AFTER THE ROMANOVS: Russian Exiles in Paris from the Belle Epoque Through Revolution and War by Helen Rappaport is a nonfiction novel about the Russian emigres specifically in Paris from the 1870’s to the early 1930’s. While most people are interested in the history happening in Russia during this time, this is an interesting look at many who fled.
Paris is a city of cultural excellence, fine wine and food, and the latest fashions, but it is also a place of refuge for those fleeing persecution before and after the Russian Revolution and the fall of the Romanov dynasty. For years, Russian aristocrats had enjoyed all that Paris had to offer, spending lavishly when they visited, but the brutality of the Bolshevik takeover forced Russians of all social backgrounds to flee their homeland, sometimes leaving with only the clothes on their backs.
Many former soldiers worked in the manufacturing plants and former princes learned to drive taxicabs and waite tables, while their wives who could sew worked for the fashion houses or set up their own. Talented intellectuals, artists, poets, philosophers, and writers struggled in exile, eking out a living at menial jobs. Some encountered success over time, but it was not always lasting. Political activists sought to overthrow the Bolshevik regime from afar and reestablish the monarchy while double agents on both sides plotted espionage and assassination. Many could not cope and became trapped in a cycle of poverty, depression, and an all-consuming homesickness for the Russian homeland they felt forced to leave.
I found this novel very interesting because I always read about the history in Russia itself and never really considered the refugees other than the few who left and then made names for themselves worldwide after the Revolution. I felt the plight of the refugees is described without bias. Not only did they have to deal with their losses, but the world was dealing with an economic depression at the same time which always makes the acceptance of refugees in another country difficult. The story of the first generation of refugees was depressing and sad, whether you agree with the Revolution or monarchy, due to the human suffering and lost dreams.
This nonfiction book can easily be the stories of refugees anywhere at any time which makes it an important read.
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About the Author
Helen Rappaport is a historian specializing in the Victorian period, with a particular interest in Queen Victoria and the Jamaican healer and caregiver, Mary Seacole. She also has written extensively on late Imperial Russia, the 1917 Revolution and the Romanov family. Her love of all things Victorian springs from her childhood growing up near the River Medway where Charles Dickens lived and worked. Her passion for Russian came from a Russian Special Studies BA degree course at Leeds University. In 2017 she was awarded an honorary D.Litt by Leeds for her services to history. She is also a member of the Royal Historical Society, the Genealogical Society, the Society of Authors and the Victorian Society. She lives in the West Country, and has an enduring love of the English countryside and the Jurassic Coast, but her ancestral roots are in the Orkneys and Shetlands from where she is descended on her father’s side. She likes to think she has Viking blood.
K-9 COLD CASE (K-9 Alaska Book #3, Unsolved Mystery Book #3) by Elizabeth Heiter is another fast-paced, exciting romantic suspense in the Harlequin Intrigue K-9 Alaska series. This book is set in small-town Alaska featuring the chief of police and an FBI Victim Specialist and his therapy dog chasing an unsub who has left the same image at all his crime scenes over the last eight years. This book is part of two series but is easily read as a standalone crime mystery.
Chief of Police Keara Hernandez moved to Desparre, Alaska after the murder investigation of her detective husband in Houston became a cold case six years ago to try and heal. When a bomb goes of in the neighboring town of Luna, Keara offers to assist the FBI agents called in to lead the investigation.
Jax Diallo is an FBI Victim Specialist who travels with his therapy dog, Patches to work with the crime victims as other FBI special agents investigate the crime. As Jax and Keara do their jobs, a second bomb is exploded in Desparre’s public park. Both times a symbol is left behind that Keara recognizes from the pictures of her husband’s cold case. But what do a bomber and a murderer have in common? Also, as they work together, they try to fight the growing attraction they feel for each other.
Jax and Keara try to discover what ties all the cold cases and recent bombings together, but the bomber has Keara in his sights, and he has plans to make Keara a cold case like her dead husband.
