Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 206

Day 206

Learn your craft before bending the rules

…

When we go to school, we learn to write. It’s all part and parcel of learning the alphabet, then learning simple words to show how the letters of the alphabet are used, and then we learn to string those words together into sentences

Not in a jumble, but according to rules, requiring such things as a subject, nouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, predicates, until it all becomes so complicated that we all but give up.

Of course, in grade three, at eight or nine years old and with another two or so years to go, giving up is not an option.

I learned English, and my biggest enemy was the school books written by Rideout and McGregor, two authors whose ears must have burned until the day they died.

From elementary or primary school, we move to secondary or middle school, and there it is assumed we know everything going there is to know about writing good English.

Wrong.

Our essays come back drowned in red or green ink, scrawls almost illegible, but the teachers whose frustration levels are off the charts.

Judging by how most people speak these days, it’s probably a blessing we don’t write each other letters anymore. And texts, the new communication method, I do not understand at all.

So, if we are hoping to become writers, then we need to have learned the Lagrange and all its nuances, even though those who read it might have trouble understanding.

Just be glad the editor at the publishers is old enough to have been around when schools were actually teaching good English.

I know my teachers tried and tried and had some measure of success.

But in this day and age, we have spell checkers, grammar checkers, and this thing called AI. You would think that a robot would have the language down pat, but sadly, it’s only as good as the programmer who invented it.

But here’s the rub. It’s all we’re going to have in the future because no one wants to learn; they just want what the phone and computer manufacturers offer because it’s easy, and they don’t have to think.

People are even writing books using AI. Where does that leave us who are doing the hard graft?

But I digress, like I always do….

We can not get rid of teaching our language, and we must insist that checkers of any sort should be used with caution.

Otherwise, like many languages from the past, it will become extinct along with who we are and where we come from.

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 2

Two

Amy took out her cell phone and looked at the screen with a knowing expression. “As I thought, they’ve made it impossible to call out, except on a landline. A lucky guess on their part that we might hold off until out of the room to call for help.”

“Wouldn’t that also stop the use of the internal communicators?” Like the unit, she used to talk to other members of the team.

“Most likely.” She tried a grain to raise the others and received only static in return.

I didn’t think that meant there wasn’t anyone, but only a possibility they might have been taken out. But not being able to raise them worked in their favor.

Still, I tried to sound optimistic. “Then there might be help downstairs.”

But the thought of that possibility didn’t seem to brighten her mood.

I checked the clip in my gun. Eight rounds. The other, six.

Amy checked hers. Five and seven.

“What now?” I asked.

“Carefully go down the fire escape.”

“Where do you think they’ll be?”

“First floor. No one else will be there. There are no conferences scheduled for obvious reasons.”

That there was a fugitive languishing within I guessed, and the hotel was minimizing the possibility of incidental casualties. That in itself was a dead giveaway that I was being kept there. Latanzio hardly needed a traitor to tell him where I was being kept.

Suddenly I had a very bad feeling.

I followed her through the fire escape exit and stopped at the top of the stairs to listen.

For what I was not sure, but no other sounds were coming from below or above us. Something I did know and had not told anyone in a moment when I had managed to shake off my guards, was that there was a heliport on the roof.

It was why, just before I followed her down, I looked up, and shivered. Trouble, if it was coming, would come from above, not below.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly.

I hesitated, and she picked up on it.

“What?”

It was hardly a conciliatory tone on her part.

“I think we’re underestimating the severity of the problem.”

She stopped halfway down the first flight of steps and looked back at me. It was not the first time I had the feeling that she might shoot me herself, even when there was no reason to think that of her.

“How so?”

“The heliport on the roof. Shouldn’t that be factored into escape calculations?”

“It was until we learned that it was declared unsafe a few months ago.”

“Convenient, don’t you think?” I didn’t wait for an answer, I started heading towards the roof.

“Where are you going?”

“Up. Something I learned a long time ago, is always do the unexpected.”

I didn’t wait to see what Amy was doing. I had a hunch that any attack that might be coming would be from the roof. I seriously doubted the helipad was anything but serviceable.

Amy caught up with me three floors from the roof.

“What makes you think the help is not broken.”

“Too much of a coincidence.”

We were at the door. I could hear a noise that sounded like a helicopter coming in for a landing. I opened the door and as I had hoped, the helped was about ten feet above the roof level.

I pushed the door open. “Go around the back way. If the chopper lands take out the landing party or cover the pilot and make sure he doesn’t take off.”

