A THOUSAND YEARS OF DARKNESS

a novel

A novel based on the WWII holodeck setting of the episode "The Killing Game" of the television series Star Trek Voyager.

SYNOPSIS

The paths of Katrine du Pléssis and Captain Charles Anson Miller cross, diverge, then cross again. Their lives are traced from events in 1936 and span almost ten years. When they meet in July of 1944, they will each have known and experienced suffering, yet when Captain Miller leaves, they will have touched each others' lives and those of others in a manner that remains as enduring as the eternal flame of friendship and love and loyalty, and they will realise that out of the ashes can be born again, a new life.

A THOUSAND YEARS OF DARKNESS

For over a thousand years, Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of a triumph - a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeters and musicians and strange animals from the conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conqueror rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children, robed in white, stood with him in the chariot, or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror, holding a golden crown, and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting.

Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. [Patton]

CHAPTER ONE

GERMANY: BERLIN, 1 - 16 August 1936

The new Olympic stadium was filled to capacity despite the late season humidity which did not deter the thousands of spectators who had come to watch the opening ceremony of the XI Olympics Games. Seating 100 000 the oval shaped stadium reminded them of the great circuses of Rome, with the exterior colonnades giving the stadium a mix of ancient architectural grandeur and modern technological advancement.

In the mighty Colosseum of Ancient Rome, thousands had come to watch the spectacle of torture and death, as prisoners - Christians and slaves - met their end. Gladiators contesting a duel to the death would stand on the dusty ground at a point where they could see the great Emperor, raise their hands and exclaim: Ave Caesar. We who are about to die, salute you.

Much of that had changed. The spectacle of slaves, gladiators and Christians meeting their final moments before a crowd hungry for bloodcurdling screams and blood-soaked bodies had made way for a different kind of honour and glory.

The Olympic Games was now fought in the spirit of great sportsmanship where speed, power, grace, strength, determination, courage, pride and national allegiance were the bases of competition. An ailing Baron de Coubertin's voice over the loudspeakers - his voice had been recorded on a phonograph record - sounded strange, yet impassioned.

"The important thing at the Olympic Games is not to win, but to take part, just as the most important thing about life is not to conquer, but to struggle well."

Nothing compared to the singular honour of standing on the winner's podium, the nation's flag flapping while the orchestra played the national anthem. Some would be remembered for many years, and for many different reasons. Others would sink into the oblivion of lost memories and ignominy.

Now the grand march past of athletes and officials had begun, first Greece followed by Aegypten leading the procession. The flag bearer of each team dipped his flag as his team passed the group of honoured dignitaries in the main stand. The King of Bulgaria, the President of the International Olympic Committee, as well as the man who had won the first modern Olympic Marathon in Greece, Spyridon Louis were among the dignitaries. One man's presence though, was as commanding as his voice, to whom the 100000 spectators looked eagerly for a reaction.

He was der Führer.

There was a gasp, then great applause as the French team passed. They acknowledged the Führer and remembered the Franco-Prussian War.

Some said the French gave a "Heil" salute, while the French athletes maintained it was the Olympic salute, which then appeared remarkably similar.

When the team of the Vereinigten Staaten had to pass, Alfred Joachem, flag bearer, seven-time winner of the American all-round gymnastics championship, held the American flag proudly upright as they passed the Tribune of Honour with an "eyes right" salute. Another gasp. He did not dip the flag like the Bulgarians or the Italians or the Belgians so that its point trailed in the red cinder of the track! The crowd turned their eyes to the Führer. What would he say? How would he look? Did the Americans slight him?

Der Führer had little time to ponder on the "slight". Earlier the team of Grossbritanien had caused a slight stir too as they honoured the Führer with an "eyes right" salute.

But at that moment, the host nation's team entered the stadium through the Marathon Gate. Immediately the orchestra, conducted by Richard Strauss, launched into the first passionate strains of "Deutschland über alles". To tumultuous applause, the audience rose to its feet in an instinctive mass action and engaged the "Heil Hitler" salute. They remained that way until the last strains of the anthem trailed away.

Ave Caesar. We who are about to die, salute you.

Day 5: Rowing - The Coxed Eight competition.

The water course at Grunau gleamed in the sun that had broken for a few precious minutes through the tenacious cloud cover. All along the left bank terraced stands had been built to accommodate the thousands of enthusiastic spectators who had come to cheer their teams. The predominantly and

passionately patriotic German crowd had been there since early morning when the first of the German teams and singles had rowed to victory. Joyously adorned with medals around their necks and laurel wreaths on their heads, young men had strutted around proudly, showing off their spoils and being photographed by foreign journalists.

Unbeaten in the coxed eights since 1920 and the Olympic champions of the Los Angeles Games, the United States had a lot more than just their laurels to prove on the Grunau water course. The rowing team of the University of Washington had come to the Games with an impressive record and reputation. They had beaten the best on American soil, taken the heart out of the University of Michigan Team's effort at the All-American Championships in March and were ready to take on the rest of the world. Their canary yellow eight oared shell, long and sleek, glided noiselessly to the start line. The U.S. team was flanked on the left by Germany and on their right by Great Britain. Next to Great Britain were the Italians. They, too, had come to the Games with a solid record, having won the European Championships the previous year.

Charles Anson Miller, coxswain of his rowing team for the third year straight, had known from the start that the German rowers were going to be very hard to beat. They were aggressive, fiercely disciplined and determined with only one goal: victory. Germany had already taken gold in the coxed fours, coxless fours, the coxed and coxless pairs.

The coxed eights was the prestigious event on the rowing calendar and the Americans had prepared in a rigorous two week long training camp on the Heron Lagoon Lake back home. Charlie's heart sank. All their efforts to be in peak condition paled when he looked at the well appointed Germans who oozed health and fitness. His strokeman's head peeped just above Danny Gilberti who sat behind him. Charlie depended on him to maintain their stroke rate, and keep it consistent over two thousand metres. Rick needed the rousing warm-up to get him to stroke at his best.

"Let the victory be ours, guys!" Charlie encouraged. "Don't think defeat. We are men of daring, willing to take on the impossible and making it possible. We are ready. We can beat them. Believe it! Believe it!"

"Aye, Captain!" Canning on the starboard rigged oar shouted, hoisting himself to look over the heads of Dirk Prentiss and Sloane Whitmore. He grinned sheepishly. "Right, Charlie?"

At university they had called him captain since he'd coxed the team in their first year. He had protested at first, but the title stuck. He still had to join the army…

"Are we gonna do it, guys?" Charlie's jet black hair glistened in the sun, and his tanned skin was already sprayed when oars hit the water. "Well, are you?" he snapped again.

"Aye!" they chorused.

Dirk Prentiss had look of consternation on his face as he stared at the Germans. "Charlie, we're dead in the water, man…"

"You have so little faith that we'll make it, Prentiss? You need a kick in the rear, man!"

"Just look at them!" Prentiss left his oar in the feathered position as he waved it. The shell rocked suddenly.

"Hey, watch it, will ya!" shouted Angelo Andreae.

"They've got muscle tone like you've never seen. And those oars! I swear to God they're made of shark fins! We're dead in the water, man."

