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.
Please Join Us by Catherine McKenzie delves into secret organizations, hidden agendas, and how someone can take back control over their life.
At thirty-nine, Nicole Mueller’s life is on the rocks. Her once brilliant law career is falling apart. She and her husband, Dan, are soon to be forced out of the apartment they love. After a warning from her firm’s senior partners, she receives an invitation from an exclusive women’s networking group, Panthera Leo. Membership is anonymous, but every member is a successful professional. It sounds like the perfect solution to help Nicole revive her career. So, despite Dan’s concerns that the group might be a cult, Nicole signs up for their retreat in Colorado.
Once there, she meets the other women who will make up her Pride. A CEO, an actress, a finance whiz, a congresswoman: Nicole can’t believe her luck. The founders of Panthera Leo are equally as impressive. They explain the group’s core philosophy: they’re a girl’s club in a boy’s club world.
Nicole is all in. And when she gets home, she soon sees dividends. Her new network quickly provides her with clients that help her relaunch her career, and a great new apartment too. The favors she must provide in return seem benign. But then she’s called to the congresswoman’s apartment late at night where she’s pressed into helping her cover up a crime. And suddenly, Dan’s concerns that something more sinister is at play seem all too relevant. Nicole questions if joining Panthera Leo was the biggest mistake of her life and wonders how to extricate herself from the group.
Readers will be reminded of the problems women face at work, the Me-Too movement, networking, marriage, blending private and public lives, which are all part of this thriller.
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Author Interview
Elise Cooper: How did you get the idea for the story?
Catherine McKenzie: I received an email many years ago inviting me to a women’s networking group with different professions. I was told I was recommended by someone although they would not tell me who. I thought if I decided to do it everything would then be made clear to me. However, I did not keep that email. I did not go partly because my husband said it was crazy. Some of the professions are intricate to the plot.
EC: What is the theme?
CM: Feminism is a theme. There is still a long way to go with the old boys’ network. It is underground, but still there. They are less overt now. I put in this quote, “If you need anything you come to this group. To your Pride… women don’t need to fight for their dominance; they join willingly to achieve the best result for all.” This is the mantra of the book. There is a stereotype that women are competitive with each other. This is because usually there is only one woman around the board table. If another woman comes in, they are perceived as a rival. I do think men pit women against each other. Everyone is socialized to be super critical and observant of women’s behavior. I do not think women are cattier or more aggressive around other women.
EC: How would you describe Nicole?
CM: A hard worker who is super smart. Mono-focused. She has put everything into her career without many friends. She wanted to be the best for her job. After her dreams were not realized she felt very vulnerable. She can be self-centered and insensitive at times. She does like her comforts.
EC: How would you describe the husband, Dan?
CM: He goes along to get along. He is a good person. Dan is OK with being second fiddle in their relationship and allows Nicole to take control and make decisions. He was the direct opposite of Nicole. Very easy going and laid back, charming, cautious, and kind. What I did in this book and other novels is to put women in the roles occupied by men and vice-versa.
EC: What about the LEO organization?
CM: It has CULT vibes. The women in charge of it use some of the techniques of a cult to control the others. They become all the people in Nicole’s life and discourage her to go outside the group. They do the providing. They are manipulative, dominant, demand loyalty, and obedience.
EC: You were brave for bringing up Covid-19 in this story?
CM: I struggled with it. I wrote it in 2020 but knew it was coming out in 2022. I thought about my different options: do I pretend it never existed, or do I consider it over. I thought that I was not going to skip over it entirely. I did want it to exist.
EC: Any movies or TV shows on the horizon?
CM: This book has been optioned for a TV series. My book, I Never Tell was also optioned. Nothing has been announced yet.
EC: The next book?
CM: It is titled, Have You Seen Her, about a search and rescue worker in Yosemite. It will be out in June next year.
THANK YOU!!
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BIO: Elise Cooper has written book reviews and interviewed best-selling authors since 2009. Her reviews have covered several different genres, including thrillers, mysteries, women’s fiction, romance and cozy mysteries. An avid reader, she engages authors to discuss their works, and to focus on the descriptions of their characters and the plot. While not writing reviews, Elise loves to watch baseball and visit the ocean in Southern California, with her dog and husband.
Today is my turn to share my Feature Post and Book Review for OPERATION LIGHTNING BOLT by Hilary Green on this Books ‘n’ All Promotions Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book description, my book review and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Description
A British secret agent must face her greatest nightmare to unravel a dangerous mystery — if she is to save her country from its worst enemies.
