Gone but Not Forsaken

By Gary M. Williams

Gone but Not Forsaken is the second of a historical fiction trilogy set in America and Europe from 1918–1945. It chronicles post World War I through the end of World War II. In America, it portrays initial abundance, including modern industrialism, where Gilded Age mansions were replaced by soaring skyscrapers through the roaring twenties into the stock market crash and Great Depression. It parallels the birth of Hollywood glitz amidst the storm of the country’s depravation, carried through the bombing of Pearl Harbor and World War II. In Europe, it chronicles the birth of Nazism, the Holocaust, and the rise and fall of the Third Reich. American victory is heralded in the end once again. The novel continues to chronicle the stories of the Champions, the Wagners and the Sterns, along with the intertwining of their lives. It will be followed by book three of the trilogy, spanning 1945–2000.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638298991

Gary M. Williams

Gary M. Williams was born and raised in Staten Island, New York. He was a teacher and principal with the New York City Department of Education for thirty five years. He is currently retired and lives in Manhattan. He is enjoying the success of his novel, Gone but Not Forgotten, the first of his second book of the trilogy. The third, Gone but Not Betrayed, is now in production. He was inspired to write the story after visits to Newport Rhode Island and Europe. He hopes you will enjoy this revisit to the past, an era never to be forgotten.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Great War was over… Finally! American soldiers were returning to jubilant families everywhere. Euphoria abounded in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

But things were anything but happy in Germany, where devastation had become the order of life. Four empires had been swept away. The struggle for a new world was just beginning and would prove worse than the Great War itself.

Germany became synonymous with hell as the country plummeted into a grave economic depression. Hunger and death were everywhere. Newborns were wrapped in paper. People exchanged pianos for sacs of flour. Orphans and stunted children filled the streets. Weary soldiers returned with little or no reception, and many died from exhaustion alone. People wanted to die, sick of life.

There are so many, and I can only do so much, Herr Stern murmured wearily to his perfumed wife as he crossed the door separating his clinic from their home. Frau Stern wore a black dress and a strand of crafted pearls. She had been sitting at her Bechstein piano playing Mozart when her fatigued husband crept into the room and fell into a tufted leather sofa.

She rose from the mahogany bench, smoothed back her coiffed hair, and came to sit beside him. My dear Isaac, you are doing your very best. You cannot save all of them.

Herr Stern gripped her hand. The dark circles under his eyes were a testament to his lack of sleep. Yes, but they are our people, Johanna. I cannot turn my back on them.

She stroked his hand with a gentle smile on her face. We cannot compromise ourselves either, given the hard times at hand. There is Simon to consider. His Bar Mitzvah is near and his education is directly ahead. And of course, with Rudolph returning home, we need to be very careful.

Herr Stern turned his head toward the bay window separating them from the rioting in the street which had become a regular event. He lifted his wife’s hand to his face and droned, We need to be very grateful as well.

As matters grew worse, civilians’ poor reception of returning soldiers transformed into rebellion. It was thought they were to blame for the horrific depression, and it was not long before the angry men fought back. They attacked the rebels with a vengeance, and thousands of people died. Murder and riots were rampant as the brutality of trenches was transformed to German streets. Values lost meaning, as all moral codes had been abandoned. Vice, drugs, and prostitution enveloped the country. Massacres were common sights.

Peace, it seemed, was no different than war.

Gunther Wagner had just left the market with his mother early one evening and prepared to return to the Stern residence on Groningstrasse in the heart of Berlin. He was fourteen now, handsome, strong and tall. But his face wore an ever cautious expression and his ice blue eyes carried the emptiness and pain of defeat.

He escorted his mother everywhere these days, given the pandemonium in the streets. She, now thinner and haggard by the weariness of post war, gladly clutched his arm tightly as they made their way down the dimly lit street.

They were fortunate enough not to be touched by the horrors of poverty surrounding them. The Stern family took good care of them. Frau Wagner was still the esteemed house maid, and Gunther on his way to becoming a footman. Yet, they were not alien to the animosity around them which Gunther regularly shared with Simon Stern, his peer.

People are beginning to hate you.

Simon glared back at him resentfully. And why is that? Has my father once turned away a patient? Does he not work round the clock caring for sick men and women for little, or many times, no pay? Nearly every family in Berlin owes him money.

