Edward Klein has an obsession. Before he dies of cancer in the mid-1960s, he wants to tell his grandson about his life and something more. But before he can do that he has to take a trip though his past. His combat stress syndrome, stimulated by sights, sounds, and smells, causes him to relive his life from boyhood in the Ukraine living in the German colonies to fighting on the ramparts of Verdun and participating in the revolutions of 1918 -1921. Tempering this trip are the trails and tribulations of two marriages.

The Scent of Roses in Winter

By Michael P. Kihntopf

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Michael P. Kihntopf
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-8037-6

Chapter One

The apples look good this time of year. I planted two trees in my backyard when I built the house thirty years ago. The apples' green skins glisten in the sunshine just like they did when I was eight in the Ukraine. How hungry I was that day. Being part of a good German family, meal times were set for certain hours and there was no exception. Not even a young boy's need for a boundless amount of food to grow on could change those set hours to eat. Snacks were out of the question unless one was ingenious enough to find something like those apples. A short climb and I was up in the middle of a green sea. A gentle breeze brushed across the leaves giving the illusion of waves rushing toward me. The apples bobbed like clumps of seaweed. As I reached for one of the globes my mind raced ahead to the first bite. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tartness expected from green apples but my common sense reminded me of the last time I ate green apples. The stomach pains were unbearable and I was the brunt of many an adult joke as I raced off to the privy suddenly and often. My hand involuntarily withdrew from the picking and my mouth dried to a Sahara like condition. But I was hungry, I had insisted to myself. I reached out again as a noise at the bottom of the tree drew my attention. I sat very still. At the base of the tree was an older boy dressed in workman's tattered clothing. He was of average height for a teenager but he was extremely muscular. He looked to the right and then the left, never up where he would have seen me, grasped a lower limb on the opposite side of the tree and easily swung himself up on to the same level as I was on not more than two meters away from my perch. Then he settled himself and shuffled his hands against his trousers to remove loose bark and dust. I remained motionless and soundless watching him with great curiosity. He was the first worker I had come this close to. As he inspected his hands to evaluate their cleanliness his eyes looked beyond the fingernails to see me sitting opposite of him. His balance shifted from one of rest to one of flight but before the motion could go into effect, he realized I was only a boy. He fell nevertheless. He hit the ground with a thump landing flat on his back. He made no movement. He just laid there. I thought I had killed him and swung down in morbid curiosity to see the corpse up close. As I neared him I heard the distinctive groan of death.

"There's the last exhale", I said to myself and got nearer. I leaned over the face expecting to see the half open eyes of death. A hand seized my dangling arm.

"Help me up", the corpse said in Russian. I knew my face had paled because the dead boy continued, "I'm not hurt. Breath was knocked out of me. Help me up." I put out my hand but found the boy too heavy for me to do any good. He rolled over on his side, groaned, got to his knees and then rose gradually. He stood a half meter taller than me, a little intimidating but the fear vanished when he smiled. "I'm Nestor." I told him my name and he smiled. "One of the foreigners", he said with a tinge of resentment in his voice.

"I was born here just like you", I said in Russian. At the time I decided to forget how my mother kept telling me that I was not Russian or Ukrainian but German, a part of the colonies that had settled in the Ukraine at the request of the Tsarina Catherine in the 18th century. Nestor simply smiled broader.

"No matter. You scared me. I thought you were a tree spirit or something. Too late I realized you were a thief like me".

"These are my uncle's trees. I am not a thief!"

"Oh, then I am. But I think you are as hungry as me. What say we team up and get ourselves some apples? I won't tell on you and you don't tell on me." I eagerly agreed. The excitement of almost seeing a corpse had made the hunger pains even fiercer. I fell in with his plan. Being taller and older, Nestor got up to the higher branches where the apples were riper and less apt to give us belly aches later. He deftly reached out among the thinner branches, snatched the apples and dropped them to my waiting hands. As I watched him get ready to descend, someone called my name. Through the trees I could see my uncle approaching. An apple hit me in the head.

"Was machts du, Edward?" The figure recognized me. He was a ways off but his purposeful stride brought him closer quickly. "Getting green apples again? Didn't you learn your lesson last time? Your mama will blame me for letting you have them and I'll catch the devil for it. Are you by yourself?"

"Da, Tyotya," I shouted to alert Nestor to remain still. In my mind's eye I saw Nestor freeze and try to hide among the leaves. I quickly picked up two apples and ran toward my uncle so he wouldn't come near the tree and see Nestor. Stealing apples from the Germans meant jail regardless of age.

The apples I was so admiring in my backyard are under attack. Four boys came from the alley. I have no fence to stop them from entering my property. I never needed one. They are different sizes, dirty, and not as quiet as they should be considering what they have in mind. The taller one looks familiar. Where have I seen that face before? There is a rustle of cloth behind me and I know what's coming next.