Hampshire, 1943.
Katherine Isobel ‘Kim’ Maxwell has been languishing in the ‘cooler’ up in Scotland in what she sees as punishment for getting caught — and tortured — by the Nazis, before being freed by Resistance fighters and smuggled back into England. Now she is sent for by the head of SOE. This is her chance to prove herself.
A fellow agent has been found murdered. The victim had a very special function in their training plan for secret agents, at the SOE finishing school, Palace House in Beaulieu. Her last ‘student’ was a nervous trainee called Lucien who was sent to France as a radio operator — and almost immediately captured by the Nazis.
Kim is ordered to run an internal investigation into Lilian’s murder. She soon discovers that there is every indication that Lilian heard something she shouldn’t have and that her murder was a warning: her ears were plugged with hot sealing wax before she died. Kim also spots a strange zigzag pattern on the wall above the bed where Lilian was found, which Lilian drew using her own blood as she lay dying.
Aided by Roland, aka the Red Fox, a new recruit with a shady past of his own, she begins to uncover a plot that extends far beyond the secretive world of SOE.
But in order to expose this dangerous web of deceit, Kim must go back into the heart of occupied France — and into the hands of the enemy . . .
OPERATION LIGHTNING BOLT OPERATION KINGFISHER TWICE ROYAL LADY APHRODITE’S ISLAND
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My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
OPERATION LIGHTNING BOLT by Hilary Green is a WWII historical mystery set in both France and England featuring a dogged young female spy in a race to uncover a plot on English soil that could change the outcome of the war. This is a standalone mystery full of intrigue and mystery.
Lieutenant Katherine “Kim” Maxwell is a member of the SOE. She has been recuperating in Scotland since her retrieval by the French Resistance from her Nazis captors. When a friend and fellow agent is found murdered, Kim is sent by Brigadier Colin “M” Gubbins to investigate in the guise of a teacher at her old spy school.
Kim is aided by one of her students, Roland “Foxy” and they uncover a shadow group of Nazi sympathizers who are ready to attempt a change in the English government at the very top and the English position in the war.
This historical mystery has fully drawn main characters that were interesting, and I was sorry to see their storyline end. Kim is a smart and spirited main character who was just as able as any male spy in this book which I enjoyed. She did not wait for a rescue from her romantic interest. The mystery plot itself is well paced and has some twists, but it was also easy to anticipate many of the pivotal plot points. That said, it was a well-researched historical novel and a very enjoyable read with engaging characters that I am sorry to say goodbye to.
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Author Bio
Hilary trained for the stage at the Rose Bruford college but then decided to go into teaching. She spent many years teaching drama and theatre studies in a variety of schools, from a girl’s boarding school in Kent to Comprehensives in London and on the Wirral. It was there that she had the great pleasure of guiding Daniel Craig’s first steps towards stardom.
She also founded and ran a Youth Theatre Company in Epsom, Surrey. She has a B.Ed (First Class) from Liverpool University and an MA Writing from Liverpool John Moores. Since retiring from teaching to concentrate on writing she has published twenty historical novels and her first non-fiction book will be out next spring. She also writes under the name of Holly Green.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE GIRL FROM GUERNICA by Karen Robards on this HTP Books Fall 2022 Historical Fiction Blog Tour. This historical fiction story is an emotional and suspenseful rollercoaster ride from beginning to end.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards returns with a riveting story of intrigue, deception and bravery in the face of war, inspired by Picasso’s great masterpiece Guernica:
On an April day in 1937, the sky opens and fire rains down upon the small Spanish town of Guernica. Seventeen-year-old Sibi and her family are caught up in the horror. Griff, an American military attaché, pulls Sibi from the wreckage, and it’s only the first time he saves her life in a span of hours. When Germany claims no involvement in the attack, insisting the Spanish Republic was responsible, Griff guides Sibi to lie to Nazi officials. If she or her sisters reveal that they saw planes bearing swastikas, the gestapo will silence them—by any means necessary.
As war begins to rage across Europe, Sibi joins the underground resistance, secretly exchanging information with Griff. But as the scope of Germany’s ambitions becomes clear, maintaining the facade of a Nazi sympathizer becomes ever more difficult. And as Sibi is drawn deeper into a web of secrets, she must find a way to outwit an enemy that threatens to decimate her family once and for all.