Gunther shrugged. That is not what I mean, Simon. I know what a good man your father is, both your parents for that matter. They have been good to my family for many years.

Simon still glowered. Then what DO you mean? he asked caustically.

Gunther replied with a twitch of resentment in his own eyes. I am talking about the poverty everywhere, and the wealth of your people. Others are starving and dying every day, while all of you seem unaffected. You still have three meals a day and go off to fine schools.

Simon’s eyes sharpened. What do you mean by MY PEOPLE?

Gunther placed a friendly arm around his shoulder. I worry for you, Simon. People are hating anyone they can, for whatever reason they can find. The rich are number one on the list, and most of them seem to be Jewish.

Simon tore away vehemently. I could ask my father to send you off for that! he snarled, and Gunther was unmoved.

But you will not, Simon, because you know I am right. And you also know I am your best friend.

Gunther recalled that conversation as he walked with his mother and heard the riots echo from the neighboring streets. Was this what life would be? What had happened to the country he had loved so much? Why, with the loss of the war, were people destroying one another rather than unifying as they should?

A slew of young drunken men appeared on the corner. They wore shabby clothes and were smoking as they frolicked under the lamplight.

Gunther smelled immediate danger and edged his mother to the opposite side of the street. When the thugs called out to them, he realized they had once been friends of his estranged brother, Hans.

Ignore them, Gunther, and keep walking, his mother advised more to herself than him. She began to shake, and when the group stumbled toward them, Gunther knew they were trapped.

Aren’t you Frau Wagner, mother of old yellow boy, Hans?

Gunther knew just what they meant. These men had been soldiers and they were looking for trouble.

Frau Wagner ignored them and increased her pace. One of them slapped Gunther’s platinum head. And you, sissy boy, are you taking lessons from your brother?

Gunther felt his blood rush to his face. I am NOT a sissy! he snarled, looking up at the drunken wreck with hatred burning in his eyes.

Gunther! His mother thundered. But it was too late.

Oh, you’re not? Then let’s see what you’re good for, sissy boy! His attacker sneered and raised bruised fists.

Gunther, though brave and agile, was no match for a grown man.

He swung at him first, but his fist was quickly caught and reciprocated with a blow to his jaw. The impact felled him. He felt his face hit the cobblestone road and the blood seeping from his head.

They laughed and badgered him further by slurring insults as they kicked him, one by one. You’re as brave as your yellow brother, sissy boy! Why don’t you run off to America too? You’re rich! Your Jew employer will pay the passage, the same as he did for Hans!

Stop it! All of you! Frau Wagner commanded, beside herself.

They fell silent for a moment.

Look at all of you! You were once soldiers! You should be ashamed of yourselves, running around like drunken bullies! So we have lost the war, but we cannot lose our dignity!

Gunther, numbed by pain, heard them laughing at her now.

Listen to Mama! She knows everything, like sending her yellow boy off to America so he wouldn’t have to fight!

I never sent him! She barked back at them, and crouched to nurse her son’s wounds.

They were relentless. Mama’s a liar, too! And probably a whore! Another one jeered, and when he reached down to lift her, Frau Wagner felt the first stab of terror.

Gunther, bleeding on the ground, wanted to save his mother, but could not.

The beating had left him numb and helpless. He heard his mother’s cries as they carried her off into an alley. He heard the wails, and the sound of hands striking flesh.

Then there was laughter, and finally, silence.

They dumped her body into a river and celebrated afterward in a Berlin pub.

Gunther dragged himself back to the house on Groningstrasse, bleeding, speechless, and horrified.

Herr Stern nursed his broken jaw and head wounds immediately. The Sterns knew Frau Wagner’s well-being was in question, but asked nothing just yet.

They contacted the police who were useless these days, and a lame search warrant had been promised. As Gunther was laid into bed that night, Simon Stern held his friend’s hand and whispered gently into his ear from the bedside, I guess it is not just the rich Jews they hate.

The words registered before Gunther fell fast asleep.

The next morning, a naked woman was found floating in a river. She was identified as Frau Wagner. Gunther was wretched with grief.