I love both Keara and Jax in this book. They are well written and believable with both the pacing of their investigation and their attraction. The crime/suspense plot was well paced with twists that made it exciting and I just kept turning the pages. Of course, I also love the canine companion in each book in this series. This is a gripping romantic suspense with more suspense than romance, but it works in this story.
I highly recommend this addition to the series and I am looking forward to many more by this author!
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About the Author
Publishers Weekly bestselling author ELIZABETH HEITER likes her suspense to feature strong heroines, chilling villains, psychological twists, and a little bit of romance. Her research has taken her into the minds of serial killers, through murder investigations, and onto the FBI Academy’s shooting range. Her novels have been published in more than a dozen countries and eight languages; they’ve also been shortlisted for the HOLT Medallion, National Readers’ Choice, Daphne Du Maurier and Booksellers’ Best awards and won the RT Reviewers’ Choice award.
Elizabeth graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in English Literature. She’s a member of International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America and Romance Writers of America.
FLIRTING AT FIFTY (Modern Love Book #1) by Jane Porter is a women’s fiction/contemporary mature romance mash-up featuring two college professors who are reunited thirty years after a one-night stand in Paris.
Paige Newsom is close to her fiftieth birthday and finally satisfied with her life. A respected mathematics professor in Southern California with three adult daughters which she still has good relationships with even though they are all on their own around the country. She divorced her alcoholic husband eight years previously and has no wish to date ever again.
The head of her department calls her in to his office to tell he she will be dual teaching a class in the fall with a visiting professor due to another teacher’s medical leave. What Paige is not expecting is that her fellow professor is the famous epidemiologist and biologist Jack King. The same Jack King she had a one-night stand in Paris when she was twenty. Memorable for all the wrong reasons. Paige finds the mature Jack just as intriguing and alluring as ever, but she is happy with her life and does not want to open her heart to a man again. Jack wants more of Paige than she may be willing to give.
I am always excited when I can find a story with a mature romance. I found Jack to be wonderful and his reasons for not being married believable due to his professional life. I had a little more difficulty understanding Paige. Her life and tribulations as a mother of grown daughters and her longtime friendship with Elizabeth all rang true for me and I understood why she would be happy single after her terrible marriage, but I found her insecurities overblown especially with her career accomplishments. Her reasons for putting Jack off were the same for much of the story and then very quickly at the ending everything was fine. Other than that, I enjoyed all the secondary characters and the descriptions of the trip to Tanzania. I am looking forward to reading more in this series and discovering who will be featured in the next book.
This is an entertaining women’s fiction/contemporary mature romance read.
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About the Author
Born in Visalia, California, I’m a small town girl at heart. I love central California’s golden foothills, oak trees, and the miles of farmland. In my mind, there’s nothing sweeter in the world than the heady fragrance of orange blossoms on a sultry summer night.
As a little girl I spent hours on my bed, staring out the window, dreaming of far off places, fearless knights, and happy-ever-after endings. In my imagination I was never the geeky bookworm with the thick coke-bottle glasses, but a princess, a magical fairy, a Joan-of-Arc crusader.
My parents fed my imagination by taking our family to Europe for a year when I was thirteen. The year away changed me (I wasn’t a geek for once!) and overseas I discovered a huge and wonderful world with different cultures and customs. I loved everything about Europe, but felt especially passionate about Italy and those gorgeous Italian men (no wonder my first very Presents hero was Italian).
I confess, after that incredible year in Europe, the travel bug bit, and bit hard. I spent much of my high school and college years abroad, studying in South Africa, Japan and Ireland. South Africa remains a country of my heart, the people, the land and politics complex and heart-wrenching.
After my years of traveling and studying I had to settle down and earn a living. With my Bachelors degree from UCLA in American Studies, a program that combines American literature and American history, I’ve worked in sales and marketing, as well as a director of a non-profit foundation. Later I earned my Masters in Writing from the University of San Francisco and taught jr. high and high school English.
I now live in Seattle and Hawaii with my three sons. I never mind a rainy day, either, because that’s when I sit at my desk and write stories about far-away places, fascinating people, and most importantly of all, love. I like a story with a happy ending. We all do.
