The Crest

by Jerena Tobiasen

  Minutes passed quietly, neither knowing how to continue. Moisture pearled on their wine glasses and trickled down the stems to the white linen table cloth.

  Finally, Paul said, “That is an ugly side of war. Not that there is anything pretty about it.” He shook his head. “We can pray for their souls. Otherwise, it’s in the past, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” They hung their heads and were quiet for a few more minutes, then he tugged on Ilse’s hand.

  “And what of your brother? Have you heard from him?” Paul asked, trying to find a safer topic.

  “Ah! Now that is a strange story,” Ilse said. “Many months ago, my mother received a letter—if you can call it a letter. The envelope had been forwarded to several addresses before it reached Aunt Kaethe’s house, and it had no return address written on it. Inside the envelope was a small piece of paper with short note written on it. The note said: Am alive. Don’t worry. Your son. A faint thumbprint covered the words ‘your son.’ It looked like a bloody imprint, but we aren’t certain.”

  “And you’ve heard nothing more?” Paul added.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Me too,” she said. “On the cheery side, it gives us hope.”

  “Indeed,” Paul agreed, reaching for his wine. “Now, tell me about your adventure. How did you get out of Breslau?”

  Sipping her wine, Ilse told the tale of her escape with Prow Kobelev.

  “What happened to the jewels?” Paul asked.

  “Oh! I gave them all to Herr Kobelev, of course.” She lowered her eyes, as if embarrassed. “He insisted that I should accept two emeralds. I used one to buy train tickets to München for Mama and me, and to pay something to my uncle in gratitude for my mother’s keep.

  “We left soon after for München, where we stayed with my Aunt Kaethe and Uncle Hans for the past year. I gave them the second emerald.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her and looked at Paul. “And that is where I found my husband,” she concluded, her smile bright. “Or should I say, that is where my husband found me!”

  “I’m glad you were there,” Paul said, taking her hands in his and kissing the knuckles of each. “I was so afraid that I wouldn’t find you. Or worse: that you wouldn’t want me.”

  “Not possible,” she asserted.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the waiter said, dishes of food balanced precariously on his hands and forearms. Paul released Ilse’s hands and they both leaned back to allow the waiter to set the plates on the table.

  “Mmm. Smells wonderful!” Ilse said. The waiter lifted the bottle of Riesling from an ice bucket near the table, offering to pour. “Yes, please,” Ilse said. “I’m very thirsty this afternoon.”

  The conversation lightened as they shared their meal together, until Paul asked, “Say, whatever became of the woollen fabric that Lieselotte asked you to carry for her? It sounds like an odd request to make of someone, especially since you were fleeing for your lives.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Lieselotte had just bought the fabric. She had no space left in her bundle and refused to leave it behind. She asked me to carry it for her. I didn’t have much in my bundle.

  “There was little to do in München for the longest time. Curfews, tight security, and limited food and other supplies kept us close to home. Everything was so topsy-turvy when the fighting stopped and the opposing military forces moved in. So I borrowed my aunt’s sewing machine and used the fabric to make myself a pair of trousers. I’d never had a pair before then.”

  Teasing, she added, “How wonderful and freeing they are. Now I know why men have kept them a well-guarded secret!”

  “Come in, son,” Gerhard said, beckoning Paul into the den a few weeks later. “Join me in a brandy before dinner?”

  Paul nodded and turned to close the door behind him. “Papa, I think I need some help,” Paul said. “May we speak privately?”

  “Of course! Sit! What is it?”

  “Ilse is worried, and I don’t blame her,” Paul answered as he settled into one of the old armchairs. “I don’t recall, but she says that I cry out in my sleep and thrash the bed covers. All I know is that I can be fast asleep one moment, and the next I am sitting up, soaked from sweat and totally disorientated, my heart pounding.”

  Gerhard said nothing and motioned for Paul to continue.