Two evenings later, he stuffed a backpack and said farewell to Simon Stern at the stroke of midnight.

Why are you running away? My parents have already said they will take care of you.

Gunther shook his head, his jaw still wired, his forehead bandaged. I will not be a burden to anyone.

Simon gripped his friend’s arm and protested. But you will not be a burden! You will work here for us!

No, Gunther droned, and his face darkened.

Where will you go then? Simon asked as the moonlight splashed through the windows of the back porch.

Gunther shrugged. I do not know.

Do you have any money?

Yes. He had just a few coins.

But there are murderers in the street! What if they find you again?

Gunther fingered the switchblade in his pocket. They better hope I never find THEM! he answered as a cold fury washed over his face.

Simon gripped both Gunther’s arms now. Take the back roads, and be very careful. I hear the farms on the outskirts of Berlin are calmer. Maybe you will find work there.

He paused and added with an earnest gleam in his eye, Remember, Gunther… You can always come back.

Gunther embraced him and whispered over his friend’s shoulder, I shall never return.

Then he left. He walked as a lone, lost soul in the street, his body already weary, his shadow, a dragging silhouette beneath the moonlight.

Chapter 2

Conditions at the American Detention Camp had been, for the most part, humane, and Hans and Rudi returned to New York upon their release.

Today, they stood beside one another again at yet another Manhattan pier. Only this time, they were weak, pallid and emaciated, with a weariness in their eyes only their own could understand.

Rudi wore a new suit he had recently purchased with his last dollars. He could not let his parents see him in the tattered clothing he had possessed. Hans, in an oversized shirt and old black trousers, his hair longer and tousled, his face wearing a shadow of stubble, looked poor as a beggar.

He shook his friend’s hand and spoke, battling the river of emotion within him. So, I guess this is farewell once again… Only this time, for good.

Rudi shook his head. Though frail and languid, his groomed hair and shaven face did him a world of good compared to the haggard picture he had made a short twenty-four hours before.

Never for good, Hans. Until we meet again.

Hans observed him for a long, pensive moment. Do you really have to go back?

Rudi looked out onto the Hudson River with a desperate loneliness in his eyes. There is nothing for me here anymore. Arrangements have been made for me to complete my schooling in Berlin.

Hans grimaced. I understand that things are treacherous at home.

Rudi frowned. Still, it is home. And I will be amongst our own people. We are hated here, Hans, all over the world, as a matter of fact. I give you credit for staying.

Hans’ face sank. There is nothing for me in Germany. Here, at least, I have employment. I understand that people of my stature there are starving. There are no jobs, and even money is almost valueless. He paused, and his mind somberly drifted. I worry about my mother and Gunther.

Rudi gripped his hand tightly. You need not worry, my friend. I can guarantee you they will be well cared for by my parents.

Hans emitted a sigh of relief. Will you write me concerning their welfare, and if they are not too upset, will you encourage them to write me too?

Rudi nodded reassuringly. Anything for you, Hans. You are like my twin brother.

They embraced and looked away from each other so as not to see the tears in their eyes.

Have a safe trip, Hans said, his voice shaking.

Rudi also choked up on his words. Be well… And good luck achieving your American dream.

They parted on that note. Hans stood at the pier until Rudi went up the bank and melted into the crowd.

Come, Hans! It is becoming late! The blonde German woman called from a distance. They had met at the Detention Camp and fallen in love. She had a heart-shaped face, soft blue eyes, and a tender smile. She, too, had opted to remain in America.

Coming, Irma, he called and waved Rudi’s spirit off. Then he went to her, wondering just where they would take up residence.

Chapter 3

The streets of Harlem became flooded with jubilant, returning soldiers celebrating their victory and searching for a good time. In a brothel, the color of a woman’s skin was meaningless.

The African Princess was employed here now and did quite well. She had even acquired regular johns in addition to the droves of sailors and Marines pouring into the city each night. Annabelle’s was a place for good, safe fun. There were no pimps or hoods. Having established a clientele with the police force, the voluptuous mistress managed to secure both muscle and protection from pimps. Yes, for the African Princess, securing a job here was a stroke of dumb luck.

She was stunning and seductive herself, with long, braided hair, a willowy figure, and a huge bosom. She had learned every trick in the book, and kept her own personal secrets. She was saving every dollar for Dionne’s education.