"Come on, Prentiss," Sloane Whitmore rejoined in his placid tones, "we've done our homework. They might have the lighter oars, but they can be beaten."

"That's the way to talk! Talk like Prentiss and we lose before we've even started the race."

"Hey, Dirk, they're only rowers just like us," Sloane taunted. Dirk shrugged. He could pull an oar when the team depended on him, but he always feared the opposition.

"But look at them!"

"Yeah? So what? Don't let them get to you!"

"Achtung! Achtung!"

"Oh, Jeez…"

"Let's show them, boys!"

As auspiciously as the start of the preceding races, the coxed eights was underway. Charlie called and steered the boat as the oar blades dipped for the first catch and entry, cutting the water at an angle. All eight boats were even after the first full stroke. Charlie peered for a second in the distance. The buoy at the 500m mark could be clearly seen and they had to be at least in the top three by then. The Germans took an early lead, already a deck length ahead of the Italians who rowed strongly for second position. Charlie's eyes popped as he caught the rowing action of the German team. They surged two, three metres ahead with every full stroke action.

He coaxed his own men, their faces contorting as they grunted and heaved, upper bodies firm to maximise the smoothness of their movement. Charlie's metronome-like calling and steering, making only the smallest adjustment, kept the shell straight. No one wasted energy as the oars cleaved the water.

"Put power in the oars!" he yelled above the din of the crowd whose euphoria boiled over into a cacophonic frenzy as the German team widened the gap between them. Charlie's boys managed to keep up, only half a length behind Italy, and by the time they passed the 500m mark, they had left the rest of the field literally in their wake.

But the American team hadn't put in hours of endurance rowing on Heron Lagoon for nothing. Charlie knew they could do it. The Germans had the strength, but his team had explosive power and endurance. His men wouldn't tire; they would never give up. Then Charlie started singing, despite Coach's advice that the rhythm slowed them down.

"The Mississippi river is a long, long way,

we rowing down the river been forever and a day,

who says it is impossible to have a winning streak,

when we've been all out training without taking a leak!"

It worked! Quickly they found an edge, the Washington team's muscles straining, streamlining in painful, accurate formation as their oar blades cut the water and stroked with keen regular movement, arms bent, oars entering the water, pushing forward, then exiting again. At the halfway mark they drew abreast with Italy, still lying in second place behind the crack German eight who were going hell for leather, rushing towards the finish.

Charlie Miller's ears started buzzing. Heart pumping, he spurred his team, knowing his engine room to be the toughest, strongest men in the team.

"Now! Push! Power in the oars!" he shouted. Eight glistening torsos strained and pushed, eight voices joined in their old university rowing song. He stole a glance at the Italians.

"C'mon!"

They pulled ahead of the Italians whose coxswain began to drift behind. With each stroke they edged further and further away. They gained half a length on the Italians, who managed to cling to them, refusing to let the Washington rowers get away. But Charlie's insistent yet rhythmic calling kept the Americans gaining inch by painful inch. They'd stopped their singing, finding the rhythm in their hearts as national pride impelled them forward.

There was no time to celebrate a victory not yet gained, but Charlie's eye caught the Germans on his left. He was aware of them, but they were a full length ahead while his team were concentrating on leaving the Italians in their wake. The battle was only just beginning, with the Italians still holding on as they appeared to reel in the Germans.

If their coxswain were abreast with Dirk Prentiss, that meant…

"Let's go! Now! Now! Now!" he yelled at his men.

"Aye, Captain!" they chorused.

They shot forward and pulled up next to the German team. It wasn't enough, Charlie knew. Finish lines on a water course were deceptive. The Italians might still be in the lead! But his strokeman, Rick Watson, made certain his team had superb cadence as the spacing between each completed stroke widened. They were going faster! Only a photo-finish would determine the winners.

All the time the crowd continued to scream "Deutschland! Deutschland! Deutschland!"

Charlie ignored the thunderous noise until it seemed to come only from a long way off, vaguely aware of waving flags and screaming. They had drawn alongside the Germans.

"Now!" he yelled.

He could feel it, close his eyes and imagine the invisible tape just twenty metres away. Next to him he saw the blue and white of the Italians. They were attacking his team from both flanks.

"God, let's do it!"

Charlie Miller rowed his team as if they were one man rowing. Gracefully their shell complied to their ministrations, a slinking wake of silvery water trailing as the US team streaked past the finish, then slowed down. They had edged out the German team by a narrow margin.

There was a collective sigh from the eight students as they dropped their oars, oarlocks preventing the oars from slipping into the water. The strain left Charlie's face at last, the dimples forming as his face broke into a smile. "Thanks, guys - " he started, but in the next moment, he was pitched from his seat and felt himself unable to retain his balance.

"Hey, wha -?'!"

He tumbled head first into the water.

"We won, Captain!"

He didn't hear their ecstatic shouts and whoops of joy as he went under and when he came up sputtering, he saw them pumping the air. The moment was upon him as he joined them raising his arms, going under again as he forgot to tread water. They hauled him back in. When he recovered sufficiently, the other competitors had drawn up next to them. The German rowers were unsmiling, sombre, their blonde hair plastered to their heads. They all looked like some prototype, thought Charlie. Copies of one. Their coxswain leaned over to take his hand and Charlie reached forward and shook hands with him. Jet black hair contrasted with bright blonde hair. The German coxswain looked grim, and when he opened his mouth…

"Ich werde sicherstellen, dass wir nicht wieder verlieren."

"Huh?"

"I think he means we've done well," Dirk Prentiss offered.

"Ve…vill not…lose…again," the German struggled through the English in a heavy accent.

Charlie nodded. "Thank you."

He looked around him, saw a small group of people bravely waving their Stars and Stripes.

Then his heart burst with pride. Those were his country's flags, his countrymen. For one glorious, breathlessly awesome moment, Charlie felt connected to them, sharing with them the same pride, the same patriotic fervour, the same desire to see America triumph, and he realised in those moments what a great responsibility had rested upon his shoulders as he led his team to victory. There was a sting behind his eyelids as he bent his head.

We've done it. We've done it. This is a victory that will forever grace the record books and we'll always

be remembered as the outfit that beat the Germans on their turf.

"Hey, Charlie, you praying?" he heard Prentiss' voice. He looked up at his friend. Dirk Prentiss had a wide grin, and he slapped Charlie's thigh hard.

"We've done it, Charlie, we've done it, man!"

Charles Miller's smile and shining eyes went sombre for a second as he looked at the thousands of red flags with the four cornered cross in the middle. His heart felt suddenly a little heavy. He had been reading about European affairs. Edward had been wary of the American team competing in Germany. Edward had the mind of a political analyst. Charlie remembered Edward's words, that Germany's meddling in Spain and Austria boded ill for the world, and that the rest of the world should view the Games with mistrust. Already Germany and Italy had signed a pact. Charlie thought how grim the German team had looked, remembered the way the spectators had reacted spontaneously at the opening ceremony when the host team entered the stadium through the Marathon Gate. Like one man, the populace had risen, raised their right arms with a downward show of palms as they shouted "Heil, Hitler!"

