They shake Frank’s hand. He seems befuddled, surrounded by all this power. “Sofia’s father.” I mouth the words to Harry and Gwyn. “Oh.” Riggins draws back a step and puts on a more sober expression. Jolting music, blasting horns, and a bass drum makes us all jump. Somewhere there’s a sound system. Powerful speakers under the eaves of the house blast down on us. Aaron Copland, “Fanfare for the Common Man.” It’s a nice tune, but not at this volume, and certainly not something Sofia would have picked. I look over and one of her roommates, Tess, I believe, is telling someone inside the house to turn it down. A few seconds later the ear-shattering noise quells to background music. We can hear ourselves again. Copland on the quiet. Tess must know the owner of the house. Maybe it’s her family...
I turn to the computer, punch up Google, and type in “45th Infantry Division.” In seconds the site list pops up. There’re a bunch of sites. I open one of them. It spills across the screen, a map of Western Europe with text underneath in big letters. “The 45th Infantry Division drove on Munich in the closing days of the war and, in the process, it liberated the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau. The division crossed the Danube River on 27 April, 1945, and liberated 32,000 captives of Dachau on 29 April. The division captured Munich during the next two days, occupying the city until V-E Day and the surrender of Germany. During the next month, the division remained in Munich and set up collection points and camps for the massive numbers of surrendering troops of the German armies. The number of POWs taken by the 45th Infantry Division during its almost two years of fighting totaled 124,840 men.” “Dachau concentration camp,” says Harry. “I see it.” “You think Brauer was there?” “I don’t know.” “We could ask Emma.” “She says she doesn’t know anything. According to her, her dad never talked about the war. All she knows is little bits and pieces from letters he’d written to army buddies and a few telephone conversations she overheard. Whenever she asked him about the war, the men he served with, he’d go silent. Didn’t want to talk about it. She assumed it brought up bad memories, so she never pressed him.” “It is possible the swastika on the wall is something Brauer captured, like the pistol. Maybe they go together,” says Harry. “Herman looked at the Luger and said he thought it was authentic.” I punch up another site, wait a couple of seconds, and sit there staring at it. “I’ll be damned.” “What is it?” says Harry. “The unit emblem for the 45th Infantry Division of the United States Army.” “What was it?” “Come take a look,” I tell him. Harry steps around the desk so he can look over my shoulder. It’s an item from the 45th Infantry Division Museum, their online site, an organization dedicated to the history of the unit. I know from other readings that the symbol in question has a history dating back thousands of years. It is formed by an equilateral cross, the outward legs of which are bent at a ninety-degree angle. It has been used by various cultures and religions from time immemorial, including Hindus, Buddhists, and followers of Jainism. In ancient Sanskrit it was known by the word svastika. We know it as the swastika. According to the article from the 45th Infantry Division Museum, the unit wore the swastika on their divisional arm patch for a period dating from around 1920 until 1933. To the unit it was an ancient American Indian icon, a symbol of good luck. The 45th was headquartered in Oklahoma City and trained at Fort Bliss. It was made up of recruits mostly from Oklahoma, New Mexico, Colorado, and Arizona. This was Indian country for many of the western tribes, so according to the article the symbol made sense. From reading we find out that the problem arose when the swastika became known worldwide as the symbol of Hitler’s Nazi Party in Germany. Apparently the 45th abandoned the swastika in 1933. They wore no arm patch insignia until 1939. After much thought and a contest to come up with a new insignia, the army settled on another American Indian motif. It was gold and red, the same colors as the old patch, but this time it was the Thunderbird—the symbol of the “sacred bearer of happiness unlimited.” They marched with it on their shoulders through World War II and the Korean War. The 45th Infantry Division was deactivated in 1968 and rolled into the 45th Infantry Brigade along with its battle flags, storied history, and Thunderbird shoulder insignia. “That proves what they say,” says Harry. “What’s that?” “There’s nothing stranger than history. Could have knocked me over with a thunderbird feather. We can forget the theory that Brauer was a Nazi.” “Looks like it.” “Where did they end up?” says Harry. “Who?” “The 45th, at the end of the war?” I look through some of the materials online. “Looks like Munich. Why?” “Munich was a hotbed,” says Harry. “It’s where Hitler got his start. The Beer Hall Putsch, remember? Early twenties.” “That was before my time,” I say, and start to smile. “I know it’s fashionable to be ignorant with regards to history,” he says, “but the Millennials will end up reliving it if they aren’t careful. Our own American version of Hitler. Country’s in trouble, in case you haven’t noticed. And most people haven’t a clue as to current events. They know even less about history.” He’s getting wound up. I can tell. Harry’s lecture series, new season, episode one. “If a nuclear war happened before four o’clock yesterday, they don’t know about it. If another one is scheduled for tomorrow, the only question they’ll ask is whether they can catch it on YouTube. The definition of being cool. The younger generation is ignorant,” he says. “You tell my daughter that, tell Sarah that the next time she’s down, and I’ll take odds she hits you with a book.” “You can bet it won’t be a history book,” says Harry. I start to laugh. “It’s not funny,” he says. “The world’s coming apart and the kids are gonna inherit it.” “You did pretty well last year. Have you checked your portfolio balance lately?” “I’m not talking about money,” says Harry. “Forget the money. Do you