"Klein, what are you doing?" It was the sergeant. "Have you got your ammunition? Those Brits aren't going to shower you with kisses when you go to visit." It bothered me that he was giving me directions. I had been in the trenches for over six months and he had just arrived two weeks ago as a replacement. He was Landstrum, third line reserves. His age showed in his stooped shoulders and broad middle. The heavy casualties among noncommissioned officers in the first few months of war had forced the regiment to put older soldiers among the units. He was much too old to be out here in the trenches. The wisps of grey hair at his temples gave him a grandfather look rather than a fierce man slayer. He should have been assigned to guard bridges or prisoners of war at home. But he had volunteered to come out here to be close to his son who had been in the next company. When the sergeant arrived he was told his son had been wounded and sent home permanently. The sergeant was stuck in this muck while his son, if he survived his wounds, would do guard duty at home.

"Edward, who are those children," she demanded. "What are they doing? Why are they in our yard? Is that your grandson? The tall one. Do something instead of sitting here at the window and just watching. Chase them away." I resented her too. A native born American, she came from strict German parents and spoke the language like a native. She had all the prejudices that Americans came with. How I tried to educate her but to no avail. She had her own bedroom and I had to ask permission even to touch her much less crawl into her bed.

"Yes, sergeant, I'm ready to go. This should be a really good show. We'll teach them to take us for granted." The old man liked to hear that type of talk. He wanted revenge but not for the harm done to his son. He wanted revenge for his decision. It was the enemy's fault that he was in the muck of the trenches. He walked on to the next soldier to ask the same questions. I relaxed and checked to make sure I had told the truth. Despite the early October coolness I was beginning to sweat. Just like those apples to give me a stomach ache and the runs. Constricting the muscles always caused me to sweat. I looked into the wake of the sergeant to see Constantine looking intently at me. Brothers shouldn't be posted to the same company much less the same section. If both of us got it, mother would never understand. At least she wouldn't have to worry about paying for a double funeral. Taking coins from her purse for anything always made her angry. The army would take care to wrap us in a sheet and throw us in with fifty or sixty others and then neatly cover us up.

The barrage began. Even though it was pitch black above our heads, I involuntarily looked up to see if I could distinguish a passing shell. The soldier next to me, Emil Dortmeyer, did the same thing as did the one next to him, Dieter Franz. It's unfair to say we considered ourselves the three musketeers; that happened in romantic novels. We had been trainees together and knew some of each others' secrets but we didn't share ourselves. Instead we were trench mates who depended on one another to survive. We came from different parts of Germany as well as different occupations and classes. Off duty we didn't chum around. We were too different. Dortmeyer, with his huge muscles and short legs, was a farmer while Franz, the lanky and tall, was a top form student. The farmer talked about the soil and the harvest. The student talked about poets and Bach. I talked about how to make light pastries that melted in a customer's mouth leaving hints of flavor. Nevertheless, there we were the three of us looking up into the dark sky expecting to see arcing shells headed toward the enemy. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Constantine move. Looking at him I could see him chuckling with internal laughter as he shook his head in that fatherly fashion of his. He had been a carpenter and a father of two boys.

"Just when I think I've forgotten how my children acted I look at you fellows and it all comes back", he whispered. "It's two in the morning, how do you expect to see anything?" he asked in mocking tones. Sheepishly, we all leveled our heads and stared forward into the trench's wall. We stood like schoolboys sentenced to face the wall by the head master as punishment for some rule infraction. Franz's hooked nose fairly dug into the trench's dirt side its exhale disturbing the dirt and giving the impression that it was in fact digging in. Constantine thought the same thing as I had and almost burst into laughter just as the first shells exploded a few hundred meters in front of our trench. His laughter was drowned out. As I said, brothers should not be assigned to the same company or platoon. The only good thing about having him close was the way he broke the tension before the fight. Still, couldn't he have gotten another job?

The explosions became more numerous as time went on. The short quick pings of the light artillery were punctuated by the huge bangs of heavy trench mortars. Mortar shells were as big as ashcans. My thoughts were not those of pity for the receivers of such hate. I was more worried about the rounds that would fall short and into our trenches. For some reason, when one shell fell short it was immediately followed by several more. After the battle, there were always apologies but the dead didn't hear the soothing words or rise back to life as if they were mistakenly fouled during a game and allowed to return to play again. The artillery men normally claimed that the cannons' barrels were worn or the powder was not as powerful as it should be. We always smelled a conspiracy. Those were good excuses for one cannon but not for those from the rest of the battery. The ground was beginning to shake. Dirt from the top of the trench began falling on me. How long would the bombardment last? How many shells were enough to make our job easier once we got into their trench? Would we find stunned young men willing to give themselves up for the sake of ending the war sooner? I shuttered to think of the alternative to that happy picture.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks in her impatient tone. She can't abide with my wait and see attitude toward life. I make decisions once all the facts are in. Was my grandson doing any damage? Was he going to harm me? If I let him and his friends steal a few green apples wouldn't I get the last laugh when he got the dreaded stomach cramps and had to sit in the toilet for hours on end? But her impatient tone is beginning to sound as shrill as a whistle.