They were paying homage to a man, showering a man with exaltation. He had never in his life seen anything like it. It was not a deity, not a god to whom millions willingly enslaved themselves, or God whom millions revered in humble adoration, but a man. A common man.

The shout had an ominous ring to it. A portent of doom, something that had death and destruction riding pillion on a prayer.

The red flags went became a blur as Charlie's eyes focused on Prentiss.

"Yeah," he sighed, "we've done it…"

That night, Charles Anson Miller called his brother in Detroit.

"It was in a radio broadcast this morning," Edward's voice crackled. "You did America proud, my brother. So, the Germans proved tougher than you thought?"

Charlie cursed the connection, but it was a transatlantic call, what could he expect?

"You got that right, Edward. But it was good. We worked hard for this victory, and the boys were prepared to row against the best in the world. The best coxed teams the world could put on the water were here and we beat them."

Charlie could hear his brother's laughter that always seemed to grow from deep in his chest and rumble outward.

"I wish I could have been there, Charlie." Edward's voice sounded wistful.

"I know. But you gotta get better now. I was worried about you. You okay now?"

There was a slight pause on the other end and Charlie felt a sudden cold grip him.

"Hey, I can still walk. That's important, isn't it?"

Charlie Miller sighed. Edward had been sensitive since he contracted polio eleven years ago. Before Charlie left for Germany, Edward had just been discharged from hospital after suffering from pneumonia. His callipers were unwieldy and uncomfortable, but at least, he didn't have to use a wheel chair. Edward could swim and row, though, and he had a strong pair of arms.

"Hey, when I get back home, we'll go up the river in our canoe. I've got a two week break before I go to West Point."

Another pause. Again Charlie sighed. He had been nominated for acceptance although already a senior at university, and by the time the semester started at the end of the month, he would be twenty two. Just about. But the University of Washington had offered him a scholarship three years ago that he didn't want to turn down and that way he could satisfy both his own need to study the arts and humanities with a deep interest in history, especially military history, and his late father's dream of seeing his sons at the prestigious military academy. West Point was a gruelling four year training course but he was looking forward to it. Edward… Edward had those dreams before Charlie did. Edward who had polio and walked with difficulty. Edward who could row like none other.

"Sounds like a good idea to me, Charles," Edward said finally.

"It's a deal, then. Tell Mom I say hello. I sent Lucy a post card. I hope she gets it before I get home, Edward. I can't talk long. I just wanted to let you know we won, that I'm okay, you don't need to send me any money and I miss you all."

"We miss you too. Mom's pretty busy. You know how she gets when there are visitors. The neighbours have been enquiring after your success at the Games. At least Mom can give them first hand news now. She misses you, Charlie, but she's very proud of you. We all are."

"I miss her too. I miss the food! Tell the visitors the Germans were our toughest enemies."

Edward chuckled, but then his voice became serious. "If not now, they will be soon, Charles, and maybe in a different arena. Definitely in a different arena..." Edward's voice had an enigmatic tone to it. "Take care now, little brother…"

"You, too, Edward."

Charlie had hardly put the receiver back when Ellismere Reynolds in the Gymnastics team grabbed the phone.

"My turn, Charlie," he said with a smile. "My girl's waiting for this call in San Francisco."

"Give my regards, Ellis," Charlie said before sauntering off to the patio.

It was still humid and Charlie had no inclination to go out partying. He didn't want to see more prototypes of the German rowing teams in the streets either.

He had completed his studies, was excited to go to West Point. They were all going separate ways, except Dirk Prentiss, who was joining the army straight after the Games. Charlie wanted to rest, absorb the day's events and write them down in his journal. He wanted to mull over Edward's words. Edward was only a year older, but he was so much wiser, perhaps because of his serious illness as a boy when he was forced to convalesce for months in hospital. When he thought his mother and brother didn't notice, there was a yearning in his eyes to be an active young man, to be in the army. Yeah, Charlie thought, Edward shared the same dreams. But he could only sit on the sidelines and watch in frustration how able bodied young men waltzed into the army, air force and the marines.

Winning today had been good, but the words of the old Baron still rang in his ears. "The most important thing about life is not to conquer, but to struggle well."

He had a sudden recollection of his brother's words earlier over the telephone. It was like some warning, a portent.

"If they were not your enemies today, they will be soon…"

Day 9: Cycling - The 100km road cycling race [team challenge].

One hundred and twenty eight cyclists lined up at the start-finish line of the endurance race. In a few minutes, the racers would challenge for the three podium positions that would ensure their names in the annals of the Olympic Games.

Berry Beaumont of France touched his knee gingerly and winced. It was still tender from the tumble he had taken the day before when the team had gone out in the early morning on a training ride. The three speed gears had given François a little trouble shifting into top gear. Before he knew it, François had collided with him and he slid from his bicycle, his left knee taking the brunt of the fall. The rest of the team had ridden off, not waiting for the two of them. Berry had shrugged it off, accepting that this was sport and they were preparing for the highest honours. There was no time for stopping. He was not France's first choice for 100km road cycle race, nor was he the second. He wasn't even the third, since François Fouché had clocked a better time than him at their national trials in June, although he knew he was the better rider.

France had a good chance to do well in the team event, and his inclusion in the cycling squad had come amidst joyous celebrations in his home town. He had returned home to hundreds of waving tricolors. St. Clair had come out in support of its lone Olympian, and what a reception it had been! He had been feted, young school children were following him, and suddenly he noticed so many more people on bicycles, especially the children. At his own school, he had delivered an address and one of the children had promised he'd win the Tour de France one cousin Brigitte had given him a resounding kiss on his cheek, then smacked him afterwards and declared:

"C'est parce que tu es encore tombé de ton vélo!"

"Mon Dieu! I do not fall deliberately from my bicycle, Brigitte!"

"Berry! I was worried about you!"

"Ah, yes, you're so concerned, Brigitte," he said sarcastically while rubbing his cheek where her palm had stung him. But in the next instant, she had hugged him enthusiastically again and all was forgiven. The sting of her palm was forgotten; he had looked into her eyes and could hear his heart thumping wildly again. "Ah, Brigitte, ma petite…" he crowed. He ducked as he anticipated the next blow.

When they were children cycling round the countryside of St. Clair, Brigitte had unfailingly managed to trick him into pitching off his bicycle. She'd shout a warning that there was an obstacle in front of them, and suddenly, as if he actually saw the offending hurdle, he would try to perform a magnificent evasive manoeuvre. It usually landed him in the thorny ditch, to the delight of a hysterical Brigitte who couldn't contain her laughter for hours afterwards while she extricated the thorns from his body. There was no time to be embarrassed. He could never be embarrassed in front of Brigitte. As small children they had been bathed in the same tub by Grand-mère. He had nothing to hide. Berry gave a sigh. They had been so happy then when life was without complications!

He had tried to explain to her that he took a tumble when François caused the spill which brought the two of them down. That brought the mirth to her eyes, those laughing eyes that were always so animated whenever she had something new or exciting to tell him. Brigitte rarely stayed vexed with him for long, and the moment she had smiled at him after smacking him, he knew everything would be alright again. Brigitte's eyes had a fierce tenderness and pride in them when she spoke again.

