards back they found Henry and Captain Payne waiting.

‘What do you think, Henry? Asked O’Brien.

‘I reckon it’s time to blow it Sarge. If we don’t then they’ll blow us first.’

Captain Payne rubbed the palm of his hand over his sweaty brow, was quiet for a moment, then said:

‘Right. Do it Sergeant. Let me know when you’re ready. You’ll need a few more men to help with the tamping. Come back with me, Muller, I’ve got another job for you and your brother. I’ll assign a couple of other men to this task.’

Back in Christchurch Gregor was waiting with Lance Corporal Mason.

‘All right Lance Corporal, we’re gonna blow. You know what to do. Get to it!’ Captain Payne said.

Mason set off towards the tunnel. Captain Payne departed in the opposite direction.

‘Reckon we can take it easy for a while,’ Gregor said, grinning at his brother.

‘We won’t have much time Greg. The Cap’n’s got some job for us.’

Henry wandered over to a couple of upturned wooden boxes, sat down and pulled a cigarette and matches from his pocket.

Around them the chalk walls and high ceiling gave the cavern a cathedral-like feeling. The largest of these caverns, Christchurch, was linked by tunnels to the rest of the Ronville system of underground caverns. The caverns had been discovered a few months earlier beneath a road leading south from the city of Arras. Someone from the New Zealand Tunnellers named these caverns after cities in New Zealand, although Gregor didn’t know who. Aligned north to south as are their namesakes: Russel, New Plymouth, Auckland, Wellington, Nelson, Blenheim, Picton, Christchurch, Dunedin, and fittingly, the most southerly named after the southernmost city – Bluff.

Gregor headed for his bunk.

Above his bunk a small shelf held his meagre possessions, including letters from Isobel, his wife. A parcel had arrived yesterday, and Gregor had read the letter inside three times already. He reached for it to read again. There was also a hand-written card from his daughter, Wendy. It read, HAꟼꟼY BIRTHDAY Daddy, I love you. From Wendy. Gregor’s eyes focussed on the back-to-front Ps for a long time and smiled before tears began to roll down his cheeks. He showed it to David Corrigan who was sitting on the edge of the bunk above Gregor’s, his legs hanging over the edge. David smiled. Gregor returned the smile briefly and turned away. Another tear rolled down his cheek. The card had been written possibly just a few days before his birthday. Wendy, now four years old, could not know that by the time the post got to him, it would be months later. Here he was, months, and thousands of miles, away from his daughter, his wife, and his son, Craig, who had been born after Gregor left. There was also a tinfoil wrapped cake and some knitted gloves from his wife in the parcel. He had placed the cake in a rat-proof tin on the shelf. Before he read the letter from his wife, he took a photograph out of the breast pocket in his jacket. It showed Isobel, Wendy, and him in better days when all three of them were together and happy. Gregor kissed the photo and, folding the birthday card from his daughter, he put both into his breast pocket. He then took a notebook and pencil out of his jacket pocket and began a letter to his wife.

Dear Izzy, Thank you for the cake and the woollen gloves. And please give Wendy a big hug and thank her for the birthday card. It has taken months to get to me, but Wendy will not know that. Henry and I will enjoy the cake. The gloves will come in very handy when it gets cold. How is little Craig? And Wendy is four now. Maybe this war will be finished soon and I’ll be able to see her for her fifth birthday, and see her on her first day at school. I am well dear, so please do not worry about me. I am underground most of the time, away from the bombs and machine-gun fire that the troops up above have to contend with. Henry sends his regards. Have you heard anything from my mother? I have written to her and I keep telling Henry to write more but he__

Before Gregor could write more Captain Payne returned and called to Gregor and Henry.

‘There’s some serious damage to one of the trenches that needs some repairing. You two should be able to repair it in no time. Get upstairs and find Captain Lewis. He’ll be in the Grande Place, he’ll instruct you.’

Gregor and Henry followed the subways through Nelson, Wellington, Auckland, and Russel before emerging into a pre-dawn gloom from one of the shafts a couple of hundred yards south of Le Grande Place – the main square in Arras. They asked the first NCO they saw, who pointed out Captain Lewis to them. Standing beside Lewis was a slightly built man with a receding forehead, sharp, yet squat nose, and small grey eyes set into deep eye sockets. Gregor thought he looked as if he belonged in a horror moving picture that he and Isobel had been to see in Greymouth a couple of years ago. Isobel had been frightened and had tucked her head into Gregor’s shoulder. Gregor smiled when he thought of that.

