The Shadow of War by Jack Murray (latest ebook reader txt) 📗

‘Wasthat because Herr Sammer was hitting you?’

‘No,sir,’ lied Manfred.

Anangry glint appeared in the eye of Franz Fassbender. He was a man renowned fora very un-Teutonic lack of self-control. His nickname was Franco due to thisLatin-like volatility. His skin even seemed to take on a darker sheen when helost it. That, and a rather unattractive eye-popping anger, gave a diabolicquality to his outburst that was, by turns, frightening, violent and comical,depending on your proximity to its original cause.

‘Standup,’ ordered Fassbender. Manfred did so. ‘Both of you,’ snarled the teacher.

Thesituation was now deteriorating, realised Manfred, and he wasn’t sure if heshould blame himself or Erich. The post-mortem would identify the causes. Fornow they were in trouble. Serious trouble. It was a mess that would extendbeyond the classroom.

Anyhope that his obvious linguistic capability would stand him in good stead wasswiftly put to rest, not just by the malevolent look in Fassbender’s eyes butalso by the fact that he hooked his index finger and thumb around Manfred’sleft ear and proceeded to drag him to the front of the class followed by aworried-looking partner in crime.

Ragemixed with humiliation for Manfred as he stood at the front of the class. Heand Erich were to be made examples of. This happened very rarely for Manfred,more often for the less-academic Erich. Fassbender was notorious as adisciplinarian. The ordeal the boys were about to face was an almost dailyritual for some poor soul. The eyes of the class all looked up at the two boys.The same thought hung in the air over their heads: thank God it’s not me.

Manfredrisked a glance at Diana Landau. She looked horrified. Manfred reddened alittle as their eyes met and he looked away in shame. She stood out from theother girls and not just for her intelligence. Herhair was shorter, with no attempt to tie it into pig-tails or platted inthe manner of the other girls. He’d never spoken to her in the two years shehad been in his class. This was odd as he liked what he saw of her. Suchthoughts ran through his mind as he held out his hand.

Aswish in the air and a stabbing pain. Manfred grimaced but uttered no sound. Hekept his hand out. Experience had taught him that, if you removed it, thismerely served to invite a second helping. Fassbender was moralising as heinflicted violence on the children, but Manfred had stopped listening. He movedoutside himself and observed the situation as if from a seat in a Roman amphitheatre.This crowd bayed in silence. Blood lust in the eyes of the boys. Horror in theeyes of the girls.

Erichstayed silent, too, as the cane lashed his hand. The pain was almostunbearable. The hatred kept him silent. Like Manfred, his hand remainedoutstretched. One question was now front and centre in both their minds. WouldFassbender make it two lashes? There was more than enough precedent to suggesthe would. However, perhaps conscious of time, or maybe Manfred’s previous goodbehaviour, Fassbender ordered the boys back to their seats.

Theclass ended soon after and the two boys trooped out. Rather than renewhostilities, they called a truce and compared their injuries. Both had avicious-red pulsing streak across their palms. Their classmates crowded aroundto see the damage. Whether due to the humiliation or guilt, both boys decidednot to mention the event again.

Whenthe school day ended, Manfred walked back along the village street towards hisfamily house. He followed the same route to and from the school every day. The marketPlatz in the centre of town was full of children and some older boys in brownuniforms. Many were dotted around the war memorial in the middle of thesquare.

Afew minutes later, he arrived at his house. It was large by the standards ofthe village. White plaster and wooden beams painted a vivid red greeted thevisitor and left them in no doubt as to what country they were in. Inside, hisfeet clumped noisily on the wooden floorboards. Thefurniture was also wooden and seemed pre-war in its antiquity: Franco-PrussianWar. The house had a forest of such furniture but felt empty, in Manfred’sview. The high ceilings seemed to create a sense of vastness in the smallest,most cluttered, of rooms.

His mother greeted him with hardly a smile. He walked up to herand kissed her proffered cheek. He said nothing about the events of the day for the reason that he was notasked. The housemaid smiled at him, but she tended to speak only whenaddressed.

‘Howwas your day?’ asked his mother after a few minutes of silence, more out ofduty than actual interest.

‘Fine,’said Manfred, glancing out the window, or was it an escape route. The rat, tat,tat of rain suggested any request to go outside would be denied. He looked upat his mother for inspiration. Her face was drawn. She rarely smiled thesedays. It had not always been so. But now her eyes looked empty, like a drywell. The chill and the grey seemed to have seeped into the house, inhabitingthe foundations, the walls and the people.

Manfredleft her and went to the drawing room. It was full of books with characteristicbindings. He thought about reading but realised he was in no mood. The eventsof earlier had left not just an impression but notjust on his hand. It still throbbed. He went to the sink in the kitchenand bathed it. As he did so, his mind wandered again. He thought of DianaLandau.

Shewas twelve and generally considered the prettiest girl in the class. Darkhaired and dark-eyed, she was exotic not just because she was half-Jewish butalso because her mother was English. Lots of the boys had cast eyes in herdirection once but, of late, this had ceased. Manfred knew why this was so; itwas impossible to ignore and yet still a surprise. He found it difficult toimagine why politics should matter when it came to boys and girls and love.

Thetap must have been running for an age when his reverie was broken by theechoing clump of footsteps outside the kitchen. In the doorway stood hisfather, Peter.

Hisfather was tall and forbidding. He was a serious