"Je suis heureux que vous êtes sur léquipe.

Yes, he had been ecstatic that he made the national cycling squad. It had been his dream, inspite of the many times he had tumbled into ditches, or travelled hundreds of miles to get to the nearest competition venues and arrived too late, or, his bicycle damaged, was forced to retire from a race. But he had done it and one day, when he had a son, he would train him to ride in France's greatest cycle race, the Tour de France.

"I'm glad you're on the team," Brigitte had said with pride.

"Thank you."

Then he had kissed her too, on the lips. He had seen the look on that cocky American's face and proceeded to pull Brigitte in his arms. Anything to warn her off the foreigner, or to annoy the imbecile. Mostly, he wanted to annoy the man. Brigitte had been spending too much time in the foreigner's company, and forgot about her cousin and closest friend. He had been feeling cuckolded by the imbecile; not that he deserved the designation of "cuckold". He was after all her cousin. That was the way Brigitte had always treated him. They kissed, hugged, and that was all. What did she know of how he really felt? Cousins didn't fall in love. Not in Brigitte's books anyway. That foreigner had managed to confuse a few issues with Brigitte. So he held Brigitte to him and felt her warm lips melt under his. Only a moment though. And, she, as if she reminded herself that she liked someone else, had wriggled in his arms and appeared a little outraged before she playfully pinched his bottom. Berry sighed. They were favourite cousins, and Brigitte used her fists liberally on him whenever they argued.

He hadn't liked the American, he admitted. But Brigitte seemed to be taken in by him. He was too cocky, too self-assured, too damned arrogant, assuming that she'd run after him to America like a hound after a hare. And then, he had blue eyes. That counted for something. Shocking crystal blue eyes and blonde hair that stood out like a beacon in St. Clair. How could it not? How many young men walked about St. Clair with eyes the colour of the clear blue skies and hair the colour of ripened corn? Robert Davis was definitely different.

Berry felt the resentment rise in him. Their girls… they always fell for the foreign guys. It was, Berry supposed, his foreignness, something - a novelty perhaps - in their small town that had a romantic air about it, something that brightened the dark hues and greys of their own lives, like a breath of fresh air and new hope. Brigitte fell for the handsome ones. When they had been children, he had his hands full killing off the opposition, even if they were French, but those ones had come from other towns and settled in St. Clair, attending their schools, and always, they noticed Brigitte. She sparkled, always the first to make new friends. This time though… Berry sighed. He wasn't going to get rid of Robert Davis who spoke such crude French, who couldn't say tricolor with any reasonable accent. If the imbecile could vanish into thin air he'd be happy. Berry half wished he had been back in St. Clair, to tell Brigitte to be careful, and tell that...that foreigner to go. To go on. To go on a long holiday!

He would deal with her when he got home. He'd tell her Robert Davis is up to no good. He'd tell her she need look no further than her own countrymen if she wanted to attach herself romantically. He'd tell her she need look no further than her own cousin who had loved her since she wore pigtails and white ankle socks. Come to think of it, she still wore white ankle socks sometimes. Brigitte was at times still so gamine. When they were children, it had been hard to tell who was the boy and who the girl. Granted, he was only two years older than Brigitte but he was small for his age. Grand-mère Amelie always dressed them up the same. Grand-mère Amelie was not to be told what the rules were for little boys and girls. Only now Brigitte had started growing her hair again, for that imbecile Robert Davis, no doubt. And Berry did so like the new look of Brigitte, with her hair almost shoulder length and falling in little curls about her face. Berry felt a warmth encircling his heart, creeping in towards the centre and spreading outwards, filling his whole body. Brigitte… Yes, when he returned to St. Clair, he'd deal with her.

But first he had to contend with his aching knee. Berry rubbed his knee. Shafts of pain made him wince when he touched the sensitised skin. The tendons at the back of the knee were sore. He swore under his breath. In a minute the race was about to start, and he would bring glory to his nation. Coach Luc Bénard had spat succinctly, "Forget the pain. It's mind over matter, boy."

Mind over matter? What mind was his that he thought of Brigitte and forgot about his pain? Mind over matter indeed. Perhaps he should just keep a mental picture of his cousin on his handlebars and he'd reach the finish line before he had any thoughts of pain.

Earlier today he had been to see their team doctor, who had taken one look at him and declared resolutely:

"Mon Dieu! You are not riding today."

"Excuse me, Docteur," he countered, proudly pushing out his chest so that it stood like the rounded breast of a dove. "Today, I ride for France to victory!" He might as well have thumped his chest like a champion chimpanzee the way he strutted. Strutted? He hobbled on one foot. It wasn't so bad, but le docteur was always one to present a worse case scenario. The doctor's liquid brown eyes connected with his, and Berry could have sworn he saw a picture of himself on two crutches in their depths.

"You will ride for France into the ditch, Beaumont! You will make it worse by riding," Joseph Blumenthal exploded. "As the team doctor, I have the right to make this decision." Joseph's beard trembled the way his head shook as he spoke.

Berry looked at Coach Luc Bénard who took matters out of Joseph's hands when he said, "Docteur, tonight you can bandage his leg. Bandage both his legs. Bandage both arms. Bandage his head, if you must. But today, Berry Beaumont will ride for France! Vive le France!"

Joseph Blumenthal ran his fingers through his thick light brown hair, then threw up his hands and exclaimed, "Bravo! I'll offer my services to another team!"

Berry wanted to laugh at the way Joseph's beard trembled in his indignation.

He had left the medical tent before he heard the rest of the exchange between his coach and the doctor. The doctor must have relented finally because here he was, at the start of the 100km road race, riding for France.

The official had barked a few "achtungs!", got everyone's attention, then made a great fanfare of firing the starting pistol.

One hundred and twenty eight cyclists rushed into a mad scramble for early race positions, pedalling like mad through the narrow lanes of the countryside surrounding of the city of Berlin. It was the one problem the riders had. The lanes were narrow, and though not impassable, with so many riders bunching, especially on the sharp turns, the next spill waited round the bend. Then he had to contend with inexperienced riders and others who simply tried to spike him out of the race. It was the cut throat world of cycling for recognition and pedalling for glory. All it cost was a slight tap at his wheels or a push and a shove, and his race would be effectively over. This type of course was new to them, that much was clear as he watched riders struggling with gears, jostling for position. He was in the second bunch of the strong field. They were trailing the peloton by at least thirty seconds. Their two top riders were in that pack since he hadn't passed them. At the start they had just flown away as if they had forgotten they were a team. Robert Charpentier and Guy Lapébie had been on the winner's rostrum when they won the 4000m team pursuit the previous day, and they were riding hot on the success of yesterday's victory.

The cycles were fitted with the new three speed gears, and his whole team had taken to the faster speeds of their bikes. But it was clear many riders were struggling to get accustomed to the new regulations. Changing gears slowed them down a few critical seconds, causing those behind them to bail into them. It was why his pack had managed to stay at least within striking distance of the leaders. The route through the Olympic village was cluttered with eager spectators who spilled into the road to touch the riders. He shrugged it off, but it was very distracting. Already he had seen one rider pitching headlong onto the grass verge. He tried his best to steer clear of the odd pedals touching his bike, or some riders who deliberately shoved them aside.