  “I must be dreaming about war experiences,” Paul said, appearing to contemplate the apple fumes rising from his glass. “But I can’t remember. The fact that I can’t remember worries me.”

  Gerhard relaxed in the chair across from his son.

  “It is the trauma of war. I have seen it many times, and I have had my own experiences,” he said. “When I returned from the Great War, my father helped me deal with my nightmares. There was no help for him when he served. He had to learn to live with his memories. But, when the Great War ended, he and I worked with others to set up a system of help for battle-weary soldiers. In time, we helped ourselves, also.

  “I can help you find the guidance you seek, but you’ll never be free of your memories. You will learn only to manage them in a manner that doesn’t interfere with your life and your relationships. Let us enjoy our brandy, now. The women will be looking for us in a few minutes. Tomorrow, we will find you some help. Yes?”

  “Yes, Papa. Thank you.”

  “And while we’re at it, you can investigate what is required to get you a seat at the university.”

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said, raising his glass in salute.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “COME IN, SON.” Gerhard beckoned from the bed he had shared with Emma for more than half a century. “I’ve said my good-byes to everyone else. I saved you for the last. We have much to discuss.”

  “But, Papa, you’ve had visitors all day,” Paul cautioned. “Why don’t you rest for a while?”

  “No time,” Gerhard replied, rubbing the scar of an old battle wound on his forehead. “Open the top drawer there.”

  Paul opened the first drawer of an ornately-carved walnut dresser.

  “Bring me the rosewood box from the back corner, right-hand side.”

  Paul easily found the small, wooden box with three stalks of ripe grain carved into the top.

  When he placed it in his father’s outstretched hand, Gerhard stroked it lovingly, then handed it back to Paul.

  “What is it?” he asked, his brow creased with curiosity.

  “Something that I should have given you a long time ago. Open it.”

  Paul flipped the brass clasp and the lid popped open. Nestled in a bed of black velvet sat a man’s ring. Paul pinched it free and held it to the light.

  “Grossvater’s ring,” he whispered reverently. The Lange family crest, carved in a blue cameo, was as brilliant as the last time he had seen it. “I’d forgotten about it.”

  “No doubt,” Gerhard said. “I’ve never worn it. It’s been in that box since the day my father died. He wanted me to make copies for you and your siblings, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the box. I loved him, you know. Respected him. And each time I took the box from the drawer, I felt the pain of his loss.”

  Gerhard swiped a tear from his eye, his thumb rasping against a day’s growth of whiskers. “That ring has been passed down from father to eldest son for more than two hundred years. It’s yours now.”

  Paul opened his mouth to respond, but words failed him.

  “Promise me that you’ll make copies before it’s too late.”

  “I will,” Paul muttered, trying to clear his flooding vision. He sat in the armchair next to his father’s bed, and the two men were quiet for several minutes.

  “Now, back to business,” Gerhard wheezed, interrupting the silence. “You must have a backup plan. There’s too much unrest all around us. The Russians could march through this country and tear it apart.” His grip was firm and steady as he squeezed his son’s hand, emphasizing his concern.

  “I will, Papa,” Paul responded.
“You and I saw the worst of humanity during the wars. I promise to do whatever I must to ensure the safety of our family.”

  Together, the old soldier and his son talked into the small hours of the morning. They shared their experiences in the military and the ongoing nightmares that haunted them. Then they discussed the growth of their family and the ongoing success of their businesses.

  After a while, Gerhard lay motionless, his eyes closed. Although his breathing had become shallow and raspy, Paul felt firmness in the clammy hand that still grasped his.

  When he closed his own eyes to contemplate the past, a vision of a fortune-teller flitted through his thoughts. ‘Eyes the colour of melted dark chocolate,’ she said. Everything else she told me that day came true, but I haven’t seen those eyes since the day … since the day on the dock at Schinawa. Is her warning to haunt me for the rest of my life?