Masterfully rendered and vividly capturing one of the most notorious episodes in history, The Girl from Guernica is an unforgettable testament to the bonds of family and the courage of women in wartime.
THE GIRL FROM GUERNICA by Karen Robards is an emotional and suspenseful historical fiction with romantic elements story from beginning to end. This standalone novel follows a young female protagonist and her family from the first unprovoked aerial bombing of civilians at Guernica which shocked the world in 1937 through the end of WWII.
Sibil “Sibi” Helenger, her mother and three younger sisters are in the Basque city of Guernica. They were taking care of their grandmother in her last days while their father, a German rocket scientist remained in Germany. With the Spanish Revolution raging around them, Sibi wants to return to Germany, but her mother wants to stay. On a normal day in April, Guernica was suddenly attacked from the air with bombs dropping and machine gun aerial strafing from German planes.
Griff, an American military attaché pulls Sibi and her youngest sister from the wreckage. As Sibi attempts to get a hold of her father, she learns that her knowledge that the planes were German and not Spanish revolutionaries, puts her and her sister’s lives all in danger from the Nazi regime. Their father finds them and takes them back to Germany, but Sibi is still in danger, not only as she lies for the Nazi’s, but also because she continues to give Griff secret information to use against them.
As the war rages on, Sibi, known as “The Girl from Guernica” is committed to outwitting the Nazi’s who threaten her family while she does everything in her power to assist the allies in defeating them.
This is my favorite historical fiction book so far this year! It is riveting and I was unable to put it down. Ms. Robards does an amazing job of researching an often-forgotten war crime in the years leading up to WWII. Sibi’s resilience and strength while still being so young herself makes her an unforgettable character that I became invested with from page one. There are times when the story brought me to tears and others when I felt such happiness for Sibi, her family, and the mysterious Griff. All the characters and the historical references and locations are realistically written and believable.
I highly recommend this historical fiction read!
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Excerpt
April 25, 1937
To laugh and dance and live in the teeth of whatever tragedies an uncaring fate threw in your path was the Basque way.
The stories Sibi’s mother told, stories handed down through generations of indomitable women, painted those defiant sufferers as heroes.
Sibi feared she was not the stuff of which such heroes were made.
She was hungry. Her feet hurt. And she was afraid. Of those things, afraid was the worst by far. She was so tired of being afraid.
A knot in her stomach. A tightness in her throat. A prickle of unease sliding over her skin. Familiar sensations all, which did not make their sudden onset feel any less dreadful. Sixteen-year-old Sibi—Sibil Francesca Helinger—pushed back a wayward strand of coffee-brown hair that had escaped from the heavy bun coiled at her nape and frowned out into the misty darkness enshrouding the Calle Fernando el Católico.
Her pulse thrummed as she clung to the desperate hope that she was not seeing what she thought she was. Since the fighting had moved close enough so that the residents of this ancient village high in the western Pyrenees could actually hear gunfire in the surrounding hills, fear had become her all-too-frequent visitor. But this—this was different. This was because of something that was happening now, right before her eyes, in the wide, tree-lined street just beyond where she stood watching the regular weekly celebration on the night before market day.
Have we left it too late? The thought made her mouth go dry.
“I want a sweet.” Five-year-old Margrit’s restless movement beside her reclaimed her attention. Gripping the child’s hand tighter, Sibi cast an impatient glance down.
“There’s no money for a sweet.” Or anything else, Sibi could have added, but didn’t.
“But I want one.” Round blue eyes in a cherubic face surrounded by gold ringlets stared longingly at the squares of honey and almond turrón being hawked to the crowd by a woman bearing a tray of them. The yeasty aroma of the pastry made Sibi’s stomach growl. For the last few weeks, she and her mother had been rationing their diminishing resources by skipping the evening meal so that the younger ones could eat.
“Ask Mama to buy you one later.”
Margrit’s warm little fingers—which Sibi kept a secure hold on because, as angelic as the youngest of the four Helinger sisters looked, she wasn’t—twitched in hers. “She won’t. You know she won’t. She’ll say she doesn’t have any money, either.”
That was undoubtedly true. In fact, Sibi had only said it in hopes of placating her little sister until their mother returned. Thinking fast—Margrit had mostly outgrown tantrums, but not entirely—Sibi was just about to come out with an alternate suggestion when thirteen-year-old Luiza jumped in.