He didn't feel the cold of the wind that seemed to cut into their bones, nor the gnawing, dull pain in his knee. No time to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings like yesterday. Then he had marvelled at the tall pines, the lush green of the forest. On his outside right, he noticed François who lifted one hand from his handlebar and waved gleefully at him. Then Berry watched with dismay as François sprinted away from the pack.

"Merde! The fool is getting away from me…"

He bent low over his bike, practically leaned on his arms and headed into the wake of the riders in front of him. Seconds later he broke away from the pack too. Rounding the first bend, he spotted François and another rider.

"Come on, Berry," he coaxed himself. "Do it for Brigitte. No, do it for France! Forget about the pain. Vive le France!" he cried as he pushed himself to the limit, but the two riders remained equidistant from him. He couldn't catch up, but they were all going fast as they approached the next bend, situated on a down run. They raced round the corner. Calamité! They almost stopped dead as they saw a massive spill in the narrow road, about a hundred metres ahead. A profusion of colour and tangled legs and wheels as some of the world's top riders bit the dust and bid farewell to glory. Ricardo Fiasconaro in the familiar blue and white of Italy remained on the ground. He had been slated to win…

"Merde!"

"Oh, my God!" cried the English rider.

"Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" Berry yelled as he realised the opportunity to capitalise on the disaster; François had geared down and then crashed into the rear end of the spill.

Berry had just enough time to register that François had shot up on his bike again. He realised with heart thumping delight that he was in front of his team mate. In the distance, he saw Charpentier and Lapébie racing away from the crash. There must have been more than twenty riders on the ground. They were the best riders in the world, but they were down. All's fair in love and war. Down the gentle gradient he raced, with only seven riders in front of him. He knew he couldn't catch up with them. But he looked back, saw François coming up. That was when he stepped hard on his pedals, trying to keep François behind him. The snot had beaten him in the trials, but this time he was going to finish in France's top three. He was going to show François and Brigitte and Joseph Blumenthal and Luc Benard that he was made of the stuff France would need for victory. In the long straight to the finish, he saw Charpentier and Lapébie crossing the finish line. His lungs burned fiercely; his legs buckled as he, too, finally crossed the line. He raised one hand and bunched his fist in an exultant salute of victory. Still breathing heavily, Berry dismounted, rubbing his sore bottom as he guided the bike towards their own enclosure.

It was an ecstatic Charpentier and Lapébie who came up to congratulate him. He felt dizzy, drunk, euphoric. France had taken first and second, and they were good for team gold. In his mind there flashed an image of a smiling Brigitte. Berry closed his eyes and felt the first welling of tears. For you, Brigitte. For you and for my country…

Just then François also joined them and slapped him on the back. Berry hiccoughed. He looked through his tears at his team mates and smiled. Then suddenly, as if his injury reminded him that it was still present and very much an injury, his muscles and tendons pulled up and it felt to him that they were tearing away one by one from the bones that anchored them. The pain speared sharply through him. The smile left his face, contorting into ugliness as he strained to suppress the pain. His whole leg felt on fire. Grimacing, he tried to hear what his team mates were saying, but it sounded as a buzz that had reached from far away and couldn't quite register as clear sounds and words.

"vous m'avez battu cette fois, Berry."

"Those Germans thought they had the race wrapped up."

"A pity about Ricardo Fiasconaro…"

"félicitations."

"nous sommes forts pour l'or d'équipe, types." That sounded like Charpentier's voice.

But Berry could not discern Charpentier's words and only one word, as if the syllable had been accentuated and his ear caught only that, stood out: gold. Gold… The pain in his knee had tripled. He cried out as he began to collapse and before he knew it, he was lifted by François and Lapébie and carried to the nearest tent.

"Don't tell Doctor Blumenthal," he kept saying, groaning as he held on to them and the pain killed his knee. "Don't tell him. I'll kill you, you hear me?" he yelled at François Fouché. "I'll kill Brigitte. Oh, God… Brigitte! She's going to skin me alive!"

"What aren't they supposed to tell me? And who's Brigitte?"

"Brigitte is my cousin, and… hey, Docteur…?"

"There, that should do it," a grinning Joseph Blumenthal said an hour later to a penitent Berry. At least, that's how Berry appeared. It was a mixture of penitence, pride and plain panic that Brigitte had better not find out that he'd injured himself again. Joseph had wasted no time in letting the young rider know just how seriously he had aggravated his injury, to the point that he might never race again at international level. But Joseph's rebuke had been tempered with immense pride that the young man had assisted in taking France's cycling team to victory. They had just been informed that the three best times of each team's riders had placed France first. The Swiss team had gained a valuable silver and Belgium finished the podium positions by taking bronze in the team event. Joseph ran his hand through his hair, a gesture he had been teased about, not only by the athletes of the French squad, but by Katrine. He was very proud, but also concerned that Berry Beaumont might possibly have jeopardised his future career. Joseph had his hands full with the rider who had been so bull headed, refusing treatment just so he could race.

Berry looked gratefully at him. Then his chest pushed out again like a round breasted dove when he spoke.

"Tonight, Docteur, I shall phone Brigitte and tell her of our victory."

"Brigitte. Ah, the cousin," Joseph replied, putting a deliberate emphasis on 'cousin'. Berry had been bursting with pain and pride, speaking of Brigitte who just had to know of his victory.

"Do not mock me, Docteur. Brigitte will have my hide if she knew I am injured!"

"Good, then she should knock some sense into you."

"We won, didn't we?"

Joseph looked at his patient. The medal ceremony for the 100km cycling race was almost upon them and Berry Beaumont would hobble to the podium on a crutch. His mouth curved into an indulgent smile and he patted the young rider on the back. Berry was in love. A hopeless situation by the looks of it, since Brigitte had eyes only for a blue-eyed, blonde haired American who stayed for the summer in their little town of St. Clair. Brigitte was likely to throw the cousin bit at him, declaring they'd grown up together and familiarity breeds contempt, and so on. Joseph had been the willing ear - it was still ringing - of Berry's woes about injuries and Brigitte who never looked at him the way she looked at The Foreigner.

"Take great care with that knee, Berry. Now, be off with you."

Hardly had he spoken when Berry rose from the bench and took a few steps forward, his leg strapped up and looking stiff.

"Hey!"

"What now, Docteur?"

"Your crutch. You're going to need it…" He chuckled at the way Berry pulled his face, hobbled back on one leg and collect his crutch.

"Thank you, Docteur…" he said mockingly.

When Joseph Blumenthal made a telephone call to Paris late that evening to speak with Katrine, he had not been surprised that she was still up, although it was past eleven o'clock. Their home was situated not far from the busy city centre and Katrine was always busy studying or reading the papers of her students.

"Célèstine misses her Papa. She's been restless since you left, Joseph,"

"Has she been good today?" he asked.

"Joseph, she's only a year old! But she is an angel."

"Of course. She takes after her Mama. She has to be an angel."

"You're saying that to placate me. But I love you for being so considerate, Joseph du Pléssis-Blumenthal."

"Thank you, my love."

"Oh, Joseph!"

