The Soul Of A Thief by Hartov Steven

Author:Hartov, Steven [Hartov, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-04-17T04:00:00+00:00

IX

IN MAY OF 1944, my master betrayed his true love.

Should my words mislead, I ask indulgence for the moment, as I realize that the images that come to the fore are perhaps implausible ones of Himmel spurning Gabrielle Belmont, of even casting her aside for some other of more perfect character and beauty. Yet it should be clear by now that such a deflection of Himmel’s feelings for Gabrielle would not have been possible, for there existed no other creature of her ilk.

No, I speak not here of the waning of Himmel’s romantic passion, nor of the diminution of his lust or longing for a woman. It was his purer love he began to cast away, the one most powerful and seemingly infrangible, the ardor for his rank and his uniform and his honor. And I was stunned to watch him as he planned to betray the army, and turn his back on Germany.

Having been at last released from the field hospital, I returned to the estate and the troop and Himmel with some deep trepidations, for I now carried with me the added burden of Gabrielle’s touch. The horns of my dilemma were sharp and unyielding, for my feelings had to remain secret while I sought improbable resolutions. And so, delivered one bright morning by a rattling army ambulance, I climbed down and hobbled toward the mansion upon a makeshift cane, while my stomach churned and my mind raced like an auto engine with a snapped drive chain. Fruitless fantasies of escape once more surfaced in my mind, until a squad of the troop suddenly appeared from around one corner of the main house.

Friedrich led the welcome party, and while it certainly was no match for the pomp and ceremony once offered Himmel by firelight, my joy at this reception certainly dissolved my quandaries for the moment. The men marched and clapped in unison, singing an SS choir of battle, and despite the early hour they upheld a single, large, foaming tankard of beer. In the midst of this unruly throng was Blitzkrieg, coaxed gently along by Corporal Noss, and his neck was garlanded by a string of wild daisies and his empty saddle held a scabbard and a cavalry blade. When my stallion saw me again, he lifted his head in some wild nods, whinnied loudly and surged forward, and when he butted my forehead with his wet nostrils, the men roared and passed the stein around and pounded me hard enough on the back that my leg nearly collapsed.

Himmel emerged from the house then. He was wearing boots and his uniform trousers and snapping his braces over a long-sleeved undershirt. A cigar was already clamped in his mouth, and he grinned widely when he saw me.

“Brandt!” he yelled. “Thanks be to God!”

The squad turned to him and fell somewhat silent, awaiting some order or remonstration. But the Colonel only jabbed a finger in my direction and boomed, “Five minutes to drink. Then get in here and type.

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