At three, the toddler had the face of an inhuman goddess. No one questioned, but clearly understood that the emerald-eyed, silken-haired, mocha-skinned beauty had been sired by a white father.

But only the African Princess knew who that father was.

She smiled into the dark room as the john sat up at the bedside and lit a cigarette. They had been at it for an hour straight and he was numb. She, on the other hand, never felt better. She had learned to separate her work from her mind. Her body may have been a machine, but her intellect was her own. So much had been saved, not only for Dionne, but for the venture which lay ahead.

She could taste her plan coming to sweet fruition, and could almost feel the massive, glistening diamond in her palm.

Chapter 4

Veda emerged from her chauffeured car in a knee-length coat with a close-fitting bodice. Its V-shaped neck was encircled with a large fur collar, and the straight sleeves ended in fur cuffs. Her high crowned hat was made of felt.

She arrived at the Park Avenue brownstone daily to visit her mother and nephew Alexander. She and her father were still at odds.

She had spent the last few months in futile pursuit of a career. No one would hire an unskilled debutante heiress and Princess of Fifth Avenue. Little did she know, too, that her father had been behind the scenes, squelching any prospect of employment.

Hence, if she could not make money, she decided to spend money. With the fashion industry booming again, she shopped daily and packed her closets with jewels and couture. She took up painting as a lame hobby and traveled twice, alone—once on a cruise to Canada, and again to Rio De Janeiro where there were flirtations and proposals from heirs, captains, and diplomats. She declined everyone, but adored the attention, and had her choice of dinner dates each night.

Money was no problem. Though she had not a salary, she simply sold off antiques from her mansion when cash fell short, if, always, at a loss.

The only thing that kept her mind going was the prospect of Hans’ return and their marriage. True, he would be unemployed, but they would live and they would manage until a lucrative career came her way, and he, too, would assist her at whatever she would do.

And as she entered the house that morning, she was paralyzed by the sound of his voice drifting from the study. She was stabbed by the shock of his choice to visit Winston before her. When did he return? Why had he not sent any word?

She stood for a long moment, breathing heavily, digesting the shock. Then she made her way into the parlor and sat statuesquely on the sofa, waiting in tense, motionless thought.

The oak door finally opened. She cowered at the sound of her father’s genial words. Send her to me tomorrow morning, Hans. I shall interview her then.

Hans was ecstatic. Thank you, Sir! Irma will be very grateful. She will make a fine nanny for your grandson!

Winston slapped Hans’ back. Your recommendation is quite encouraging. Welcome back. The house has not been the same without you.

Hans shook his employer’s hand. I am indebted to you as always, Sir.

They walked into the vestibule together. Winston slipped on his Chesterdale and left for the bank. He ignored Veda completely.

Hans saw her and froze. Her heart was already bleeding. She stared at him through wide, betrayed eyes, immune to his thin physique and drawn face still dulled by remnants of bondage.

He had shaven, trimmed his hair, and wore new black trousers and a white shirt and tie he had purchased that morning. His old footman’s uniform would not have done, given his tremendous weight loss.

He came to her awkwardly without a word. In that moment, they both recalled their last moment together in this same room where lips, hearts, and promises had joined.

Still gazing up at him from where she sat, Veda questioned in a somber whisper, Who is Irma?

Hans sighed and his eyes sank to the floor. She is a German woman who needs a job.

Veda felt the next sting. Is that all she is? Her restored world was crumbling once again. Hans pressed his eyes shut, cupped his face into his hands, and shook his head as if to ask why she was doing this to him.

She stood, went to the grand piano, and gently ran her fingers across the keys. You need not say anymore. You have already revealed everything.

Guilt struck him like a whip. He gulped and came to a lame defense.

You have no idea what it has been like, Veda. The loneliness was so great, I needed someone to hold. At first, I swear, I thought it would be just and only that, but then something happened. One cannot control falling in or out of love. She is of my blood. We think alike, and right now, we belong together.