Henry snapped Gregor out of his reverie with a nudge in the ribs and a half-hearted coming to attention. Captain Lewis regarded them quickly and looked away.

‘You the two carpenters then?’ he demanded.

‘We’re tunnellers sir,’ replied Henry. ‘But we know a thing or two about knockin’ some boards together. If we don’t do that proper, then the tunnel ceiling gives way.’

‘Well, we’ve got a bit of damage to one of the trenches that needs to be repaired pretty quick smart. I want you to go take a look see, assess what’s needed and come back and tell me. Sleepy here’ll show you the way.’ He nodded at the slim man beside him. With that, he turned sharply on his heels and strode off.

‘Sleepy? You don’t look sleepy to me mate. What’s with the name?’ Gregor asked.

‘I’m from Little Snoring. It’s in Norfolk, but most people blink as they pass by. The platoon sergeant gave me the name when he heard where I come from. I’ve been lumbered with it ever since. But I’m not here to give you a geography lesson. Come on, I’ll show you what the Captain wants.’

Sleepy took them out of Arras and onto the road east toward the British front line. In the pre-dawn light they could see wisps of smoke from burning vehicles at the front about a mile and a half away. The noise of the big guns provided a steady deep percussive counter to sharp rifle cracks. Burnt out gun carriages and a couple of wagons had been pushed off to the side of the road, no longer of any use. For the first two hundred yards or so they passed by small groups of soldiers sitting with their backs against the burnt-out hulks. Most of them looked exhausted, eyes staring, cigarettes hanging limply from unspeaking lips. One small group had managed to find a chicken and were roasting it over a fire using a tent pole as a spit.

The land on either side of the road was almost treeless; those that had survived the bombs and shelling were leafless, many charred, any bark they may have had burnt away. They offered no shelter, no shade, and no promise of new growth. Gregor strained his ears for any sound of birds. Nothing. Just the booming, thudding, sound of guns. Even that sound had a listlessness to it, as if the reason for firing was simply to make a sound in a wasteland of empty meaning.

Off in the distance, well behind the German lines, Gregor could see what looked like a giant sausage in the sky. Nudging Henry, he pointed to it and Henry looked up.

‘That’s an observation balloon,’ Sleepy informed them. ‘I’ve heard that their shape keeps them more stable in the air than ours. Bloody Germans, they’re one step ahead of us all the way. Even their trenches are better designed than ours. And their snipers, have you heard about them? They’ve got telescope sights. No wonder they can hit us from so far away.’

Sleepy led them to a trench on the side of the road that ran straight towards the front. They hurried along the grated wooden duckboards that ran along the bottom and middle of the trench and arrived at a trench set at right angles to the one they were in.

‘Reserve trench,’ Sleepy explained, as he turned left and followed more duckboards.

Twenty yards along they turned right into another trench that headed towards the front.

‘This is a communication trench,’ said Sleepy. ‘We head down this, then into the support trench, down another communication trench, and then we’re at the front-line trench. Keep low, stay on the duckboards.’

Zigzagging their way along the support trench and then into the communication trench, they arrived at the front line. Turning left into this trench, Sleepy, Gregor and Henry passed by soldiers standing on the firestep using periscopes to peer out over no-mans-land. Others leaned against the wooden sides of the trench. The stench of rot and urine, and the sharp sweet odour of cordite, assaulted their noses.

‘Phew!’ Henry called. ‘Smells like old Mrs Connor’s hen house before it’s been mucked out.’

Every few paces the trench zigged or zagged so that there was little chance of shrapnel from a direct hit travelling far along the trench. They passed by a machine-gun and its two operators, then turned a corner. In front of them a soldier lay in the middle of the duckboard, his right leg bent at an unusual angle, obstructing their path. Blood dripped from his shoulder and ran across the boards seeping into the mud below.

Gregor stopped suddenly, his eyes rivetted to the scene. He had seen many men with gunshot or shrapnel wounds, but had never got used to the grim sight, nor to the sudden feeling of his stomach wanting to release itself of all it contained.