Dawn Dixon can hardly believe she’s on a groomless honeymoon on beautiful Cape Cod . . . with her mother. Sure, Marnie Dixon is good company, but Dawn was supposed to be here with Kevin, the love of her life (or so she thought).
Marnie Dixon needs some time away from the absolute realness of life as much as her jilted daughter does, and she’s not about to let her only child suffer alone–even if Marnie herself had been doing precisely that for the past month.
Given the circumstances, maybe it was inevitable that Marnie would do something as rash as buy a run-down ice-cream shop in the town’s tightly regulated historic district. After all, everything’s better with ice cream.
Her exasperated daughter knows that she’s the one who will have to clean up this mess. Even when her mother’s impulsive real estate purchase brings Kevin back into her life, Dawn doesn’t get her hopes up. Everyone knows that broken romances stay broken . . . don’t they?
Welcome to a summer of sweet surprises on Cape Cod–a place where dreams just might come true.
THE SWEET LIFE (Cape Cod Creamery Book #1) by Suzanne Woods Fisher is an emotional Christian women’s fiction with romantic elements featuring a mother and daughter who are completely opposite in every way and dealing with personal loss while opening a Cape Cod ice cream shoppe.
Dawn Dixon has always planned every aspect of her life. When her lifelong boyfriend walks away two months before their wedding she is devastated and she learns her mother has been hiding her diagnosis of breast cancer from her, she is lost. Nothing is going as planned.
Dawn decides to take her mother, Marnie with her on her groomless honeymoon to Cape Cod. And Marnie jumps at the chance to not only help Dawn, but to get away from an empty home since the death of her husband almost a year ago.
Marnie has always been a person who makes decisions on feelings rather than facts and plans. She sees a rundown ice cream shoppe that she just feels she needs to buy, and she does. As always, Dawn feels the need to clean up her mother mess, but this mess may not really be a mess but a way for the mother and daughter to connect, heal, and bring a dream to life.
I really enjoyed all the characters in this story. Dawn and Marnie were the ying and yang to each other and as much as they rubbed each other the wrong way, they were definitely what each needed. The relationship worked even when they were mad at each other, they still loved each other. Their emotional growth and understanding of each other throughout the story was what really pulled me in. I liked how the men in their lives were integrated into the story without taking over. Lincoln helped Dawn and Marnie with no expectations, and he was always there when Marnie needed him. Dawn changed the most and with the changes came the understanding of why her relationship with Kevin fell apart and it was with forgiveness and understanding that they were able to move forward. There are Christian references and Bible verses laced throughout the story, but I did not feel they were intrusive or gratuitous. I am looking forward to seeing were this series goes in future books.
I recommend this Christian women’s fiction with romantic elements.
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About the Author
Suzanne Woods Fisher is the bestselling, award winning author of fiction and non-fiction books about the Old Order Amish for Revell Books, host of the radio-show-turned-blog Amish Wisdom, a columnist for Christian Post and Cooking & Such magazine.
Her interest in the Amish began with her grandfather, who was raised Plain. A theme in her books (her life!) is that you don’t have to “go Amish” to incorporate the principles of simple living.
Suzanne lives in California with her family and raises puppies for Guide Dogs for the Blind. To her way of thinking, you just can’t life too seriously when a puppy is tearing through your house with someone’s underwear in its mouth.
THE WAR LIBRARIAN by Addison Armstrong is an emotionally captivating dual timeline historical fiction story featuring two women finding their voices and standing up for what they believe is right against injustice and inequality no matter the personal cost. So much in this historical story mirrors the ongoing moral struggle occurring in current society.
In 1918, Emmaline Balakin works in the Dead Letter Office. An only child, timid and bookish until she discovers a letter bearing a name from her past. It is the spark she needs to break out of her shell and embark on an adventure that takes her to a frontline hospital in France as a volunteer librarian. She reunites with a man from her past, befriends black servicemen and protests banned books as she discovers she is stronger than she believed until the military steps in.