"What is it, Katrine?" He pressed the telephone against his ear.

"I found the Matisse!"

He gasped. Katrine had been searching the last few years for that painting and he was happy for her. He played music for his diversion, and Katrine collected vintage wine and paintings.

"You're happy now?"

"Of course, Joseph. Now we can add it to our collection. Don't laugh!" she said when he chuckled.

Joseph could hear the laughter in Katrine's voice. She was a beautiful woman, a spirited one who was independent and clever, but he knew that wasn't why he'd married her. He had a great respect for her spirit, her intellect, her womanhood. But he had to admit, he'd married a woman who could have chosen someone else, someone not Jewish. Katrine was a modern woman. She was not one to let religious differences matter when it came to her happiness. They made a good couple, and a good working team. He, in medicine, sometimes indulging in his other love, playing the violin, and Katrine in the Sciences. She had won the Curie Medal in her second year at university. There was a kindness in Katrine, a sense of fairness and honour and pride that he could not help but admire. She cared deeply about her country, its inhabitants and its future.

"My heart is with you, chérie, I take your image with me deep into my sleep, and when I dream, it is naturally of you and Célèstine…"

"Joseph, I think you should stick to playing the violin. I am very certain I shall hear the love poem in your music."

Joseph ignored her gentle teasing, and instead, asked, "Is that man still bothering you, Katrine?"

"I was engaged to him once, Joseph. But yes, he was in here yesterday, insisting that I don't miss you, that you have defected to America and that he would make a good father for Célèstine."

"Ma chérie, you please be careful," Joseph said, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

Katrine had broken off her engagement to the magistrate and married him, Joseph. He sighed. They had fallen in love so quickly, completely without reserve and questions, which, naturally, came after they were married. But they had been happy, although the cuckolded Lucien Blériot had not given Katrine a moment's peace. He didn't like Joseph, and Joseph could understand why Katrine had broken her engagement. The magistrate had eyes in which, Joseph could see, lurked something devious. "Besides, I didn't love him, not really, you know. It was just to make my uncle Henri happy…" she had told him. Lucien Blériot had once remarked that he didn't like these mixed marriages at all, and why couldn't Katrine marry a true Frenchman instead of marrying a French Jew?

Joseph sighed. Things were happening in Germany that made them nervous. Already people were being moved to ghettos. He'd heard strange, unreal, thoroughly chilling accounts of treasures being confiscated. His last letter from Uncle Elimelech in Warsaw, although sounding optimistic, had undertones of gloom. The prospects were not good. Children of Jewish parents were being taken out of school… Still, he had wanted to come to Germany, wanted to be a non-participating member of France's Olympic squad. He had always had an interest in sport and had been working with athletes for the last four years. He felt a shudder.

Even if I take Katrine's name, I may not be safe. But now is not the time to make her unduly worried. Perhaps he was putting the cart before the horse. He stroked his beard idly then smiled. Katrine had been so good about it, never saying anything, but he knew she didn't like it. Perhaps he could surprise her tomorrow when he headed for home.

"I'll be home next week, Katrine," he said at length. "I can't wait to get home. It's been wonderful being a team doctor to the national squad, but I long to sleep next to my wife and teach our daughter to play the violin."

"I miss you, Joseph," she said with a catch in her voice. Was Katrine crying?

"I miss you too, chérie…"

Day 16: Equestrian event - The Prix des Nations

The day had started badly for cavalry lieutenant Baron Konrad von Wangenheim. First Helga's telephone call to his room at the Olympic village - he hadn't wanted to stay there but had no option - disturbed him. She had sounded so distant, and he knew it had little to do with the crackling of the bad connection but her lilting voice that was normally so animated had been less breathy and more sustained. He had been a little perturbed afterwards, thinking that she might after all have agreed to accompany Jürgen Schult to the recital. If she had said outright it was because of his arm, he might have believed her. But Helga had been evasive. That Jürgen was likely to poach Helga away from him. But no matter. Helga's loss could be readily absorbed with every brush stroke of Kurfürst's mane. Helga always did say he loved his horses more than he loved her. How could he refute such a truth coming from the woman he was thinking of marrying one day? Helga was lost to him. Her timid reassurances that she would wait for him to take her to the recital didn't matter anymore. He had a feeling Jürgen Schult would be only too happy to be Helga's companion. For life, even. But it rankled. He was a Baron, a freiherr, wasn't he? Wasn't that enough for Helga? Or any other woman, for that matter? Konrad thought that should he ever consider another woman to warm his bed permanently she'd have to accept that he would always be the "mein Pferd" type who would rather spend hours brushing down Kurfürst's magnificent mane than run his fingers through Helga's hair. No, it was definitely, "zuerst mein Pferd, dann meine Frau."

He shrugged off thoughts of Helga and eased her out of his conscience. At this moment he was wasting valuable time entertaining vague possibilities, even such a one as marriage. That was still too distant. Right now his arm, which was in a sling, demanded his attention, reminding him that it was about to send him into the realm of perpetual fire again. He had been there yesterday, in the water jump, howling with pain. Kurfürst had taken one look at the high hurdle and the deep ditch filled with water, then bucked, throwing his rider. Konrad had managed to release the stirrups and free his feet, but it was too late. He had gone flying through the air over Kurfürst's head with such speed that the ditch rushed up to him, taking him at such an angle that he landed heavily on his shoulder. He felt a snap, and after that all went dark for a few dizzying seconds in which he knew he must have fainted momentarily. When he stumbled groggily to his feet, it felt as if someone had punched him hard in the stomach, so winded was he. Struggling to mount Kurfürst again with an arm that hung useless, he completed the course, and only then the earlier panicked gasps that went up from the spectators changed to grateful sighs and sympathetic ah's as he finished.

He tried to forget the looks of defeat and disappointment on his team mates' faces when they learned that he had broken his collarbone. His retirement would have meant disqualification for the German team riding today in the Prix des Nations. For them the glory of victory weighed more heavily than their concern for his personal health and welfare. He sighed. It was not an accurate or fair assessment of the men who complemented the Deutsche reiterlich Mannschaft, under the leadership of Kapitän Ludwig Dürst. They were good men, comrades who rallied round him when he screamed as one of them touched his arm. No, it was his own absolute discipline and dogged refusal to let this latest mishap deter him from competing, which was the overriding factor.

Too much depended on his participation in the Prix des Nations. His honour was at stake, and the honour of the entire German equestrian squad. They had won every event thus far. All their hard work, the pain, the grit, the falls they had taken - he lost Isis that first year he trained with the squad - the new focus and goal oriented approach to winning had paid off. He had not wanted to let his team down. It was not necessary for him to win - that chance had been abysmally reduced to ashes - but his performance today could win them the team gold medal.

"The team will be disqualified, Kapitän Dürst. You know that," he said yesterday and winced as he tried to gesticulate with his hand.

"You have a serious injury, Oberleutnant. You cannot - "

"I do not care if I have a broken leg, Kapitän," he cut in sharply, "but today, I must ride, and ride I shall."

"It is a sacrifice we must make, Oberleutnant. Germany will not be lost."