A Corporal kneeling beside the soldier was pressing a large sticky and dark reddened pad of linen against the man’s shoulder. Beside the soldier an already bloody and mud-stained stretcher lay in the trench, blocking the way for Gregor on that side. One of the stretcher bearers was holding the man’s head, the other at the man’s feet, just a couple of paces in front of Gregor. They were preparing to lift the man onto the stretcher. Gregor stared into the eyes of the wounded soldier, sympathising with the fear he saw there. Henry nudged Gregor in his back, encouraging him to keep moving. Gregor ripped his gaze away from the fear in the man’s face. He took a pace forward and then stepped up onto the firestep to get past.

‘Greg!’ yelled Henry, ‘get dow__’

The bullet entered through Gregor’s right temple, at eye level, exited in a spout of reddish-yellow fluid and embedded itself in the parados on the opposite side of the trench. Henry leapt towards Gregor, time seeming to slow almost to a standstill. Gregor fell backwards into Henry’s outstretched arms. He was dead before Henry caught him.

PART 1

1867 – 1886

1

1867 – Hesse-Nassau, Germany

Martin Müller stopped in the dining room doorway. The bottle of schnapps his father had asked him to get was cold in his hand. He gazed around the room and took in all the friends and family gathered here to wish him well on his fourteenth birthday. He placed the schnapps on a table just inside the door and adjusted the bow tie his beloved sister had given him as a birthday present. He ran his hands down the side of his wool trousers smoothing out any creases. Satisfied that his appearance was up to scratch, he picked up the schnapps and stepped proudly into the room. All his friends were here, even Otto! Martin had doubted Otto  would come after he had embarrassed Otto in front of two girls last week. How was Martin to know that one of the girls he had suggested Otto wanted to kiss was Otto’s own sister? Until then, Martin had not even known that Otto had a sister. Yet now, Otto was standing amongst four of Martin’s friends, talking, laughing, and drinking the local beer.

Martin turned his attention to his father, Wilhelm Müller, who sat at the head of the long oaken table, a proud grin beneath his mutton-chop moustache and sideburns. Martin recognised the rich industrialist Heinrich von Steiner, sitting beside his father. No doubt, the two of them would be talking business or local politics. Martin strode across the room to where the two sat.

‘Here you are Vati.’ He placed the schnapps on the table in front of his father, next to the cutlery his mother had polished that morning. Turning to the industrialist, he gave a slight bow. ‘Herr von Steiner.’ His manners were noticed.

‘Fine young gentleman you have for a son Wilhelm,’ Heinrich von Steiner remarked. ‘You, young man, have a bright future ahead of you.’

Martin took Heinrich’s proffered hand and shook it firmly. He left his father and von Steiner, and made his way through the talkative gathering towards the drinks table. As he did so, he felt many hands pat him on the back as he passed by. He heard: ‘Alles Gute, Martin,’ ‘Happy birthday young man,’ and ‘Here’s to you, Martin.’ He smiled at all these people, even though some he hardly knew. Friends of his parents he presumed. At the drinks table he chose a Bohemian Pilsner. He had heard from friends that this new beer was excellent. He poured himself a glass and tried to find his sister. There she was.

Elizabetha, eighteen months younger than him, sat on a sofa. A bust of Goethe stood on a marble plinth at one end of the sofa. Beethoven’s bust balanced it at the other end. Elizabetha wore her new silk magenta dress with gathered sleeves. The silk of her skirt billowed around her. Martin thought she looked amazing. He observed her fondly. Not only was she his sister, she had also been his best friend for most of the previous twelve years. Green ribbons kept Elizabetha’s blond hair in place. Martin had overheard Elizabetha and Mutti laughing while the two of them had been busy with the curling irons, creating the perfect curls for Elizabetha’s hair. She’s growing up. He noticed she was stealing glances at a couple of his friends, Harald and Erich who were talking animatedly together in the far corner. Yet, as soon as one of them looked in her direction she diverted her eyes quickly and looked down at her lap. I’ll have to introduce them to her. She won’t forgive me if I don’t.

An older sister, Antje, and her husband of two years, Felix, stood to one side of the fireplace, talking with his oldest sister, Ernestina. She had arrived by train and then carriage from Darmstadt earlier this afternoon. A blazing fire heated the room. The heat was welcome at this time of the year, even though winter was still a month away.