realize you’d have to dig up at least three generations of elementary school teachers in any major city in this country before you find one who knows what World War Two was and when it happened? I’m not kidding. Stop anybody on the street under eighty and ask them who Stalin was, and they’ll tell you it’s a rock group. We’re gonna wake up someday and find his clone sitting with his feet on the desk in the Oval Office,” he says. I need to buy Harry a bullhorn and sandwich board so he can go out on the street and scream at the kids. See if all those noise-canceling headphones really work. “They can either learn it or relive it,” he says. “Well, I suppose every so often the world needs a refresher course,” I tell him. “That’s not funny,” says Harry. “That’s not funny at all. That’s learning the hard way.” “Yeah, well, maybe it’s a lesson they won’t forget,” I tell him. I have my back to him looking at the screen. “Can you find that little box with the key? It’s on the desk there somewhere.” “What, this?” I turn. “Yeah. There’s another piece of paper folded up inside. Take it out and take a look.” He does it. It’s the brown wrapper. “Do you see a return address on it?” “Yeah, there’s a small sticker.” “What does it say?” “Law Offices of Elliott Fish. There’s a P.O. box, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and a zip.” “It was sent from a law office?” “Looks like it,” says Harry. Harry gives me the name again and I punch it into the computer. Sure enough, I find a website with a phone number. I pick up the phone and dial. A receptionist answers: “Elliott Fish Law Offices, can I help you?” “Is Mr. Fish in, by any chance?” “Who may I say is calling?” “Attorney Paul Madriani, from Coronado, California.” “Just a moment please.” I get an earful of elevator music. A few seconds later a male voice comes on the line. “This is Elliott Fish. Who am I speaking to?” “Mr. Fish, this is Paul Madriani. I’m a lawyer out in California.” “Yes, what can I do for you?” “I have a client whose father received a small package from your office. His name was Robert Brauer. Can I ask who you represent and why you sent it to him?” “Do you represent Mr. Brauer?” “No. No, I’m afraid Mr. Brauer is dead.” “Oh, I see. Do you represent his estate?” “I represent his daughter, Emma Brauer.” “May I ask when Mr. Brauer died?” “About six weeks ago.” “And may I ask how you know about the package?” “It’s sitting here on my desk right now.” “I see. Then you should be able to tell me the contents of the package.” “A key. Looks like a safe-deposit key. And some kind of an ID, very old. In German, the name Jakob Grimminger.” “Yes.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” “Am I correct in assuming that you sent the package to Mr. Brauer?” “I did.” “Was it on behalf of a client?” “It was.” “May I ask who the client was?” “That I can’t tell you.” “May I ask why?” “It’s confidential lawyer-client information,” he says. “Well, let me explain. Mr. Brauer’s daughter, Emma Brauer, is my client. She has her own set of problems at the moment.” “Yes?” “Well, she’s charged with homicide. Mr. Brauer, who was quite ill before he died, was in a VA hospital out here, and it seems the authorities have reason to believe that he may not have died of natural causes. They seem to believe that my client may have put him out of his misery in a mercy killing.” “I see.” “At the moment it’s a single charge of voluntary manslaughter, but I’m concerned that if I can’t determine what’s happening here it could become more serious.” “What makes you think that the package has anything to do with your client’s case?” “Before Mr. Brauer died, his home was burglarized. Whoever broke in was looking for something. Mr. Brauer told his daughter that he was fearful both for himself and for her, and told her to place the package in a bank vault for safekeeping.” There is a lot of heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “Last week an employee of my office, a young woman, went to Brauer’s house on an errand for the office. Ms. Brauer was not there because she was in jail. That employee was found murdered Monday morning. We have reason to believe that she was killed at the house and that her body was deposited at another location.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “But if, as you say, Ms. Brauer placed the package in a bank vault and it wasn’t in the house, how can you be sure that it’s in any way connected to the death of your employee?” “The placement of the package in the bank was a private matter known only to Mr. Brauer and his daughter.” “I see. This does complicate things,” says the lawyer. “I’m not certain whether I can disclose the identity of my clients.” The way he says it makes it clear that there is more than one. “When did you say Mr. Brauer died?” he asks. “About six weeks ago.” “Do you have a death certificate?’ “I can get one.” “You might send me a certified copy,” he says. “He would have been the last.” “Last what?” “I’m sorry, I can’t say. But I should advise you that there may be other claimants.” “Claimants to what?” “I can’t say. But you should be aware that since you hold the box and its contents you may be on the receiving end of one or more lawsuits.” “For what? By who?” “By persons with a valid legal claim to the item in question.” “What’s the item?” “To tell you the truth, I don’t know the answer to that myself. I’m simply carrying out the instructions of my clients.” “Can you tell me when you were hired?” “The specific date? I’d have to look, but it was several years ago.” “Can I ask you—and you don’t have to answer if you can’t, but I’m really up against the wall here. I’m assuming that whatever’s going on here has to do with Mr. Brauer’s former military service with the 45th Infantry Division in Europe during the Second World War.” Nothing but breathing and silence from the other end. “Hello?” “I’m here,” he says. “There is one peculiar thing.” “What’s that?” “You did say that the police believe that Mr. Brauer may not have died of natural causes, is that correct?” “That’s right.” “It’s a strange coincidence.” “Yes, what’s that?” “There’s another individual out here in Oklahoma