In 1976, Kathleen Carre is eager to prove herself in the first coed class at the U.S. Naval Academy, but not everyone wants women at the Academy. The harassment only makes Kathleen more determined to succeed until the death of her grandmother who raised her almost breaks her. The solitary Kathleen soon finds herself being accused of crimes that could be the end of her dreams at the Academy unless she learns to trust others and uncover a secret from her grandmother’s past.
I loved this story and the strong, independent women characters. I found the history of the voluntary librarians overseas fascinating and the ongoing discussion of banning books relevant, to my dismay, to this day. The integration of women into the service academies occurred when I had just graduated from high school, and I always found those women to be brave leaders in the fight for equality. To read and realize that some of the problems encountered by the female midshipmen still occurs today, almost 50 years later is at times disheartening and at times maddening. This story opens the readers eyes to so many societal issues that are still considered issues and have never been resolved. This is an emotional rollercoaster with great characters that I could not put down.
I highly recommend this dual timeline historical fiction!
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About the Author
I’ve wanted to be an author since I was a five-year old writing stories about talking school supplies and ants getting their revenge on exterminators. While a junior at Vanderbilt University studying elementary education, I wrote my first historical fiction novel, The Light of Luna Park, and sold it to G.P. Putnam’s Sons in January of my senior year. Now that I’ve graduated with my Bachelor’s in Elementary Education and Language & Literacy Studies, as well as a Master’s in Reading Education with an ESL endorsement, I’m teaching third grade English language learners in Nashville and continuing to write.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE LAST OF THESEVEN by Steven Hartov on the HTP Books Summer Historical Fiction Blog Tour.
Below you will find an about the book section, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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About the Book
A spellbinding novel of World War II based on the little-known history of the “X Troop” – a team of European Jews who escaped the Continent only to join the British Army and return home to exact their revenge on Hitler’s military.
A lone soldier wearing a German uniform stumbles into a British military camp in the North African desert with an incredible story to tell. He is the only survivor of an undercover operation meant to infiltrate a Nazi base, trading on the soldiers’ perfect fluency in German. For this man is not British born but instead a German Jew seeking revenge for the deaths of his family back home in Berlin.
As the Allies advance into Europe, the young lieutenant is brought to Sicily to recover, where he’s recruited by a British major to join to newly formed “X Troop,” a commando unit composed of German and Austrian Jews, training for a top-secret mission at a nearby camp in the Sicilian hills. They are all “lost boys,” driven not by patriotism but by vengeance. Drawing on meticulous research into this unique group of soldiers, The Seventh Commando is a lyrical, propulsive historical novel perfect for readers of Mark Sullivan, Robert Harris, and Alan Furst.
THE LAST OF THE SEVEN by Steven Hartov is an emotionally intense WWII historical fiction story featuring the fictional portrayal of a member of the historical “X Troop” who were a group of European Jews trained for covert operations by the British Army and sent behind enemy lines.
Lieutenant Bernard Froelich stumbles upon a British military camp wounded, dehydrated and barely alive after having escaped a Nazi camp in North Africa. He has traveled across the desert on an unbelievable journey. He is the only survivor of an undercover operation.
This is the story of Froelich’s odyssey of survival, loss, love, and vengeance as a Jew of German origin during WWII. The author paints beautiful and at times stark word pictures of every location of Froelich’s journey. I felt as though I was right along with him in every location and in every harrowing scene were he could have been killed. The author’s extensive research is evident throughout the story. I felt this story is important for readers to realize that there were Jewish commandos fighting the Nazis even as they faced antisemitism from some in the British army they served bravely.
I highly recommend this historical fiction based on an amazing troop of men during WWII.
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Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
North Africa, Spring 1943
In the Sahara, the sun could make a man bleed.
It was hard to believe at first, especially if you’d ever trekked a frigid winter landscape somewhere, boots slogging through alpine snow, limbs shivering and aching bone deep. It was a challenge to imagine it, such a murderous sun, when December memory recalled teeth chattering like a Morse code key, toes and fingers numbed and raw, eyebrows stiff with frost, till all at once that blessed star emerged from charcoal clouds to save the day.