In that horrid moment, Veda had to say farewell to the last of her hopes and dreams. A year of planning had proven in vain; the memory of his kiss, the solitary walks when she believed his spirit was with her, her daydreams, her night dreams, even her prayers, were suddenly meaningless and gone forever. The one man to whom she had rendered her heart managed to betray everything she had believed love to be. She knew as she glared at him with hatred blazing in her eyes, that he had broken her heart beyond repair, and that she could, or would, never love again.

Get out of here! She hissed, and finally cried out, as the bile rose to her throat. I never want to see you again!

He came to her with desperation and guilt in his eyes. Veda, please do not do anything to jeopardize our positions. I need this job, and so does Irma.

She shot him a horrified stare. Her stomach was now churning, her blood boiling in her head. Is it not just like you and your cold-hearted people to consider yourselves before anyone else!

Veda, please! he pleaded, edging closer.

Now she was hysterical. How could you do this to me? I had faith in you!

He took her arm. At the time, I was never more honest in my life.

She tore away from him and slapped his face, hard. That is not saying much for a callous liar! You really ARE no different from the murderers in your country! All of you should be rounded up and deported only to be blown off the globe when you return to that cursed place you call home!

Veda! You do not understand! Hans protested, his face reddened from her blow.

She slapped him again, and again, and he winced, but stood with knightly dignity.

I DO understand everything, you filthy beast! You belong with that German woman! You can both struggle now as two Huns pinching pennies to make a living, hated by everyone in New York but my father! I was your only hope for pride, but now, you will suffer all right! Oh, do not worry! I will not do anything to you or your little frump! No! I will just sit back and gloat as you are destroyed by MY people! How long do you think my father will protect you when word gets out that he is feeding Huns, and his bank starts to suffer? You will be out on the street starving! And when you are lying like dogs in the gutter, I will walk up and laugh in your dirty German faces!

Then she stormed out of the house, as Hans remained there, numb, motionless, and strangely desolate.

Veda was beside herself all day. First she returned to her mansion and opened a decanter of brandy to drink away her pain. Then she tried to contact Chester Worthington. She wanted a night out on the town with him… To drink, dance, and cruise in his convertible… To do something crazy afterward that would shock everyone. She even considered going as far as to elope if the spirit moved them… Anything to show her father, Hans, and anyone else who had underestimated her will that the fire in the mischievous girl who had run off on the Lusitania still blazed.

But her attempts to reach Chester were futile. He was out of town. She drank herself into oblivion and passed out by nightfall. The next morning, she awakened with the worst hangover she had ever experienced, and marinated in her anguish.

Where was Chester anyway? Her question was soberly answered when she received the morning paper three days later on the silver tray with her coffee. She propped herself up in bed and froze at the sight of the picture and the headline. Chester had married the daughter of a steel magnate in Pittsburgh. Plans for a merger of both companies was underway.

She slumped into a depression, and vowed after a week that something had to be done about it. So she went on a shopping spree and purchased a first class cruise ticket to the Far East. Two days later, she found herself sailing across the Atlantic, being wined, dined, and graced by the attentions of bachelor millionaires, all eager to steal her hand.

She sashayed into her cabin at midnight one evening, tipsy as she had been called on fine champagne. She had been the prize beauty at the Captain’s table, and was offered three proposals. She admired the reflection of herself in a dark gray satin evening gown, embroidered in gold over lighter gray georgette.

She grinned into the mirror as she unclipped her diamond earrings and sneered. Keep asking… Every last one of you fools… I shall never marry again…

Chapter 5

Only to see the havoc in Berlin was to truly believe it. Rudolph Stern experienced it soon as he had left the train station with his parents and Simon who was not so little anymore.

The degradation and poverty in the streets made it seem as if he had returned to a third world country. Bums and drunks were sprawled out on sidewalks. Men, women, and children, some of them no more than toddlers, were begging on corners. People stood on bread lines. Sickness, death, and decadence reeked everywhere, and a black cloud shrouded the city.

Some say it is our punishment. Isaac Stern droned, gazing ahead emptily.

Rudi felt almost ashamed of himself to be so well dressed in a new suit and cap. Is there not anything to be done to help them? he asked guiltily, feeling a knot rise and settle in his throat.

Frau Stern, in a wool dress and veiled hat and gloves, replied automatically. Your father is doing all he can to care for sick patients. We often feel his clinic has become a charity service. And I have volunteered to care for orphaned children. She paused and added as a chill raced up her spine. There are so many.