The lieutenant's whistle pierced the sound of the exploding artillery shells. "Step off, second platoon!" he shouted. The machine guns had begun their tac — tac cover fire. This was more than just a simple raid as we had been led to believe. I placed my rifle on the parapet and crawled up the trench wall using the footholds we had carved in it.

Once in the fields and away from the apple tree grove the air seemed fresher, less confining. My uncle, with his long legs and determined step, had outdistanced me for which I was glad. I turned to see Nestor drop to the ground and, keeping low, make for the road. Once he achieved the road and safety, he waved. I turned to catch up with my uncle and ask him some impossible question which made him think I was more mature than my age. When we got home, he would crow like a rooster about his nephew's intelligence and ask his brother when he was going to send me to relatives in Germany to get a proper education. He treated me as a son since he had only daughters. He would also mention a forbidden subject to illustrate just how smart I was. The topic was how well I spoke Russian. Mama would get upset and agree with the brother-in-law about sending me off before I went native and forgot my Teutonic origin. Papa would defend himself by pointing to Constantine and Michael who were five and three years older and say that they had not forgotten and knew Russian just as well. The conversation would end with Papa asking Mama if there was enough money to send me to Germany. She would huff and puff and say something about saving every penny for a rainy day and go back to the kitchen leaving the men to smile at one another in a knowing fashion. Mama didn't like to part with any wealth no matter how small or for what cause.

Five steps down from the kitchen I rattle the back door more than is necessary and pull it open with an exaggerated Herculean effort. I know she is watching my every move with her American impatience for action. The crisp fall air washes over me seeping in behind my neck and raising the short hairs. It is a liberation from the heat and dust contained in the house. The delay and noise have done the trick. The boys are running into the alley. I try to call out to my grandson but the tones from my throat are an indistinguishable gurgle.

The air outside the trench was foul smelling and oppressing. It tasted of rotten meat laced with stagnant water and human excrement. There was nothing liberating about it as I had half expected. The trenches reeked of urine and dirt but only occasionally smelled of rotting flesh. What added to the rancor of the trenches was the lack of ventilation. Every smell stayed in the confines of the narrow holes. Once out of the hole, I had expected to feel the wind in my face. Instead, the air was as still as the tomb. The only breezes were caused by exploding shells and those were hot and breathe consuming. I ran forward, stumbling over debris in the dark and watching for shell holes that appeared as if by magic in front of me. Vaguely I saw the rest of the platoon also advancing. Constantine had veered toward me. Big brothers were supposed to protect the little ones. Bullets skipped merrily around us kicking up small explosions of dirt where they landed or dinging off the debris I tried so hard to avoid. The black sky was interrupted by a colored meteor shower as the enemy's communication flares rose up and arced above our heads. The landscape was eerily lit in a myriad of colors revealing men with long shadows racing every which way. I was reminded of the demons dancing in Dante's Inferno. The varied flare colors were pleas by the front line fighters for support from their rear lines. The support came a few seconds later as machine gun fire increased and light artillery shells began exploding all along no-man's land. I got the impression that the raid extended along a two or three kilometer line. Constantine reached my left side. The noise from the enemy's artillery mixed with ours was deafening. Shrapnel eddied in the air above us. Luckily, the shells were exploding too high and the bullets were losing their velocity before hitting us. They only pierced our coats and sounded like hailstones banging on our helmets. We knew this miscalculation on their part wouldn't last long. Already we could hear the sound of approaching trains. Those were the heavy artillery shells that exploded into great shards of metal that tore limbs from men or simply vaporized them. Two exploded well behind me. The gunners were trying to find the range. Desperately I looked for a place to hide once they got the range and as a result tripped over a line of exposed barbed wire. Constantine moved on for a few steps and then stopped and turned to see what had happened to me. I struggled to my feet, retrieved my rifle and waved Constantine forward. It wasn't good to stop. Already Dortmeyer and Franz had reached the enemy's barbed wire. Our artillery had leveled some of it but the majority of it was jumbled into a dense mess that impeded our progress. As I arrived, Franz had his wire cutters out and was snipping away. Dortmeyer was pointing his rifle at the enemy trench to insure no one would shoot them. I got my clippers out and joined in. Constantine became my guard.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Scent of Roses in Winterby Michael P. Kihntopf Copyright © 2010 by Michael P. Kihntopf. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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