The sun was a holy thing then. The breath of God on your frozen face.
Ah, but in the vastness of that empty desert, when spring fell prey to cruel summer, when the cloudless sky was nothing but a silver mirror, the sand an iron griddle, and there was not a tree or cave or cactus to throw a shadow’s sliver. Nowhere to run from the sun. It was then that heaven’s jewel became a hunting thing, its furnace eye unblinking, merciless, and pounding.
You could shade your skull with a cap, drape your blistered neck with burlap, but still you had to see your path as your squinting eyes filled with flies who’d found the only liquid in the land. The lancing light bounced off the dunes to slowly broil your face, lips turned plaster white and split, and the oils of your nose and cheeks fried patches there like poultry on a spit. And then, the crow’s-feet wrinkles at the corners of your bleary vision turned to brittle parchment, until at last they cracked, and the most unnatural happened…
The man across the dunes was weeping tears of brine and blood. But they were not of sorrow or self-pity, for all of his emotions had hollowed out so many weeks ago. They were simply the last vestiges of all the fluid he had left, squeezed from the ducts by that relentless sun.
He was small there in the distance, and nearly weightless now, though from the way he moved it seemed he wore a yoke of iron. He was no more than an upthrust child’s thumb against the umber sands, shimmering in the steaming light of the fata morgana, an illusion where horizon met the sky.
He wore a Bedouin burnoose, tight about his oily blond curls and rough against his bristled jaw. His German staff sergeant’s tunic was girded with white salt lines of evaporated sweat, a single bandolier of ammunition, and the lanyard of a camel skin water bladder, now shriveled like an ancient’s scrotum, nothing left. One Feldwebel rank was on his collar, his Afrika Korps palm-tree shoulder patch was bleached into a ghost, and in one pocket were two lizard tails he’d chewed from time to time, though all the meat was spent. The right waist of his tunic was punched through with a bullet hole, its fringes black with dried blood, and in the left thigh of his trousers was another one just like it, the reason for his crooked limp.
In his dangling right hand, below a ragged sleeve, he clutched a German MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol, barrel down, its leather strap dragging through the sand. His left hand held nothing, the nut-brown fingers capped with broken nails with which he’d tried and failed to dig some water from the heart of a dying oasis. His breaths rattled like an asthmatic’s, yet he came on, another half an hour, another mile.
A pair of British soldiers from Montgomery’s Eighth Army watched him. They knelt behind a berm of sandbags, Tommy helmets buckled tight, sleeves rolled up and neat, shorts revealing sun-browned thighs above knee socks and tanker’s boots. They were alone, the western guards of a garrison south of Medenine, Tunisia, and they raised their bayoneted Enfield rifles to bear down on the stranger, like twins who often read each other’s minds.
At twenty feet the German sergeant stopped, unmoving, only breathing. The Cockney Tommy on the left aimed the rifle at his chest.
“Drop the bloody Schmeisser.”
The German jolted, as if surprised to hear a voice aside from his own mutterings to himself, unsure if these two Brits were real or cruel mirage. Yet he obeyed, as after all he knew it didn’t matter. The machine pistol was choked with grit and only the first shell would have fired. He opened his fingers and let the gun slip, like the hand of a dying lover, and it fell to the sand and was still.
The Tommy on the right said, “Hände hoch.” Hands up. He was a Scot and it came out as “Handerr hook.”
The German tried, but he couldn’t raise his arms higher than his waist, and his leather palms fluttered there above the sand like a maestro urging his musicians to play the passage pianissimo. His cracked lips formed a trembling “O,” though no sound emerged, and he mouthed Water, and then again—a goldfish with its face pressed to the glass of an aquarium. The Scot, keeping his Enfield trained, pulled a tin canteen from his battle harness.
“Don’t go near him, Robbie,” warned the Tommy on the left.