Rudi continued to inspect his surroundings in disbelief. But is it enough?

Simon replied with self-taught tunnel vision through his spectacles. It is the best any of us can do, Rudi. Wait. You will see.

The next devastating shock was the news of Frau Wagner’s murder, and Gunther’s decision to run away. Rudi was heartsick. He did not know how he would break the news to Hans back in America, and, therefore, decided to spare him the truth. Hans was better off ignorant to everything that was happening here. It hurt Rudi, though, to know he could not write his best friend for a very long time.

That January, 1919, he resumed his studies at a medical university in Munich. In spite of the toils of poverty surrounding him, his own life remained basically untouched. Students at the university, primarily sons and daughters of prominent Jewish families, were, for the most part, immune to the trials and tribulations of their people. Of course they cared, and Rudolph Stern, with countless others, stole time between studies to volunteer as best they could, serving on bread lines, assisting the Red Cross, and delivering used clothes and toys to indigent families. But nothing was enough to place an end to the suffering, the terminal diseases, and rampant deaths.

Violence was everywhere. Respectable civilians avoided angry masses at all cost.

We never go outside at night anymore. Simon said over the banquet table on the afternoon of his Bar Mitzvah that June.

Rudi, who had come for the celebration, sighed over a glass of merlot. It is terrible that we must be afraid to go out into our own neighborhood. I would have expected it during the war while I was in America, but never on our own turf.

Their Uncle Aaron, Isaac Stern’s brother, droned as he patted his round belly. At least it is not just the Jews they are after. Anyone with a decent job or education, a roof over their heads, and three meals a day, must be forever wary of the monsters who call themselves Germans such as we, the civilized minority.

Frau Stern, elegant in a white lace dress, her dark hair coifed as always, dropped her sterling fork on her Minton plate. This is a celebration! I will not hear any more talk of aggression!

That was that. Conversation amongst the fourteen of them shifted to talk of Rudi’s new school, Simon’s plans to enter a prestigious Yeshiva that fall, and their grandparents’ visit to Switzerland in July. Frau Stern spoke of the opera she had just seen, and the tickets she had purchased for Swan Lake that coming winter.

After dessert, she had graced them in the parlor by playing pieces of Brahms, Mozart and Beethoven on the piano. But when the gentlemen spilled into the study later, the conversation of political unrest resumed over snifters of heated cognac.

The peace treaty, as they call it, was signed yesterday. Isaac Stern said with a grimace, perched in a wing back chair. Five years to the day after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, the horror which began this whole mess.

His brother Aaron snorted as he started his third snifter of Remy Martin.

I am sure they were laughing their heads off at us during their celebration in Versailles.

Rudi rose, his vision clouded by alcohol, but his mind still angry as a whip. The terms of the treaty have added fuel to the fire for our punishment. I am not exonerating us, but the Germans were not the ones to pull the trigger, killing the Archduke. We did not start the war, and yet, we are being held solely responsible for it. Are we not a target for the rest of the world now that we have been forbidden to manufacture weapons, forced to abolish our navy, and ordered to limit our army to no more than one hundred thousand men?

Isaac Stern shook his head. I would not fret over it, Son. The casualties of the war were globally monumental. Nearly nine million soldiers and five million civilians have died. Practically an entire generation has been wiped out. No, Rudolph, the world is war weary. It yearns for peace.

Rudi loosened his tie and poured another shot from the lead crystal decanter. What kind of peace is it for us, Father, when hatred runs through the treaty, ensuring that we be humiliated and resented?

Aaron Stern, who had volunteered to aid the needy, made a lame attempt to console his angry nephew.

It will take time, Rudolph, but the other countries of the world will eventually recognize and address our needs. America has already begun. Herbert Hoover has been sending food to starving children. It was just two days ago that I delivered three sacs to the post office, each stuffed with grateful letters to Mr. Hoover, written by the frail hands of the children he has fed.

Rudi frowned. It was as if he were carrying the weight of the world upon his tired shoulders.

Yes, but is it enough, Uncle?

