The Crest

by Jerena Tobiasen

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Note to Readers

  Excerpt from The Emerald, Book II of the Prophesy Saga

  About the Author

  This book is for

  Ilse-Renata Schickor,

  who generously shared her wartime experiences, and allowed me

  to write them.

  COPYRIGHT

  THE CREST

  Copyright © 2018 by Jerena Tobiasen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The plot and the characters are a product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity in names is a coincidence only. While real places and establishments have been used to create an illusion of authenticity, they are used fictitiously. Facts have been altered for the purpose of the story.

  Cover Design: Ana Chabrand,

  Chabrand Design House

  www.anachabrand.com

  Author Photo: Robert M. Douglas,

  Copyright © 2018

  Ebook Conversion: Iryna Spica, SpicaBookDesign

  www.spicabookdesign.com

  ISBNs:

  978-1-77374-033-1 (Print)

  978-1-77374-034-8 (E-book)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  WHILE THE SEED of my saga began with the kidnapping of a friend’s son some thirty years ago, this story is my own. Along the way, I have been inspired by others and wish to acknowledge their contributions, including:

  Ilse-Renata Schickor, who told me how, as a young woman, she put her trust in her employer so that he could lead her to safety in the spring of 1945, barely escaping the Russian invasion.

  Gerd, Ilse-Renata’s son, who shared tales of life in post-World War II, Germany, and the shenanigans that can occur in an all-boys private school. Together, Gerd and Ilse-Renata told me the story of his father’s escape from a prisoner of war camp.

  My parents, from whom I learned the art of storytelling.

  Konstantin Kobelev, who shared tales of life in a communist country and of attending school with children of displaced Roma families, and for the use of his name by two of my characters: Captain Konstantin Anker and Prow Kobelev.

  Henry Fast, who edited my use of the German language.

  Brie Wells, Gaelle Planchenault and Julie Griffiths, who read the rough work and helped me keep the faith.

  Ben Coles of Cascadia Author Services, who read my manuscripts and gave me hope, and his gang of talent, who helped turn my manuscripts into novels.

  And last, but certainly not least, my wonderful husband, Robert McKellar Douglas, an artist with vision. He not only encouraged me while I wrote, but helped me with research, travelled with me, listened as I bounced ideas around, read my scenes when requested, and provided feedback when I needed it; he is the one who inspired me to keep writing better. “Good photographs are images of the exceptional,” he says. “A great painting highlights the universal.” I sincerely hope that my readers feel The Prophecy delivers an exceptional image that highlights the universal.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HIS HANDS SHOOK with anticipation as he read his name, Gerhard Lange, written in a neat hand on the front of the envelope. He turned it over. Embedded in the flap was the insignia of the Kaiserliche Deutsche Armee.

  From the doorway of the dining room, where the blended aromas of their midday meal faded, Gerhard’s family looked on in earnest.

  “Open it, son!” Michael’s impatience belied his pride in his son’s accomplishments.

  Gerhard was startled from his motionless reverie by his father’s baritone voice. He reached for the letter opener on the hall table. It was shaped like a crane, with a pointed bill protruding from an outstretched neck, wings tucked close to the body, legs striding slightly beneath it, and webbed feet perched on the hilt’s guard.

  The closed crane’s bill trembled slightly as it entered the folded space between the flap and the pocket. With a flick of his wrist, Gerhard ripped the bird’s beak through the snow-white field and broke the blood-red seal of the Kaiser. His mind racing with anticipation, he replaced the opener on the table.

  The wounded envelope gaped to reveal a crisp sheet of folded paper. Gerhard pinched the fold and tugged gently. He grinned mischievously at his father as he unfolded the paper, then lowered his eyes and read silently.

  “Well?” Michael encouraged. “Don’t keep us waiting!”

  Gerhard took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. “I am to report for duty Monday next.” Smiling with satisfaction and excitement, he waved the page at his onlookers as if it were a flag of truce.

  “Oh, Gerhard. How exciting!” Marie skipped forward, snatching the paper from Gerhard’s hand. She read the message aloud and began dancing twirls around him, her glossy straw-coloured hair bouncing off the shoulders of her lithe body. “You will finally join the mighty Kaiserliche Deutsche Armee. Does this mean you’ll be sent to the Russian Front?”

  Marie raised her arms in a high-fifth position and continued twirling along the hall. The duty notice fluttered from her finely-shaped fingers, trailing in elegant circles above her golden tresses.

  Gerhard resisted her enthusiasm for all of one minute, then joined in her excitement.

  “You’re crushing me!” she squealed when he scooped her into his arms and danced with her. Her legs swung together like a pendulum while he held her firm and twisted one way and then another.

