Ruins of War by John A. Connell Read Free Book Online Page A

live on the streets.”
    They stopped at the last door on the right, where Steiger unlockedthe door and handed the key to Mason. He then stepped aside so Mason could enter the cold room.
    “They continue to promise us electricity and heating oil, but it has yet to happen.” Steiger lit an oil lamp on the nightstand. The light revealed a masculine room: framed representations of heraldic crests above a heavy oak bed, a knight’s shield and crossed swords above a dresser laden with family photos.
    “This was my son’s room before he married and joined the Wehrmacht.” He eyed Mason as if watching for a reaction. “He was not SS, Herr Collins.”
    “I know the distinction.” Mason saw the sadness in Steiger’s eyes, his hunched shoulders, as the man surveyed his son’s room. He felt sorry for the old man’s loss. If only they had thought of that before allowing the Nazis to bring war to the world.
    “I hope you will forgive us leaving the room as it was when he was a boy. He was killed in Russia in ’42.”
    “It’s fine. I’ll leave everything the way it is. I’ll just need to clear the desk for my work.”
    “Of course.” Steiger turned to go then added, “There’s wood in the fireplace, if you wish. My wife and I will have coffee and breakfast ready at six thirty. Dinner is at seven.”
    “I’ll take breakfast, but I doubt I’ll be back in time for dinner in the evenings.”
    As Steiger started to leave Mason said, “Herr Steiger, I’m sorry about your son. Too many fathers lost too many sons.”
    Steiger tipped his head and left, closing the door behind him.
    In a few moments Mason had the fire going. As he stood next to the fireplace for warmth, he surveyed the framed pictures competing for space on the mantel. Most were photographs of Steiger’s son as a youth: a freckle-faced boy, bespectacled, and thin like his father. There was a portrait of the son as a man, dressed in an academic gown of a university, capturing the same boyish grin that pushed up on his glasses. Then the obligatory picture of the son in his Wehrmachtuniform—this time with a forced smile. The last group was mostly snapshots of the son arm in arm with an attractive woman holding a baby. None of these had the son in uniform. The parents had probably added those long after the son had left home, married, and died.
    What a waste.
    Mason had very few photos from his childhood. His family never took pictures. No one had created a shrine to his youth. Whatever photos they’d had, his mother had burned during one of her alcohol-induced fits of rage. That was shortly after his sister’s untimely death . . . as his grandmother preferred to call it.
    Mason was born in Germany, but at the age of 5, and three years after his father was killed in World War One, his mother, along with her parents, had immigrated to Ohio. A year later his mother had married a manipulative and cruel man named Robert Collins. But just two years into the marriage, his mother had become a devotee to the god of alcohol, and his stepfather, whether because of his mother’s alcoholism or his long-time mistress, skipped town, never to be seen again. It took six years, but finally his mother’s liver gave out. It was his grandparents who’d raised him from the age of twelve. Stern and cold, his grandfather had little to do with him, but what his grandmother had lacked in affection, she’d made up for with gentleness and patience, tolerating and eventually mollifying his rebellious teen years. His grandfather died when Mason was in high school, so she’d become the only family member left in his life. He tried to keep in touch with her, writing letters from time to time. As much as he feared being heartless like his grandfather, he feared most becoming self-destructive like his mother. He felt the pull of both dark familial traits running like venom in his veins.
    All in all, home didn’t exist for him. Maybe home had become anywhere he’d stopped for