Simon, beaming in his blue Bar Mitzvah suit, chimed in optimistically. The Rabbi has instructed my class to pray and encourage everyone around us to do the same. He says that God will deliver us.

Rudi fell into a chair and groaned. That would be fine, little brother, if, God, Himself, has not turned his back on Germany.

***********************************

Gunther Wagner wandered along the back roads for days, living on the two loaves of bread he had packed, and sleeping either under bridges or in the woods far away and protected from the unrest. Finally, when his legs ached and when his feet burned, when he was weak, exhausted, and on the verge of collapse, he came upon a farm. As Simon Stern had suggested, it was, in fact, on the outskirts of Berlin, but Gunther had no idea where he was.

I need work, Sir, he said pleadingly to the haggard, elderly landowner who inspected him with a paternal glint in his weary gray eyes.

Where are you from, lad? he asked, more concerned than suspicious.

Gunther labored to speak. He had depleted his water supply, and his throat was parched. My name is Gunther Wagner, Sir. I am from Berlin.

The lanky man cracked the door further. He made a complete study of Gunther, half confused, half amazed. Where is your family, Son?

Gunther’s face dropped. I have no family, Sir… Not anymore.

It was all he had to say. This elderly farmer, also war torn and war weary, understood everything.

Gunther worked as a stable hand for no pay. His duties included shoveling manure and backbreaking work which offered him a hay stack for a bed on a loft above the animals, and a meager food ration of three eggs, two slices of bread, and a glass of milk a day. He rarely had the opportunity to bathe, fell asleep with the sickening stench of animal waste beneath him each night, and spoke very little. But it kept him alive, and he was grateful. He never dreamed, never hoped, and never wanted.

It was fine until winter arrived along with freezing temperatures and biting winds. He shivered ferociously day and night, and when he begged the old farmer for a bed in the house, his answer was a terse no.

On the first snowy night, he packed his knapsack again, stuffing it with bread and eggs. He filled a thermos with milk and trudged off by his lonesome once again. He found a warm covert under a bank of rocks in the woods, built a snow wall to protect himself from exposure, and slept there for two solid days. By now, he had lost all concept of time and all connection with civilization. It was just he, Gunther, against the world.

He journeyed onward, sleeping by day, and traveling by night. He learned that a nocturnal existence was the only sure means of survival. He became an amateur thief, robbing bread from carts and wandering into moonlit barns to abscond with whatever he could stash away in his knapsack. He had mastered hiding from the world and danger, until one night, when he encountered a close call.

Hey! You, boy! It was a police officer with a flashlight.

Gunther, in a barnyard, made a mad dash and heard the first shot fire through the air. He dove into a trench and covered himself with snow until all was clear. He had nearly suffocated by the time he emerged.

He heeded the warning. It was time to change his way of life.

He interpreted railroad tracks as a sign of deliverance, and, in fact, they were just that. A freight train came rolling by the next morning, and he leapt on board, climbing his way to safety. He slept there on the ceiling, immune to the cold and the exposure.

When he awakened, he was nearly frostbitten. But he waited dauntlessly until the train stopped, and the doors were opened. He crawled inside and hid behind a sack in a corner.

The car was reloaded during the night. He remained unnoticed. When the doors were closed, he might have just as well struck gold. Cans of food were everywhere!

He ate to his heart’s content, and stuffed his knapsack again. Then he drifted off to sleep, trying to remember the last time his stomach had been full.

The sharp rays of sunlight awakened him the next morning, when the door to the freight car had been opened. Then, terror stabbed him, and he panicked. Miraculously, he went unnoticed once gain.

He made a safe escape and climbed under the car, suspending himself above the railway tracks for hours until the sun finally set. Then he rolled away, and journeyed far into the woods that night where he built himself a fire and ate heartily once again. The air was milder, and there was no more snow. He must have traveled south.

He slept inside a hollow log, and thought, for the first time, about tomorrow…

Chapter 6

The patriarch of the Deneuve family died of heart failure on June 20, 1919.

Doctors said it was the stroke which had done him in; close friends and loved ones believed he had died of a broken heart.

Jacques, though heartsick over the loss of both his parents and sister, Dominique, held up remarkably well. The support of Winston and La Madame Champion as well as his position at the bank, managed to sustain him. And of course, there was always the prospect of marrying Veda, one of which Winston had assured him daily.