  At eighteen, Gerhard stood as tall as his father, and would soon surpass that, but his sister was fourteen and had the slender body of the dancer she dreamt of being. His strength and surety were a product of helping his father maintain the estate and working alongside his friend, Otto, on Herr Schmidt’s farm.

  “Perhaps,” he said, hugging her firmly before setting her feet to the floor. “It doesn’t really matter where I’m sent. Wherever I go, it will be far from home and family. I want to serve my country; but, at the same time, I’ll miss all of you.” His eyes rose to meet his mother’s, and saw worry and fear etched in her youthful face.

  “Enough Marie!” Michael barked, interrupting the celebration. “Help your mother and Cook clear the table. Gerhard and I need to talk.

  He led Gerhard toward the door to his study. “Son, join me for a brandy.”

  Gerhard followed his fa
ther into the study, brushing a shock of blue-black hair out of his eyes. “Brandy?”

  “Yes. It’s not every day that one’s son receives orders to join the Kaiser’s army as an officer candidate. I remember the day I received my summons …”

  Gerhard’s mind wandered as his father retold the story he had heard many times before. He straightened the old Spanish masterpiece hanging above a leather armchair so cracked and worn from use that it looked to be the same age as the painting. He stood back and admired the treasured artwork, how it reflected light. Of all the paintings in the house, it was his favourite. It was masculine and powerful. Mars: an inspiration for dedicated warriors.

  Gerhard surveyed the room while his father poured the brandy. Everything about the study exuded masculine strength and control. Books referenced by his father filled floor-to-ceiling shelves: books of agriculture, horticulture, and animal husbandry; books of military accounts and strategies; ledgers of supplies, purchases and sales; and books of fiction and non-fiction for personal pleasure, on those rare occasions when time permitted. Michael operated the business of both the estate and his military career from the study, and almost every significant event in the history of the Lange family was, at some point, considered in that study.

  Since he had been a small boy, Gerhard had heard stories from his father about adventures of service in the military, and been reminded often that Lange men had served the Kaiser for generations. To a young boy, it was a romantic fantasy. He loved and admired his father: his straight back and commanding presence. He aspired to be just like him one day.

  As soon as he and his best friend, Otto Schmidt, were old enough, they had applied to the Prussian military academy. Gerhard had yearned for the day when he would join his father’s fellowship as an officer of the Kaiserliche Deutsche Armee. Now, he was a recent graduate of the academy, and the day had finally arrived.

  Instead of waiting for an order from the Ersatz Commission, he and his father had agreed that he should volunteer. Of course, Otto and his father had been of the same opinion. The country was electric with the call to fight, and Gerhard and Otto were eager to participate. Plus, by volunteering, they were able to choose their unit of service, which meant they could serve in the same unit in which their fathers had served.

  As young officers, they were required to provide their own uniforms, equipment, and rations, and to find their own quarters. Those requirements had worked to their advantage; their uniforms would be well-made, and their equipment and rations of better quality than standard military issue. Before they left the academy, they had been measured for their new uniforms and delivery was expected in the next day or so.

  Gerhard’s father poured them each a glass of brandy. The clear light of the October afternoon poked through the study window and bounced off the cuts in the crystal glasses, causing the walls to sparkle with small rainbows. Michael handed a glass of the aromatic brandy to his son.

  Gerhard’s focus shifted when Michael rested a large hand on the back of the old, leather settee. A cameo ring on his third finger reflected the light in the room. That ring represents the legacy of the Lange family. Grossvater gave it to Vater the day he died, he mused, admiring the fine detail of the Lange family crest carved into the blue stone. An exact replica of that crest hung over the lintel of the manor’s front door.

  “I’d like to tell you not to worry about the conflict, son, but the truth is that it could get worse before it gets better. I wish I could go with you when the time comes, but … I’m too old for this campaign. It will be Depot work for me.”

  Michael’s comment jerked Gerhard’s attention to the present. “I understand, Vater. But you’ve trained us—me, Otto, and the other boys—every summer since we were small, and that training will keep us safe. Instead of trying to remember what to do, we will respond instinctively.” He stood tall and straight, imitating his father’s six-foot tower of power, and extended his hand to receive the glass Michael offered.

  “I tried,” his father said humbly. “Trying to discipline rambunctious boys was challenging. It’s up to you now to remember what I’ve taught you about being a good leader. Bring those boys home safe to their families. We’re counting on you.”

  The leather chair creaked as he lowered himself, appearing resigned to the fate of the young men. Gerhard took the old arm chair opposite Michael, his face solemn.