A nod, she brushed past me and headed for the other side. In front of me to the right were the steps leading up to the pad. I walked up the first few and saw a helicopter just coming in from the other side, about to land.

I ducked down and waited.

The noise grew louder, much louder as it hovered, and then set down. I raised my head. The door opened and three men jumped down, each with what looked like AK57s. There was no mistaking their intent.

I jumped down off the stairs and his behind the staircase and waited.

Seconds later the three ran down the stairs heading towards the exit do it. Six shots, three fewer thugs, they had no idea what hit them.

Another shot rang out, about the sound of the whirring of the helicopter’s rotor. I saved up the stairs and saw the man who must have been the pilot, face down in front of the helicopter, now winding down.

Amy came running over.

“What happened?” I asked.

She stopped and was standing over the body. “He heard the shots and was coming to you.”

I could see where he had been shot in the back. It seemed more like he’d see her approaching with a gun and was running away from her, rather than running towards me. He didn’t have a weapon, in his hand, or on the ground in front of him on the ground.

“Who’s going to pilot the helicopter now. That was our ticket out.”

She looked resolute, not the expression I was expecting.

“He was coming for you,” she said. “I wasn’t aiming to kill him.”

And yet she did, and given how good a shot she was, accidentally killing him was not an option. I was starting to get another bad feeling.

I went over to the helicopter. I’d flown one or two in my time, something a friend of mine had suggested I try since I had a pilot’s license in another life. It wasn’t the most modern, so it wouldn’t be that difficult to fly.

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 205

Day 205

Writing should not be motivated by money. It must be for the love of it

…

In my mind, there are two types of writing.

One is where it is done as a paying profession, in which, in most cases, you might be a journalist. It can be a long, hard slog, working away on the bread-and-butter news.

Once you have established a reputation for producing award-winning stories, you can move on to more serious stories. One would assume that’s when you are adequately recompensed commensurate with your ability.

Still, it’s not like writing a string of number one best-sellers and becoming a multi-millionaire. Hard slog and determination to begin with, but as time passes, sometimes the work becomes more pedestrian.

Of course, those number one bestseller books often are borne out of the material used in those halcyon journalistic days and a fitting reward for all the hard work.

This, of course, is not meant to denigrate anyone; it is simply an opinion of some observations I have made over the years. Nor is it sour grapes because I’m not one of those mega-rich authors.

I definitely fit into the second type of writer living in my imagination garret, sacrificing everything for that first brilliant novel

How many times have we seen the spouse work slavishly at two or three jobs just to keep the place going while the struggling writer finishes that great novel?

And more often than not, living it up, having affairs and not really making any progress at all. Or is that the Hollywood trope?

I have written that first novel, and about thirty more, but success eludes me. I’m pragmatic, though. One day, I get my break, but until then, it’s Amazon self-publishing and writing for the love of it, not the money.

It’s true that describes quite a lot of writers put there, the ones that burn the midnight oil because they don’t give up their day job, typically the ones that don’t make an adequate living from book sales.

And yet some do. They are excellent authors, their books are very readable, as good as their number one best-sellers, but can’t quite crack the big time.

These are the people we aspire to become, because those truly wealthy from writing are far and few between.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.

Writing a book in 365 days – 205

Day 205

Setting a story in an invented world

…

We are all born with an imagination. It’s just whether we choose to use it or not.

Some people have every reason to want to disappear into an imaginary world of their creation because life is too hard or impossible in reality.

I was there for two reasons.

The first, because I loved reading books, stories about brave people, stories about children who had holidays by the sea, and children who got together to have adventures.

Of course, if you were like me, it was Enid Blyton, the Famous Five and the Secret Seven. I must have read and reread those stories over and over.

As I got older and the stories got more sophisticated, right out of the school library, my desire for adventure only grew.

Yes, we went on holiday, but there was never anything like what happened in those books.

Until…

We were allowed to stay at my grandmother’s house, who lived in the country. It was by a highway, it was at the end of a lane, it was only a very large block of land, and it was a huge house, lots of rooms, and a place where an imagination could run wild.

My grandmother lived alone. She was a hoarder. She had lots of old musty books and stories that were much different from those I read.

She had a wing of bedrooms, one for my mother, her sister and her brother and a spare, rooms filled with stuff, which is why when she went off to bowls and left us on our own, we used to explore.

Those rooms have files of magazines, old documents from the garage her husband, long deceased, had run. History.

Then there was the outside, now in disrepair. Two garages and old cars rotting away. A workshop that had all manner of tools, an overgrown garden of the sort one usually found in towns. There was an outhouse adjoining the laundry, very scary to go to at night, and almost as much during the day.