Give it time, Jacques, my boy. Veda will not cruise the world mindlessly forever. There will be a day when she will decide to settle down, and YOU will be the one to whom she shall turn.

Jacques slouched in the chair in Winston’s office and sighed hopelessly. It was his first week back at the bank after a short leave. How do you know for certain, Sir?

Winston went to him with a paternal warmth in his eyes. He had always loved Jacques as his own son, and now, with Marius gone, the affection had deepened. He slapped him on the back and poured him a glass of ice water.

Shoulders back, sit up straight and proudly, my boy! You are a Champion as much as you are a Deneuve, and Champions never surrender to defeat.

Jacques complied. He sat erectly, but despondency still glazed over his heavy, hazel eyes. I shall ask you again, Sir. How certain are you of Veda’s intentions?

Winston finished his own ice water, and laid the crystal glass on his mahogany conference table with a thump.

Trust me, Jacques… I know my daughter.

Jacques rose as his face sank further. With all due respect, Sir, did you expect your daughter to abandon me at the altar and run off with Theodore Aspan on the Lusitania?

It was one of the rare occasions when Winston Champion was speechless.

Winston was surprised that afternoon when his secretary announced that a gentleman by the name of Hans Wagner was requesting to speak with him.

Of course, send him in, he said with a bemused expression on his face.

Hans entered, his restored tall and healthy frame gleaming in a blue suit and tie. Winston rose and went to him. Hans, what brings you here on your day off? He asked nothing about the fancy suit, but his mind was racing.

Hans appeared very nervous. May I have a few minutes of your time, Sir?

Winston stroked his handlebar mustache, and knew by Hans’ tone and manner to brace himself for something heavy.

Why, of course, he said, loosening his tailcoat. Have a seat.

Hans sat uneasily. Winston returned to his desk and folded his hands.

It took Hans a long time to speak. I am here on business today, Sir.

Winston eased back in his chair, presuming Hans’ intentions. He probably needed an advance on his salary, or a small loan to establish a life for himself and the young German woman who was doing a fine job as his grandson’s nanny.

Well, he said, steepling his fingers. I do admire your reverence for my leisure at home in your decision to pay a formal visit to my office to discuss such a matter.

Hans gulped, and shifted uneasily in his seat. You have been very good to me over the years, Sir, and now, even to Irma, the woman I plan to marry.

Winston sat, and stared, and waited.

Hans was clearly squirming. Perspiration beaded his face. As you know, Sir, German immigrants are pouring into the country in droves, given the depression overseas.

Winston nodded inquisitively. Yes, I do understand things are quite treacherous in your homeland.

Hans gulped again. Most of these people have no decent place to stay when they arrive in New York. They are lucky to find tenement apartments, and some wind up in the street.

Winston leaned forward, suddenly disturbed. How does this concern me?

Hans was quivering. Well, first, I would like to apply for American citizenship. Would you be so kind, Sir, to sponsor me?

Winston nodded, now peering through him. Certainly. I told you I would do so when you had returned from the Detention Camp.

Hans poorly stifled a sigh of relief. Thank you, Sir.

A long heavy silence ensued. Winston knew there was more.

Then, Hans, perspiring and quaking, went in for the plunge. Mr. Champion, you are an excellent businessman. I trust you will therefore understand what I am about to propose. I would like to move on with my life. I believe I have established a promising plan. Most immigrants eventually receive jobs as America remains the land of opportunity. There is a small townhouse in the East Seventies I wish to purchase. I would like to transform it into a rooming house for single German immigrant men.

Winston just studied him expressionlessly. Hans knew his choices, either finish, or leave with his head between his legs.

I have placed a great deal of thought into this, Sir. I believe I will make a success of the venture, but there is a problem. I have very little money saved. I need to request a loan from Champion Trust. My only collateral is my word that Irma and I will work for you without wages until the debt is paid should the business fail.

Winston, deep in thought, left Hans squirming with baited breath for what seemed to be an eternity. Then he stood, stroked his mustache, and questioned.

Why would this rooming house be limited only to Germans, Hans? Would it not be more lucrative to open it to every employed immigrant?

Hans was flabbergasted. Winston