  “I remember what your Uncle Leo told me, not long after I’d enlisted.” Michael said. “‘Keep your wits about you, boy. It’s your wits that’ll keep you safe.’ He is one man who commands respect—for his accomplishments, and for his commitment to the Kaiser, and, of course, to this country. I’ve just learnt that he received the Iron Cross. I imagine the Saxon Guard Cavalry has been celebrating his accomplishment. It makes them all look good.

  “Apparently,” Michael added, “he is to be appointed first secretary to the German Legation at Sofia. Admirable!”

  Gerhard watched his father lower his eyes, as if reflecting on his long-time friendship.

  Michael released an audible sigh and continued. “You remember to keep your wits about you too, son. Stay safe and make us proud.”

  “I will, Vater.” Gerhard raised his glass to meet his father’s. Coal black eyes locked in camaraderie with a sense of commonality. “A toast … Uncle Leopold von Hoesch and the Saxon Guard Cavalry.”

  Together, they sipped their brandy in salute. Gerhard licked his lips and smiled. “Mmm, apples! Crisp and sweet!”

  Michael nodded. “This Norman brandy has never disappointed us. It’s been a favourite for generations.”

  “And to the second West Prussian Grenadiers!” Gerhard said, thinking of himself and the immediate future.

  “And to King Wilhelm the First Regiment,” Michael endorsed. “And may God keep you all safe.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  LATER THAT EVENING, as Gerhard prepared for bed, he remembered a day a few years past: a cold and snowy February morning, when he and Otto had joined a line to register for the Prussian military academy. Otto had stood behind him, his white-blond hair and rosy face—a sharp contrast to Gerhard’s blue-black hair and olive skin—reflecting the frosty morning sun.

  Each boy had carried an application form completed with name, address, height, weight, next of kin, medical information, and so on. They had been led to an auditorium and told to take a seat.

  Otto and Gerhard sat next to each other on old, wooden chairs set up in orderly rows for the waiting candidates. Their chatter was quiet, yet full of anticipation.

  “Lange. Gerhard.” The sound of his name startled him when the announcement finally came. He jumped to his feet, scrambling to collect his coat, hat, and form. He had been waiting for the summons, but did not expect the volume of the sergeant’s voice.

  “Follow me. Right smart.”

  With a quick, sheepish smile to Otto, Gerhard stepped smartly in time with the sergeant, who led him down a long corridor, at the end of which was one stout, wooden chair.

  “Sit here until you’re called again.”

  Gerhard handed him the completed form.

  “No, boy. You hold onto that for the doctor. He’ll want to see it.” The sergeant turned crisply on his heel and stepped back down the corridor the way they had come.

  “Lange. Gerhard,” another voice snapped, startling Gerhard from his musings a second time.

  He jumped to his feet and followed the doctor into the examination room. From down the hall, he heard the muted bellow of, “Schmidt. Otto,” and then the doctor’s voice again.

  “Strip to your underpants. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The rest of the morning passed quickly. He passed the medical examination and answered all of the questions asked by both the doctor and the enlistment officer who followed. By noon, the application process was complete.

  A month later, they had received their invitations to attend the military academy, and in August of that year, their families had waved them good-bye as th
e train from Liegnitz left the station, carrying them off on the first leg of what was to be a very long journey.

  At the academy, Gerhard and Otto had applied themselves competitively, and both had excelled. Just three months ago, they had graduated at the top of their class, Gerhard placing first and Otto third.

  Now, in his old room in the family home, Gerhard lay on his back, his right arm bent behind his head. His lips curved upward, drowsy from the brandy. He could feel the apple warmth rise in his throat and blew softly through his nose, enjoying the reminder.

  As he drifted off to sleep, it was the vision of a father’s face, full of pride, that he saw playing behind his eyelids.

  On a Monday morning in October, 1917, just one week following their receipt of the duty notice, Gerhard and Otto met at the District Office, together with eight other young men from the area. All were neatly dressed in their field-grey uniforms, carrying their kits of military paraphernalia, families in tow.

  The small group of eager young men huddled together for warmth and assurance, their steaming breath mingling together and creating dewy drops on hair and caps. Anxious with excitement, they teased each other, shifted from one foot to another, and kicked at things unseen. They thoughtlessly straightened their jackets and caps, removed their new leather gloves, and put them on again.

  Before he had left the manor that morning, Gerhard had stood on the frost-covered lawn, drinking in one last look of his home. On impulse, he had run back up the stairs and placed his hand on the family crest, which his great-grandfather had mounted over the lintel one day in April of 1865: the day the Lange family had moved into the manor.

  He felt the pulse in his hand define the medieval silver helmet and the farmers’ coat of arms. He closed his eyes, seeing the red shield broken by the white chevron and three stocks of ripe grain. “I’ll come back,” he had promised the crest.