The Scot pitched the water bottle, cricket-style, where it pinged against a rock before the German’s boots. But the man could hardly bend his wounded leg and leaned in half a fencer’s lunge, snatching the canteen two-handed. He unscrewed the cap and brought it, shaking, to his mouth, and raised his face to heaven as the water gushed into his swollen gullet and dribbled from his filthy beard. His body trembled, and he looked at the two men and said, in nearly perfect British English, “I am not a German.”
The Tommies glanced at one another, then back at their intruder.
“You don’t say, Klaus?” the Cockney said to him.
“Looks like a bleedin’ Jerry to me, Harry,” the Scot growled to his partner.
“He’s bleedin’ all right, mate,” said Harry sideways. “Got a couple of nicks.”
“Nicks?” Robbie snorted. “Coupla hefty caliber holes. Can hardly see `em for the flies.”
Cockney Harry craned his neck to peer beyond the German’s head.
“You all alone, mate?”
“Six others,” the German managed in a brittle whisper.
“Don’t see ’em.”
“All dead.”
“Right,” said Robbie. “And where’d ye come from then?”
The German dropped the canteen. His fingers wouldn’t hold it.
“Borj el-Khadra, by way of Tobruk.”
“Bollocks,” Harry spat. “That’s three hundred miles.” He thrust his buckled chin above the sea of endless dunes. “Across that.”
For a long moment, the trio regarded one another like drunkards sizing up opponents for a brawl. The Tommies watched the German’s hands, for they hadn’t searched him yet, while for his part he struggled to stay upright. Cockney Harry gestured at Robbie the Scot, but only with his head.
“Fire the Very pistol, Robbie. Green flare, not red. Let’s have the captain up here for a chat.”
Aside from Robbie’s flare, which arced into the silver sky and fell to earth somewhere, the trio stayed immobile until at last a throaty engine loomed. A four-wheeled open command car appeared from the north, its peeling fuselage bristling with petrol jerrycans, pickaxes, and Bren light machine guns snouted at the sky. It spewed a cloud of dust as it hove to and an officer dismounted, his captain’s cap stained with sweat, Webley pistol lanyarded to a holster. His left hand tapped a swagger stick against his muscled calf while his right fingers smoothed a short mustache. His large driver followed close, hefting a Thompson submachine gun.
The captain ambled up and stopped, his bloodshot eyes squinting at the strange tableau. Robbie the Scot turned and dipped his helmet brim, but Harry kept his rifle trained, and there were no salutes.
“What’s all this then, lads?” the captain said.
“Captured us an Afrika Korps infiltrator, sir,” said Harry.
“Sneaky desert serpent,” Robbie sneered.
“Good show then.” The captain nodded and scanned the prisoner head to foot. “Right. Summon a firing party.”
Harry turned and looked at his commander.
“Execution, sir?”
“Affirmative, Corporal.” The captain flicked his stick toward a distant rise. “And let’s stake his corpse on that hill. Perhaps it shall keep the other vultures at bay.”
“Yessir,” said the captain’s driver, and he turned back for the car to muster up a firing squad.
The captain wasn’t barbarous, but more than worn and weary, and his men were not quite sure if he was serious or bluffing. In the past few weeks, despite the routing of the Germans in the westward push for Tunisia, spies of every kind had probed his lines, including one Bedouin woman. They were often followed by marauding Stuka fighter-bombers. He’d lost four men, most painfully his major whom he’d buried and replaced, and had a fifth now dying in a tent, legless and weeping for his mother. So much, he thought, for Erwin Rommel’s “Krieg ohne Hass,” war without hate.
“I am not a German.” The intruder spoke again, and his voice spasmed with the effort.
The captain raised his chin. His driver stopped and turned. The prisoner’s accent was British, yet with a certain Berlin curl.
“That’s quite a claim,” the captain said, “given your costume.”
“He told us that shite too, sir,” said Robbie.
“Says he hoofed it from Borj el-Khadra,” Harry said. “By way of Tobruk, no less.”
The captain raised a palm to hush his men and squinted at the prisoner.
“What are you, then?”
The prisoner tried to swallow. The water hadn’t been enough. It would never be enough. His body quaked in feverish ripples now, his ragged clothing fluttering like gosling feathers. It was the proximity of rescue, now turned to sudden death, coupled with his famish, thirst, and wounds.