“You know we’re poor now, so stop being such a baby.” Cross because she hadn’t been permitted to go to the cinema with a group of her friends, Luiza spoke sharply. The thick, straight, butterscotch blond hair she’d chopped to chin length herself the night before—”Nobody has long hair anymore!” she’d wailed in the face of their mother’s horror—had already lost its grip on the rag curls she’d forced into it. She looked like she was wearing a thatch of broom straw on her head, but Sibi was far too good a sister, and far too preoccupied at the moment, to point that out.
“I don’t like being poor.” Margrit’s lower lip quivered.
“None of us do.”
“I specially don’t like—”
Luiza cut her off. “You’re whining. You know what Mama said about whining.”
“I am not…”
A match flared in the street. Tuning her sisters out, Sibi focused on what the brief incandescence revealed as it rose to light a cigarette—red tip glowing brightly—before arcing like a tiny shooting star to the ground. Sibi looked beyond the cigarette to the dark shape behind it. The dark shapes behind it. She wasn’t mistaken. Soldiers—their soldiers, the loyalist Republicans, their uniforms unmistakable—poured into the street from seemingly everywhere. And the numbers were increasing…
Her heartbeat quickened. Does no one else see?
Biting down on her lower lip, she glanced around. The crowd clapped and swayed to the rollicking music of the highly prized town band and ate and danced and played games and— She concluded that no one else did. The village leaders who were present appeared unaware: Father Esteban talked to the woman behind the refreshment table as she ladled out a bowl of spicy fish soup for him; His Honor the mayor played mus, the popular card game, with three friends; the Count of Arana, the town’s most prominent citizen, stood with his arms crossed and a stern gaze fixed on his fifteen-year-old daughter, Teresa, as she walked away from him with her hand tucked into the arm of… Emilio Aguire.
Sibi’s stomach gave an odd little flutter.
Watching them reminded her of just how much of an outsider she was here in this quaint small town with its red-roofed white houses and narrow cobbled streets. Emilio was her age, he was the handsomest boy in school and he had been kind to her. She had hoped… But no. To hope for anything where he was concerned was foolishness. She and her mother and sisters were only temporary residents. She worked as a part-time waitress and her mother had worked in a dress shop before being fired three weeks ago, when the shop owner’s husband had displayed too much interest in her. And that, of course, had immediately become a topic for much discussion among the town gossips whose gleeful suspicions that the former Marina Diaitz, now Helinger, who had come home with her children but without her husband, was a floozy were thus seemingly confirmed. All those factors combined to put them near the bottom of the social ladder in this place where the wealthy local aristocracy had been comfortably in place for generations, and they, with their German father, would have been outsiders, anyway. And Teresa was beautiful and rich and— Well, there it was, foolishness.
She had no time for foolishness.
Glancing at those in her own party—Luiza and Margrit, and their other sister Johanna, all bunched close around her, and their mother, Marina, dancing merrily with the baker Antonio Batzar beneath the colored lights strung above the makeshift dance floor in hopes of securing a scarce loaf of tomorrow morning’s fresh bread—Sibi felt her heartbeat quicken.
Intent on their own concerns, they appeared oblivious to anything else. As usual it was up to her, notorious as the family worrier, to think about what might happen, to catch and make sense of what the rest of them missed.
Tonight, it was that their soldiers, their last line of defense against the surging rebel Nationalists, appeared to be coming together en masse to slink like starving cats past the Sunday night festivities.
These were the same war-weary, battle-scarred troops that had been camped out in the forested peaks surrounding the town since they had fallen back after the savage attack on the neighboring village of Durango that had brought the nine-month-old civil war as close as its ancient churches and rambling streets. In the days since, thousands of panicking refugees had flooded the town. The warships of Generalissimo Francisco Franco, commander in chief of the rebel forces, had blockaded the Basque ports. Food had become scarce: along with bread, milk and meat were almost impossible to obtain. People were hungry, frightened. The war that had been safely on the other side of the country had changed direction so fast that the residents of these sleepy villages high above the Bay of Biscay had been caught unprepared. But unprepared or not, in a new and terrifying offensive the newspapers were calling the War of the North, the fighting was now rushing like a wave toward their front door.
The soldiers were all that stood between them and the enemy forces determined to destroy them. And the soldiers were leaving.
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Author Bio
Karen Robards is the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of fifty novels and one novella. She is the winner of six Silver Pen awards and numerous other awards.
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.