It was the wrong thing to say. The captain had looked at him, and Herr Doktor Schiller had shaken his head. Both had looked as if they had been deep in consultation without consulting his Pferd Kurfürst, who after all, was the competitor today. He didn't much care how broken his body was, there was nothing wrong with his Pferd and Kurfürst was ready to take those jumps, whatever the result. So his broken collarbone be damned. Kapitän Dürst and Herr Doktor Schiller could appear for all the world that they had his own health at heart, but he could see in their eyes the brooding, the hope that Germany could have won their final gold in the equestrian event today. He had his answer for them.

"I will ride my honour and good name on my injured shoulder. It will be no sacrifice, Herr Doktor," he said firmly, grimacing again as another shaft of pain shot through his arm. It had been bandaged and secured close to his chest. He cringed as he flexed his fingers. "You must give me something to kill the pain, and I'll ride."

Herr Doktor Schiller blustered; his cheeks filled with air before he exploded, "But, Baron von Wangenheim! This is outrageous."

"Meine Herren! bilden Sie es so!"

Herr Doktor Schiller hesitated, his steel grey eyes narrowed, his cheeks puffed again and this time he tried to blow air through his nostrils. His hair stood away from his forehead, giving the impression that he had been running in the wind and didn't have time to smooth it down before he consulted with his patients. In short, Herr Doktor Schiller always looked unkempt and in a hurry. Konrad experienced a mild twinge of conscience that he addressed them with little regard for their positions. He knew he sounded superior, but he wanted so badly to compete in the Prix des Nations that he didn't care very much about their reactions. There would be time for reflection after the Spiele. Then he could count the costs. For now, as long as he got the desired affirmation, he was satisfied.

So, after he had been treated by Herr Doktor Schiller, feted by Kapitän Dürst and lauded for the pending great gesture he was to make for Der Reich and in the name of Mannschaftsgeist, Baron Konrad von Wangenheim left the enclosure and prepared for today's show jumping. He'd had a reasonably good night and last night Grossmutter Adelheid cheered him up by presenting him with her famed Black Forest Cake.

"Now, mein Pferd," he whispered close to Kurfürst's ear, "let's show them we can do it."

Just then the announcer called his name and that of his mount. Konrad felt the thrill course through his body. There was little pain in his arm now as the medication was taking effect. His fingers trembled only slightly as he held the reins, the leather thongs resting comfortably in his palms.

The bell went to start the timer and Kurfürst cantered to the first jump. The crowds cheered, and then the noise dimmed. Konrad felt their eyes on him, silently egging him on.

He reached the first jump. It looked ten metres tall and he felt the old, old exhilaration when Kurfürst rose magnificently to clear the bars.

Helmut von Wangenheim, dressed in the uniform of the Hitler Jugend, sat with his mother, sister and Grandmother as they watched Konrad von Wangenheim take Kurfürst through his paces. Then he drew in his breath sharply, a reaction that was echoed by the thousands of spectators who filled the seats of the stadium. Konrad von Wangenheim, his elder brother, had just cleared the fourth of the jumps on his mount and Kurfürst cantered confidently to the triple fence. Helmut clenched his teeth, tensed as Kurfürst approached the fence. He wanted to close his eyes so that he didn't have to see how Kurfürst might stumble or something happen, but a strange numbness overtook him so that his eyes remained open and he had to watch the horse's next jump.

He had no idea that he had gripped his sister Erika's hand tightly, holding his breath as they waited for the jump

"Helmut!" Erika protested as she tried to pull her hand from his. He let go suddenly, a sheepish grin on his face as she rubbed her hand. Kurfürst approached the jump. Helmut rose to his feet, the strain of wanting his brother to succeed in spite of his injury too much for him.

The horse rose high to clear the first of the triple fence, landing on his forelegs before lifting and clearing the second fence. Konrad held the rein with his right hand, and bent over as if he whispered to Kurfürst and even from where Helmut sat with Grossmutter von Wangenheim, Frau von Wangenheim and Erika, he could see Konrad calling to Kurfürst, encouraging him to clear the next fence. It seemed to him as if the action had slowed down and every movement that horse and rider made could be seen in isolation, each little move independent until it continued into the next and the next. In reality, Konrad on Kurfürst would clear the triple fence in perhaps five or six seconds, and it would be over. That was the reality, and that was the way it would be in a successful jump.

But the consternation on Konrad's face could be seen. He shouted something and then Kurfürst went down after sliding effortlessly over the second fence, landing and rising to clear the third. As Kurfürst stretched, his hind legs knocked down the twin poles of the fence. It was inevitable. Kurfürst stumbled, slid to his knees and unseated his rider.

Helmut gasped, dimly hearing Grossmutter's cry of alarm and wincing as Erika's fingers dug into his upper arm. He wanted to jump over the barricade and run to his brother's aid. It was clear Konrad was in deep pain as he held his arm and grimaced. They could see how his face contorted with pain as he tried to check his horse. Then Konrad mounted Kurfürst again and spurred his horse to continue to the next fence, again like the previous day, a water jump. Helmut could not but feel pride and admiration for his brother. That was what he, too, wanted to do soon, maybe at the next Spiele. Like Konrad, he wanted to represent Deutschland. That was his ideal. He could only imagine how much pain Konrad had to endure at this moment, and when they approached the water jump he could see how Kurfürst hesitated only a second before rising on his hind legs and cleaving the sky, a magnificent portrait of horse and rider. But Konrad, he knew, was in pain.

"Let him stop," he heard Frau von Wangeheim whisper. "Konrad has too much pain…"

"Konrad is like his father," Grossmutter said resolutely, "he will continue. He is a Von Wangenheim!"

"Yes, a Von Wangenheim with a broken shoulder," Frau von Wangenheim complained but Helmut saw how her eyes shone as they rested on her eldest son.

"Oh, Helmut," Erika exclaimed, "one day you'll ride like that!"

"I can already ride like that, Erika!"

"I said one day. You're still too impetuous, just like your Tannhauser!"

"At the next Spiele, Erika, another Von Wangenheim will keep the banners of the family flying proudly," Helmut replied with an imperious air.

"By that time you should hopefully have grown facial hair, my brother, so that we know when you shave, you really are shaving off hair from your chin," she said tartly.

Helmut blushed, but he was quick with his next words.

"The girls like smooth chins, Erika." Helmut rubbed his chin. "Do not worry. Tomorrow night when I accompany Heike Maria Stroebel to the recital, she will like me. She already likes me..."

"Oh, you are so like Konrad - " Erika started.

"Konrad," Grossmutter interrupted their little conversation, her eyes on horse and rider, "will not accept defeat!"

As if Konrad heard his grandmother, he calmed Kurfürst. Kurfürst loosened the turf as he cleared the final hurdle. A sigh went up from the crowd as horse and rider streaked towards the finish and the clock finally stopped.

A tumultuous ovation met Konrad as he remained on Kurfürst. He removed his cap and held it in his injured arm close to his chest and with his right arm, gave the crowd the "Heil Hitler" salute. The spectators rose to their feet and Helmut's palms burned as he applauded his brother. He gasped

for breath as Erika hugged him fiercely. There were tears in his mother's eyes and while Grossmutter stood proudly watching Konrad saluting the people. Helmut felt a sting of tears behind his eyelids. He hoped that Erika didn't see, or that Grossmutter teased him again as the next Olympic rider of the Von Wangenheim family.