  Startled by his thoughts, Paul sat erect in the chair and jabbed his fingers through his short black hair. When he looked up, his father’s shadowed eyes glimmered back at him.

  “Let’s talk about that backup plan,” Gerhard whispered. His breathing was shallow. “I’m beginning to fade, and I need to know we have a plan before I go.”

  As the predawn sun turned the sky blood-red, and small birds chirped in welcome of a new day in 1975, Gerhard closed his eyes one last time, twitched his fingers to alert his resting son, and released his last breath.

  Salty tears traced a path on either side of Paul’s nose, and he dashed them from his eyes. Licking moisture from his lips, he rose from the chair where he had kept his vigil and stood rigid at the foot of his father’s bed. He snapped a crisp salute to the old soldier whom he had loved for a lifetime.

  “Farewell, Papa,” he choked. “Safe journey.”

  Then he turned to the door that would lead him into the hallway, the bearer of sad, but expected, news.

  NOTE TO READERS

  THANK YOU FOR reading The Crest, Book I of the Prophesy Saga. I hope you enjoyed the adventure as much as I did.

  Other readers find reviews helpful for locating books they prefer to read. All reviews are appreciated.

  Don’t forget to visit my website: jerenatobiasen.ca, to read about my other works and inspirations.

  EXCERPT FROM THE EMERALD, BOOK II OF THE PROPHESY SAGA

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nicolai Kota led the caravan along the outskirts of Liegnitz toward a small lake where the city hosted its annual fall festival. Sycamore leaves were fading from summer greens to the yellow and orange of early death. He reined in the horse to halt his vardo and raised his arm to stop the other wagons trailed behind.

  “I’ll head into Liegnitz from here,” he said. He kissed his wife’s creamy cheek, noting how the sun glinted off the emerald dangling above her breast, suspended on a heavy gold chain. He handed the reins to her and hopped down. “Lead the caravan into the grove. Assume that we’ll be assigned the same location as other years.”

  “All right,” Rosalee said, tucking an errant curl of dark hair under her kerchief. “We should be circled by the time you catch up.”

  “Give me a few minutes to saddle Bang,” Nicolai said, walking to the rear of the vardo. Rosalee set the brake, prepared to wait.

  Nicolai beckoned the driver of the next wagon to join him. Hanzi, the band’s kris, set the brake of his vardo and dismounted gingerly. He limped along the side of his horse toward Nicolai, obviously aching from the hours of inactivity.

  As kris, Hanzi was responsible for overseeing the laws and values of justice for the vista, the name given to a community of nomads. He had become kris the same year that Nicolai’s father was elected voivode, more than twenty years ago. Hanzi leaned on his walking stick, his gait encumbered with arthritis. He stopped and stretched, running his gnarled hand along Bang’s flank, straightening the saddle blanket as he did so.

  “Rosalee will lead the vista into the old grove,” Nicolai said. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye on everyone. Some of the young fellows have been a bit rambunctious lately.”

  “I will, Chief,” Hanzi said. “Do you want anyone to accompany you?”

  “No need,” Nicolai answered.

  Hanzi tipped his hat and returned to his own vardo.

  “Papa, can I go with you?” Punita asked.

  Startled out of his thoughts, but not surprised to hear the question, Nicolai turned from Hanzi’s departure to see his nine-year old daughter nuzzling the horse’s muzzle.

  “I can’t imagine you’d allow otherwise,” he said, grunting as he hefted the saddle in place. “Make yourself useful, my love. Get the bridle. Watch your fingers with the bit. You know he likes to nip.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Punita said, skipping to the back of the wagon where the bridle was stored.

  A moment later, Rosalee appeared at his side. “You’re taking the imp, I hear.”

  “Yes. Can you manage alone until we get back?” he asked, tightening the cinch.

  “I’m sure some of the other girls will help,” Rosalee said, watching her daughter coerce the bit into a resisting mouth.