City who says his father died under similar circumstances. He was in a nursing home. And according to what I’ve heard, there is at least one person who doesn’t believe he died of natural causes. He’s requested an investigation by authorities, but so far they have no evidence to establish foul play.” “Am I to assume that this other individual, the man who died, is somehow connected with Mr. Brauer?” There is no reply from the other end of the line, but I can still hear him breathing. In this case I construe silence as assent. “Was he by any chance a member of the 45th Infantry Division?” More silence. “You put me in a very difficult position,” he says. “You don’t have to answer. My client told me that the package came from one of her father’s military buddies. That’s what he told her before he died. The wrapper has your return address on it. So I have to assume that the group you represent consists of Mr. Brauer’s former military associates. I would further assume then that whoever is raising questions about the man’s death, the gentleman back there in Oklahoma City, must be a relative or a friend of one of these men?” More silence. “Let me ask you, do you have an attorney-client relationship with the individual who is complaining about the death of this gentleman?” The lawyer finally exhales and says, “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” He seems almost relieved to give up the information. “Do you have something to write with?” “I do.” “His name is Anthony Pack.” He gives me the man’s phone number and address. “I think if you contact him, he may be able to help you.” “Thank you very much.” I hang up.
~~~
I find I'm watching more of the legal shows on television these days. And, when I saw this book by Steve Martini I decided to read it...Would you believe I hadn't read any of his books since 20 years ago! And, frankly, I was shocked by that post. LOL I hope my presentations have improved greatly since that time... In any event, I was immediately hooked into this storyline, especially when Paul Madriani, the main character, had learned that his young legal assistant who had volunteered to pick up the dog of his client who had been put in jail, was dead! Readers read what had actually happened to her, but then her body was later found in an entirely different area, moved after she'd been murdered... It's these little switches that pulled me further into the mystery because this one won't be the last, I warn you. Even being on the alert will not help, at least it didn't for me...
On one hand, I was very unhappy that she was murdered so early in the book. On the other hand, Madriani, and his wife, were so upset, that it pushed them both to work to discover what had happened... And, you will find that all of the people working in this legal firm are top-notch and characters who "care" about solving the case--the kind of legal firm you'd wish to find if you need one... Indeed, determining the actual plot was practically impossible... Then it hit me, when I began to stumble and go back and rethink a scene, I realized one thing. Somebody was lying... And we have all learned just how much disinformation, even from a individual you think you should be able to trust, is later determined to be lying... Often... Relentlessly... And, seemingly, with no reason... I finally caught on but it was only by reviewing that one scene where I knew it had to be "created" as a "gotcha" by the author...
I have learned over the last decade that not knowing history has been a downfall, or, maybe, a blessing in a way, for me. In school I was working, choosing classes that I would need to immediately get a job and start working right after graduation. At that time, I had already decided I wanted to help another individual by becoming a secretary. I succeeded and by July, 1963, I was working in the Office of Personnel at West Virginia University. Thereafter, all of my reading and training was based upon advancement... By the time I had retired nearly 40 years later, and moved on into publishing, book reviewing, and ultimately by 2016, I began to learn that, through fiction, I had learned much more about history than I ever had from a public school education. That is not saying it negatively, but rather, realizing that within 12 years, there was no way that routine and basic education classes could possibly have prepared me for what I was discovering of what had taken place in America! Continuing education, which I had done all of my life, is normally pointed at a goal; only reading can provide a way to ensure you learn a sufficient amount of information to prepare you for living in a country as diverse as can be found across the world...
Thus, I did not have the background upon which to evaluate the Blood Flag historical facts that were shared in the book, nor will most readers. So, here's the basic story. Three men were together in a group during WWII and fighting against Hitler's plan to take over the world, kill all Jews...and more... We learn enough to understand how and what the Blood Flag was and where it was first "created..."
These three men had returned home, returned to life and family, until suddenly, we learn, all three men were sent the same package. Some family knew of that package--the client of Paul Madriani--who has been accused of a mercy killing of her father... The normal investigation of the law firm begins and readers will learn of the connection of this package and the fear of each of the individuals who received them. All are dead now, with the last being Madriani's client's father...
Folks, at first I thought it was going to be a "treasure hunt" book where we will have to hunt clues to find what it is the key(s) opens... But, soon, it turned to be a murder mystery where it became clear that the deaths of all three soldiers had succeeded in happening... Your job, is to enjoy the book, to try to follow carefully all that happens, and to discover before the end of the book whodunit! I was close, but never quite sure... Dare you work to solve an 80-year-old mystery that started during WWII? I highly recommend you do!
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