Konrad might not have won an individual gold medal, but his performance today, the last day of the Olympics, was solid enough, in spite of his serious injury, to clinch Germany the team gold for the "Prix des Nations". It was a singular honour for the host nation. They had won every event on the equestrian programme of the Games and Konrad's performance would be remembered for all time. He had taken his adversity and turned it into victory. At great physical discomfort, a supreme sacrifice through determination of spirit and national pride, his brother had helped Germany to triumph.

Helmut had been only thirteen when Konrad's favourite mount, Isis, had stumbled and broken her leg. It was a time of great sorrow for him, because he had loved Isis, had often ridden her on their Munziger estate. But Isis had been Konrad's horse and when Isis had to be put down, both he and Konrad had been inconsolable. Kurfürst had been a former racehorse, and it had taken a year to train him to jump. The great black stallion had what Isis didn't have: staying power. Kurfürst had grit, determination, but Kurfürst was also a performer, and therefore at times, capricious. Although, Helmut had to admit, Kurfürst's capriciousness could easily be forgiven as the great stallion, always, without fail, listened to Konrad's voice, getting up when he was down, going forward, trudging through the difficult course of the cross-country event that had bedevilled some of the greatest horses here at the Spiele. Champions they were, but so finicky, they couldn't handle the difficult course that had been designed for the Olympics.

"Konrad is in pain," Frau Ulrike von Wangenheim whispered, but her voice held strange tones of awe, sadness and pride all at once. Sadness that Herr Baron von Wangenheim, who had given her three wonderful children, could not be here to see her son's performance and share the family's pride that her son had done his best for his country.

"But it is a good pain, Ulrike," Grossmutter said with a superior air. "Now he can get to Herr Doktor Schiller who will once again blow his nostrils and fume that his favourite patient has aggravated the injury to his arm for the greater glory of Germany."

"How can pain be good?" Helmut asked, flabbergasted, but not really expecting an answer.

"Grossmutter, you know you do not like Herr Schiller."

"He grows hair in his nostrils," the old woman said to Erika as she folded her arms across her chest, a posture that suggested no one disagree with her statement.

Erika burst into laughter, and Ulrike coughed as she tried to stifle hers.

"You are right, Grossmutter," Helmut said at length. "It is a good pain. Tomorrow we take Kurfürst back to Munziger. Then Konrad can rest properly until his arm has healed before - before…"

"Before what, Helmut?" Frau von Wangenheim asked.

Helmut turned to look at his mother, Konrad and Kurfürst for the moment forgotten. In her eyes he saw the worry which she tried very quickly to disguise, an attempt he thought was futile. He was her son, her youngest child, but he was seventeen, and very soon he'd be called for military duty. He could do manual labour in work camps or on the roads, but Konrad and Grossmutter wanted him to sign up with the army.

"Very soon, Helmut, every young man over the age of eighteen - perhaps even as young as sixteen - will be called for duty to Deutschland."

"Konrad, you speak as if there will be a war soon," Helmut had countered.

"You can depend upon it, Helmut. Do you suppose that der Führer has summoned every young man in the Reich to the Jugend for nothing? What have you not learned about its ideals, my brother?"

Helmut had not wanted to pursue that argument. He cared nothing for war, loved school and his beloved Tannhauser, played piano and was passionate about Munzinger, their estate. He loved the forest and loved the land. He had no inclination to take up arms and kill an innocent person. His friends, who were all members of the Jugend with him, already boasted about their training in combat and the use of weapons so that they could kill off...the enemy. They wanted to be in the thick of war games. He wanted to be in school, learn everything there was to learn. They wanted to learn more about the Schutstafel, he wanted to study the arts and play piano. They went on long hikes, he wanted to go to recitals and ride Tannhauser. Helmut sighed. It was no use complaining. He had to enlist, and that was it. He hoped it would all be over soon so that he could go home and be with his family.

Konrad had joined the cavalry, an elite assembly of Germany's finest horses and horsemen. Konrad had been home only for short periods, time when the two brothers could ride Kurfürst and Tannhauser deep into the forests that surrounded their estate. Those were precious days, but Helmut knew his own days were numbered. Very soon he'd also only return home for weekend passes, short vacations that went by too quickly. Erika and Grossmutter and his mother would then be alone.

Konrad had sometimes been too much like their father when it came to discipline and freedom, and he had not minced his words when it came to accompanying young girls to concerts.

"They are second in your life, Helmut. Remember that."

He could never understand that part about Konrad, and thought his older brother played far too much with the feelings of women. Now he, Helmut, had still to a lot to learn about women and supposed that Konrad who knew everything, was right about them.

Helmut gave a long drawn out sigh. His mother wanted an answer. Why was she waiting when she knew what he was going to say? So, while they waited for Konrad to finish with Herr Doktor Schiller and be congratulated by his team, Frau von Wangenheim's eyes were on Helmut, demanding his response.

"You know I will be called for duty, Mother, as soon as I turn eighteen. Labour camps or army. It's either one or the other."

"Why not the one?"

Because Konrad and Grossmutter would be disappointed if he did not enlist in the army. He loved his mother, but Konrad was the head of the family and his word was law...

"The other..."

"In a month's time," Erika added to his woes.

"We are Germans, Helmut, and we have a duty," Grossmutter said, and Helmut thought her voice didn't sound kind. Why was Grossmutter always on them to do the country proud? Of course he was proud. He had been to Nürmberg two years ago when his Führer had addressed the nation at the Sixth Party Congress, and it was the voice of their leader that added to his great presence, pulsating with patriotic pride.

Yes, he had been proud then, proud to be a member of the Youth.

But, he was also a little afraid.

When he and Konrad were both away from home, what then? He had heard strange stories and seen his great friend Eli Belzinger taken from his class at school. Eli had looked one last time at him, and even now, Helmut could see the eyes of his friend. Eli's eyes had shown not fear, strangely enough, but something else, like a hidden knowledge deep inside him that made him calm. Eli had walked behind Herr Völker as the old teacher strode out of the classroom. Herr Völker had returned minutes later and even now Helmut wondered about the tears he had seen in the old man's eyes.

That was when he became a little afraid. A few days later Helene Maister and Josef Kremer did not arrive at school. It was only then he heard… Helmut looked at his mother whose eyes were shielded.

"Before I sign up for duty, Mutter," Helmut replied finally. Grossmutter grunted and his mother and Erika sighed. They knew that after his birthday they would see very little of him. But for the next few precious weeks they had Munzinger, Konrad, their horses. In short, they would be a family.

How long they would be a family was what remained uncertain. Helmut looked at the entrance of the enclosure and saw Konrad at last reappearing and heading for them. He had a broad smile on his face, walking proudly erect and looking very distinguished in his uniform as he reached them. He appeared to have forgotten his pain, and when he removed his cap in the presence of his mother, sister and grandmother, his hair shone like gold in the sun. Then he turned to face Helmut and said:

"Well, we've done it, haven't we? Germany has triumphed once again."

END THIS CHAPTER

TBC CH. 2