It was like stepping back in time, long before we had all the modern conveniences we have today.

Hers used to have a large fountain, a rose garden, a croquet lawn, a fernery, and a glasshouse. We recovered some of it, particularly the fountain, and it was incredible. Those gardens would have been magnificent.

Inside the house, there were tables, luxurious lounge chairs, 1930s furniture, cupboards, a wooden stove, and an ice box, an almost perfect reminder of what it had been like long before we were born.

My brother didn’t see it, but then he never really had an imagination.

The second, because of the horrible things that happened yo us, if I hadn’t been able to escape, I don’t think I would have made it to adulthood.

A vastly different world was needed, one I could almost walk through a portal into, a place where I could escape.

A child in a boarding school in the English countryside, a pilot in a Sopwith Camel flying over the trenches of WWI, a seaman on a destroyer in action against the Germans in a great sea battle, and an Explorer in the middle of the jungle in Africa, going down the Nile, or the Zambesi.

Anything but who I was and where I was.

…

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 1

One

I often wondered what it meant to go ‘stir crazy,’.

I think it had something to do with being in prison, locked away in solitary confinement, and, if it was, then I knew exactly what it was like.

I’d been locked away in this room for nearly two months, waiting to testify against a criminal who had, up until now, managed to ‘remove’ any obstacle in his path to remaining free to continue his illegal activities.

Not that I had any intention of ending up in the world’s tightest, secure facility. It happened because Joe Latanzio, one of the most dangerous crime bosses, decided to kill someone in front of me. Well, not exactly in front of me, but I did witness it, and I could very clearly identify him without ambiguity. It had him arrested and sent to jail.

He knew there was a witness, but although he had a name, it was not mine, and it was untraceable. That and the obscured photos in the papers also made it impossible for his cronies to find me.

All we had to worry about was whether one of the guards or the security detail would sell out to his family, who were offering a reward of up to a million dollars to spill the true identity of the witness.

Me.

And, so far no one had, or at least that was what they were telling me. There was no way of knowing because my current residence was impenetrable. If it had, we’d only find out the day I had to go into court and testify.

That day was tomorrow.

It was like I was the criminal, waiting on death row, having to have that final meal before execution.

And living with the expectation that I was going to die.

Unfortunately, there were no guarantees, and the head of my security detail, Amy Childern, competent and successful at her job as her resume testified, couldn’t rule out the possibility that there might be trouble. All she would give me was her assurance she would do everything within her power to keep me alive.

But in having so much time to think about the ramifications of what testifying might be, I realized the court case wasn’t the full extent of the problem, but once the trial was over I knew it would be the beginning of a life of looking over my shoulder.

Yes, there was the option of disappearing into the witsec ether, but that was never going to be the answer. There would always be the temptation on the table from the defendant’s family who would never give up looking for me, regardless of the outcome of the trial.

Put quite simply and based on what I had overheard from other members of my security detail, life as I’d known it, was over.

Not that my life amounted to very much before this happened. I had no family, being orphaned very early in life, and bounced around the foster care system, so that there were no people I’d call parents. And after a stint in the Army, I found myself at a loose end, unable to hold down a job, and just drifted, until I finished up in the wrong place at the wrong time

You know the sort. John Doe of no fixed address. That was me. Except I had a name, or two, the current being Al Jones, and a photo that was deliberately diffused so that anyone looking at it would not recognize me in real life.

I also now had a social security number but that was only to make me appear a credible witness. There was nothing to find other than a number and a name.

As Amy said, I’d come from nowhere and would be going back there once this notorious criminal was locked up. It was meant to be reassuring but it wasn’t.

But despite any misgivings I might have right now, I’d made a commitment and would honour it.

Nobody expected they would make an attempt on my life in the hotel.

As far as they were aware no one knew I was there, but to an astute observer who knew something of the motivation behind keeping witnesses safe, there would be no mistaking the number of out-of-place personnel in the hotel, starting at the lobby.

And for those working for Latanzio, they’d had close to two months to check out every hotel in the city and there would be people working for him who knew the witness protection procedures. After all, there had been four before me, found and murdered before they got to court.

Those were odds that would tell anyone that this was a lost cause.

My detail for this morning consisted of four, headed up by Amy who said she would stay with me. Outside Larry was number 2 and would be with me too. Jeff and Wes made up the rest of the team and were stationed below in the garage waiting with a bulletproof car.

I made a joke previously as to whether it would withstand a handheld rocket, and Amy chose to ignore it. Perhaps she had not seen what one could do or believe that criminals could get their hands on one.