“SIG,” he said, tunneling in his delirium for the words. “Combined Operations.”
The captain raised an eyebrow. Harry asked him, “What’s ess-eye-gee, sir?”
“Special Interrogation Group.” The captain stroked his mustache corners. “Top secret commando unit, attached to LRDG and SAS. Mostly German Jews, but they were all killed at Tobruk, and that was many months ago.”
“Not I,” the prisoner croaked. His right hand reached into his tunic. The captain fumbled for his Webley and the Tommies’ Enfields stiffened, as the prisoner fetched a pair of British identification disks, one green, one amber, like autumn leaves on a threadbare lanyard, and they fell against his chest.
The captain glanced at them, and at the hollow bearded face again.
“Tobruk, you say. And where’ve you been since then…allegedly?”
“Captured. Escaped a month ago, or two, perhaps, I think.”
“You think.” The captain closed his fists and put them to his garrison belt. “And why, pray tell, if you were in this uniform, were you not executed as a spy? Those are Hitler’s orders, after all.”
“Because I had tea with Erwin Rommel,” the prisoner said, yet without a hint of irony that the German field marshal would have thusly intervened.
“Had a pint meself with Churchill just last week,” the captain’s driver quipped. The Tommies laughed, but the captain didn’t. There was something in the prisoner’s eyes—a sincerity of madness, or truth.
“What’s your name and rank?” he asked.
“Froelich, Bernard, second lieutenant.” He pronounced his given name as “Bern-udd” and his rank as “left-tenant.” Then he added, “Six seven two, four five seven.”
The captain produced a small pad and pencil from his tunic pocket—ink was useless in the desert. He wrote the details down, tore the page off and flicked it over his shoulder for the driver, his eyes never leaving the desperate gleaming blue ones there before him. They were bleeding from the ducts, but he’d seen that once or twice before.
“Sergeant Stafford,” he ordered, “take this to the wireless tent and have Binks get onto Cairo. Tell them we’ll need our answer double quick.”
The driver sped off amidst a cloud of dust, but his return was far from quick. A grueling fifteen minutes passed, while the prisoner teetered on his feet. He could no longer keep his head erect, and he fought to stay awake and straight. He told himself he’d stood this way before, for hours in formations, and he dredged up images of bucolic pleasures, the Danube and the Rhine, and even Galilee. He longed for rain and felt its kisses on his face, while rivulets of something else crawled down his beard and touched the corners of his mouth. But he tasted only brine, and then the armored car returned.
He raised his chin as the driver handed back the paper to the captain, who perused it, then spoke again.
“Lieutenant Froelich, if that’s you,” he said, “do you remember your last passwords?”
“I shall try,” the prisoner whispered as he stumbled through his memory, unsure if he could find the thing to save him from a bullet.
“If I said Rothmans cigarettes,” the captain posed, “what would you say?”
The prisoner’s sunburned brow creased deeply like a cutlass scar.
“I’d tell you I don’t like them, sir…that I fancy Players Navy Cut instead.”
The captain nodded, and offered his first thin smile of the week.
“That is correct.”
And Froelich slumped to his knees in the sand, a collapsed marionette, strings cut. And then he slipped from consciousness and toppled forward, knuckles in the desert, his palms turned up to the sun he hated.
“Fetch a stretcher, lads,” the captain said. “It’s him. He’s the last of them. He’s the seventh.”
Excerpted from My Last of the Seven @ 2022 by Steven Hartov, used with permission by Hanover Square Press.
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About the Author
Steven Hartov is the coauthor of the New York Times bestseller In the Company of Heroes, as well as The Night Stalkers and Afghanistan on the Bounce. For six years he served as Editor-in-Chief of Special Operations Report. He has appeared on CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, FOX, and most recently the History Channel’s Secret Armies. A former Merchant Marine sailor, Israeli Defense Forces paratrooper and special operator, he is currently a Task Force Commander in the New York Guard. He lives in New Jersey.