From above the fireplace a large portrait of Balthazar Müller stared down at the assembled guests, as if presiding over a sombre church service. Martin peered up at his ancestor and wondered if Balthazar would approve of all the laughter, beer drinking, and noisy conversation in the house he had built? He looks rather austere. However, he had always looked that way. Had he done so when he had built the three-storied house almost three hundred years ago? At the time he had been Burgermeister of the network of villages and hamlets when they were still part of Hesse-Marburg. Balthazar built the first house here. Even now, there were only three other houses, and the church. Too small to have an official name, the residents of the community referred to the locality as Brunnenplatz. Martin had heard many times the legend of the benevolent water sprite who was supposed to have lived in the spring in the church grounds during Ancient Times.

Martin stared back at the austere and uncompromising gaze of the family patriarch, wondering what he would have thought of his many times great grandson. Fourteen years behind him, his fifteenth ahead. He surveyed the room again. All is well in the world, he decided. I’ll be a man soon; I’ll inherit this house. And the business.

The kartoffelsuppe, pork cutlets, sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables, had already been consumed. The Meissen china plates had been cleared away by Maria, the maid, and taken out to the kitchen. Even so, the table was still laden with savouries, buns, and pastries from Wilhelm’s bakeries, including gingerbread, and a delicious spicy tartlet that Wilhelm refused to divulge the ingredients of. Martin’s gaze fell on his father, who was laughing at some joke Heinrich had made, his large belly heaving with the effort.

Wilhelm owned two of the largest bakeries in Hesse-Nassau, his girth attesting to the reputation of his wares. Wilhelm managed one of the bakeries and his son-in-law, Felix, the other. The Müller bakeries were popular and now supplied pastries and cakes to cafés as far away as Frankfurt in the south and Koblenz to the west. Martin was proud of his father and knew that being the owner of two popular and prosperous bakeries gave Wilhelm a status he was keen to show off with this birthday for his one and only son.

From the kitchen door along the corridor behind Martin came the sound of female laughter. He turned to look and saw his mother appear in the doorway. She was carrying a large torte with fourteen lit candles upon it. Martin stepped aside to allow Margareta to ease her way confidently into the living room. She gave a ‘come here’ nod at Martin as she passed by. Martin followed her to the table and sat where she pointed. She placed the torte deliberately in front of her son. She then stepped to the head of the table and sat beside her husband, smoothing her rose-pink ankle-length skirt as she did so. Her blue-grey eyes beamed at everyone in the room. Satisfying herself that everyone was here, she glanced at her husband and gave him a nod.

Wilhelm stood up and announced, ‘Welcome everyone. As you know today is Martin’s fourteenth birthday and we all want to wish him well as he enters into his fifteenth year. It is hard to believe that fourteen years ago my dear wife, Margareta, and I had our first, and only, son.’ He gestured towards Martin and said: ‘Do you have a speech, son?’

A speech? Mein Gott! thought Martin. No, I haven’t got a speech. Was I supposed to have a speech ready? He looked around nervously, his eyes finally settling upon Elizabetha.

She smiled at him and said, ‘Oh yes, Martin. Do give us a speech.’

Some of Martin’s friends began to chant, ‘Rede, rede, rede…’

Martin sighed and stood up. The chanting stopped. He brushed a stray lock of wheat coloured hair from his grey eyes. I should have got a haircut; this fringe is getting annoying. He swept his eyes over the gathering, his gaze catching sight of his sister, who blew him a kiss and smiled. Martin acknowledged the reassurance with a smile of his own. He then sought out his father. His father’s blue-grey eyes shone with pride. Martin began,

‘Thank you everyone for coming tonight. I am gladdened by your attendance and pleased to see you all. As some of you know, I am a huge fan of our great poet, writer, and thinker, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, so I want to start by quoting him.’ Martin took a small black notebook from the breast pocket of his jacket. He flicked through a few pages, found the hand-written quotation he was looking for, and read:

‘One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.’

He closed the notebook and put it on the table in front of him.

‘Thus,’ he continued, ‘I will speak a few reasonable words. I will try to make them reasonable, and if I am unable to do that, I will make them few.’

Laughter rippled around the room. He spotted his father beaming as if