After breakfast where again the condemned man had a hearty meal, it was a half-hour wait before we moved. It was tense inside the room. And outside where Larry was stationed.

At the appropriate time, he was to knock, Amy would answer, and it would be the all-clear.

I was down to counting seconds.

When the time came and Larry knocked on the door we both jumped. A look passed between us. The time had come. We were not expecting trouble.

Amy opened the door, not completely, but just ajar.

It was what saved her life.

A second later Larry came through the door to the accompaniment of several silenced rounds.

Two events happened in quick succession.

As Larry came through the door and fell forwards propelled by the shots, he managed to free his gun and throw it in my direction.

A man followed him, firing more rounds randomly, none hitting a target, while Amy, taking a few extra milliseconds to realise what was happening, drew her gun and started firing at the figure who just passed the edge of the door.

He was not going to be the only one.

As more bullets were fired into the room, a second gunman from outside the room must have seen his partner go down and pressed forward. He saw me the same time I had the gun thrown to me aimed at him and I squeezed off three rounds and put him down. I mentally thanked the Army for teaching me to shoot. If only I had a military issue M16.

Silence fell over the scene.

Amy was trying to raise the other two in the team but they were not responding. Nor was the lookout in the foyer. The was a slight hint of panic in her tone, especially when she realized there was no time to raise the alarm by phone. It was now a matter of how many gunmen Latanzio had hired.

I picked up the two guns from the now-dead gunmen and threw one to her. “How many men did he sent the last time,” I asked her.

She looked startled for a moment, then slipped back into battle mode. “Six.”

“Then let’s hope he hasn’t rewritten the playbook.”

We didn’t have time to check and see if Larry was OK, but the glance I got showed no sign of life. I don’t think, when he left for work this morning, he thought it might be his last day on this mortal earth.

I reached the door and closed it. A second later several bullets slammed into it. It was solid enough to withstand them. Once shut, the door was locked and unless they had a key, they could not get in.

Amy nodded towards the connecting door to the room next door. For the last week, she had been staying in it. Now, it was one possible escape route.

The door handle rattled, and I heard a voice outside say, “it’s locked.” They didn’t have a key. For the moment. Perhaps they should have frisked Larry first before killing him.

She walked backward slowly, gun raised and pointed at the door as I backed up in the same direction. I went first, she followed, and then shut the door behind us. Locked from her side, they would not get in, key or no key.

10 maybe 15 seconds later we heard the door next door open and then self-shut with a muffled bang. Next, there was a voice, “Where the hell are they?”

There would be two or more on lower floors cutting off our escape out of the building. There was two next door. We were out the door of the room next door, and ready to catch them when they realized we had escaped, and they had to exit the room.

When they did, an agonizing minute later, they were dead before they took two steps into the corridor.

Whoever planned this execution, didn’t plan it very well. Or maybe he didn’t know that I would be comfortable around guns. If I hadn’t, we’d both be dead by now.

Time to take a deep breath. This was not over.

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 204

Day 204

Setting a story in an invented world

…

We are all born with an imagination. It’s simply a matter of whether we choose to use it or not.

Some people have every reason to want to disappear into an imaginary world of their creation because life is too hard or impossible in reality.

I was there for two reasons.

The first, because I loved reading books, especially stories about brave people and children who had holidays by the sea, who got together to have adventures.

Of course, if you were like me, it was Enid Blyton, the Famous Five and the Secret Seven. I must have read and reread those stories over and over.

As I got older and the stories got more sophisticated, right out of the school library, my desire for adventure only grew.

Yes, we went on holiday, but there was never anything like what happened in those books.

Until…

My grandmother lived alone. She was a hoarder. She had lots of old musty books and stories that were much different from those I read.

She had a wing of bedrooms, one for my mother, her sister and her brother and a spare, rooms filled with stuff, which, while she went off to bowls and left us on our own, we used to explore.

Those rooms have files of magazines, old documents from the garage her husband, long deceased, had run. History.

It was like stepping back in time, long before we had all the modern conveniences we have today.

Hers used to have a large fountain, a rose garden, a croquet lawn, a fernery, and a greenhouse. We recovered some of it, particularly the fountain, and it was incredible. Those gardens would have been magnificent.

Inside the house, there were tables, luxurious lounge chairs, 1930s furniture, cupboards, a wooden stove, and an ice box, an almost perfect reminder of what it had been like long before we were born.

My brother didn’t see it, but then he never really had an imagination.

The second, because of the horrible things that happened to us, if I hadn’t been able to escape, I don’t think I would have made it to adulthood.