  Nicolai walked around his prize racehorse checking the tack before mounting. When he was seated, Punita passed the reins up to him and waited for his hand. He reached down, and she clasped both hands around his wrist. As he lifted, Punita used her legs to scramble behind him, onto the horse’s rump.

  “Hold tight to the saddle, Punita. He’s going to prance.”

  “I’m ready, Papa.”

  Nicolai settled in the saddle and touched his heels to the barrel of the horse. As predicted, Bang began dancing sideways before lunging forward.

  “We’ll be along in a while,” Nicolai said to Rosalee, reining Bang in a circle. “I plan to visit with Alexi Puchinski once I have our business licence and confirmation that the usual grove is appropriate.”

  Nicholai gave Bang a nudge with his heels, and the horse leapt forward eagerly.

  Rosalee watched the horse canter toward town, raising her hand in farewell. When the horse and riders disappeared into the small forest ahead, she returned to the front of the vardo. Perched on the bench, she released the brake and snapped the reins. The horse leaned into its task, and the other wagons rolled in line behind hers. When she was certain all of them were in motion, she clicked to her horse and its pace quickened. As one, the caravan snaked toward the grove.

  She led the caravan to a grove situated on the edge of the lake near the fair grounds. As she entered the grove, she guided the horse to the right of the clearing. The others followed. She continued until her horse closed in on the last wagon, completing a circle of privacy and protection.

  Those who were driving wagons that would be used during the fair formed a semi-circle outside the grove along the side that edged the fair grounds. Some wagons carried goods that would be emptied, so they could be set up to create a stage. Ornate wagons would be used for telling fortunes, reading futures, and selling potions.

  The Kota family had two vardos: the twelve-foot high ledge, which was used for day-to-day living, and the kite, a modified Reading wagon that Nicolai had had built for Rosalee soon after they married, from which Rosalee conducted her business. Built in the town of Reading, the kite was ornate on the outside, but simple on the inside. The berths and cooking facilities had been replaced with a table and chairs for guests who came to have their fortunes told.

  Rosalee set the brake, climbed down from the bench and began unhitching the horse. Before long, one of the men arrived to lead the animal to a holding pen for grooming and grazing. Thanking him, she set about organizing the space around her ledge for family use during the time of the fair.

  Three young girls—friends of Punita—ran up, offering to help collect wood and build a fire. Accepting their help, she left them and walked through the camp to ensure that everyone was satisfied with the locations of their respective vardos.

  Soon the smell of campfire smoke wafted through the enclosure. A current of voices rose as f
olks bustled to and fro, organizing the glade that they would call home for the next few days.

  Rosalee paused as she approached the fifth wagon. A group of boys—not yet men—had gathered away from the vardos. They lounged against trees and teased one another.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, looking at them sternly, “When you have finished your break, would you mind filling the water barrels? I think you’ll find that most of them are empty, and we’ll need fresh water to prepare the meals.”

  As she spoke, they straightened themselves and walked toward her.

  “We’ll start on that straight away,” the oldest, a boy of seventeen, acknowledged.

  “Thank you, Helwig,” she said, continuing on her tour. Approaching the next vardo, she noticed three other boys lingering behind it. They moved into the vardo’s shadow when they saw her. These are the boys who concern my husband. I’ll ask Hanzi to keep an eye on them until Nicolai returns.

  “Samson! Where are you?” a woman’s voice bellowed from within the wheeled home.

  “Your father will be back soon,” she warned them. “You and your brothers best get busy.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “THE THRUM OF city life runs through my veins, and I draw energy and inspiration from my west coast lifestyle. I’ve had stories swimming in my head my entire life, and when I returned to the west coast, those stories surfaced with a determination to be heard.”

  Jerena Tobiasen grew up on the Canadian prairies (Calgary, Alberta and Winnipeg, Manitoba). In the early ‘80s, she returned home to Vancouver, British Columbia, the city in which she was born.