Sample Chapter of "The Courtship of Julian and Frieda"

Here is an excerpt from my book as promised. The formatting is a bit funky as it was extracted from a PDF.

Background: In 1939 Julian, a young Polish Catholic, is deported from his homeland by the Nazis. He is assigned to a large estate in upper Austria as a farm laborer. Frieda is the middle child in this wealthy Catholic family. The two meet, become friends and fall in love. They are rumored to be romantically involved and Frieda's father asks them to separate. To avoid hardship for all, Frieda leaves home and takes a job at a nearby farm. However, she and Julian continue to meet.



THE COURTSHIP OF JULIAN AND FRIEDA
(excerpt)

Chapter 12

On a cool Sunday morning in November, she had just finished dressing when Frau Schiller knocked on the door.

"Frieda?"


"Yes?"


"There is a man here to see you. Police."


"For me?" Her heart hammered.


"He asked for you by name."


Her employer's voice was calm but she seemed nervous, concerned.


"I will be right there, Frau Schiller."


The older woman hesitated a moment, then turned away, too polite to ask questions. Frieda was a nice girl, hard working, from a very good family. What would the police want with her? Perhaps an accident?



Oh my God! What can this be? Not Julian, please not Julian, Frieda prayed as she walked slowly down the hall.

The policeman was waiting in the kitchen. A middle agedman with graying hair and a mild expression, he looked like someone paying a social call.


"Frieda Greinegger?"


"Yes."


"You will please come with me."


Frau Schiller had her back to the girl, busily scrubbing a surface that already shone. Frieda's feet felt like lead as she followed the man out.


"Where are we going?" she asked, not entirely sure that she wished to know.

"Linz. Gestapo Headquarters."


Suppressing an urge to run off and hide, she followed him out the door, soberly, spine straight, eyes facing forward. It wouldn't do to crumble now.



The train depot wasn't far. It was a small rural establishment, little more than a milk-stop on a busy line. Frieda stood by the gate while the officer purchased tickets.

"Linz," she heard him say. "Two, please."



At 9:15 the train ground to a halt and a handful of passengers boarded. Frieda and her escort hurried up the metal steps, barely settling themselves before the whistle blew and the whole segmented carapace was set in motion, building speed and frothing steam across the golden countryside.


The car wasn't very crowded. Frieda took a seat by the window and the policeman slid in beside her. He didn't speak, but his eyes were kind, perhaps he pitied her. She sat very still, staring out the window, attention focused inward. It was occupation enough to punch down the panic that rose from the pit of her stomach and keep her mind from racing out of control. She had to remain calm, there was a lot to consider. She didn't really have a plan, never expected this to happen. After all, we didn't steal anything or threaten anybody. Papa warned us but it never seemed possible any real harm could come of it. We must have been noticed. But by whom? Who would bother to betray us? For what purpose? There were, of course, a certain number of Nazi enthusiasts, empowered by the new regime, eager to please their masters and push their weight around.


She didn't recall ever seeing anyone around the chapel. They met on Sunday as usual, had lunch, talked a bit. That was the extent of last week's criminal activities.


"Tickets, please," the conductor said, taking a good look at Frieda as her companion handed them over. After all, it wasn't every day he saw a lovely, well-dressed young woman in the company of an urban policeman.


Linz, a good sized city seated on the banks of the Danube, boasted ancient churches, Renaissance and Baroque architecture, prosperous shops, and not far from the city prison, a brand new Gestapo Headquarters. It wasn't hard to spot; graceless as an armored box, at odds with its surroundings.


Their destination was a short walk from the station. The Austrian policeman didn't press for conversation. He even seemed a bit reluctant, as they approached the gate, to leave her in the custody of the German guards.


She stood there as they exchanged information. Sun struck, the building façade seemed foreign and ominous. She stared at it, waiting in silence; looking composed, feeling undone.


"Come," a voice demanded and she stepped forward. There was a loud buzz and a pair of doors like great steel jaws suddenly flung open. How this feat of automation was accomplished she could not even guess. It unsettled her nearly as much as the gloved hand that seized her arm and clamped shut above the elbow. Nothing happened, she told herself as the guard propelled her forward. We're just friends, her inner voice repeated as they passed beneath the glare of recessed lights, their footsteps sharp and quick along the polished corridors. After several turns in a labyrinth of hallways, they stopped before a closed door.


"You will wait," the guard said, motioning toward the wall. She leaned her back to it and stood there. The German lingered a moment; young and insolent, deliberately looking her over quite thoroughly.

She felt herself flush. No, she resolved, reining her feelings in, I won't make this easy for them. Nothing happened. Nothing.


"If you think you can spare me, Fräulein, I will see if they are ready for you." He smirked, revealing an unfortunate set of teeth. "And I suggest you stay precisely where you are. Understand?"

"Yes." The reply was curt and far more emotionless than she felt.

"Good. It would be a shame to alter such a lovely face."


She looked away, anger replacing the first painful spikes of fear. Oh, yes, it is easy enough to intimidate a girl, alone and unprotected, she thought. Very effective, too. What a brave young man. What a shinning example of German manhood.

The object of her inner discourse soon emerged to take her a few doors down the corridor and into a featureless cube with low ceilings and bright overhead lights. A plain oblong table at the far end stretched nearly wall to wall. And the room smelled faintly antiseptic. Pulling out a chair, the guard placed it several feet from the table.


"Sit," he barked in his clipped German. She complied, rather more abruptly than intended. Her knees just seemed to give out, but she quickly squelched the feeling and forced herself to focus. I will cultivate my outrage at this indignity. They have no right, no justification. She worked on it, schooling herself, aware that a disciplined mind was the only weapon she had.


In a little while the door opened and two men came in, dressed in civilian clothing. They looked more like bureaucrats or businessmen than members of an elite corps of secret police. The younger one who apparently served as a clerk, sat at the table facing her, neatly spreading out a dossier, writing implements and a clean pad of paper. The other man motioned the guard to the door and stood with his arms folded across his chest, studying her. He was tall, angular and acerbic looking, with pale gray eyes that barely blinked and a prominent scar that bisected the side of his face-cheekbone to jaw line. After a few intimidating moments he shifted his gaze, moving toward the table.

"Chief Inspector," the clerkish agent said, offering the folder with obvious deference.


"Hmm," the tall man murmured as he browsed the contents. In his opinion it was a classic case, an all too familiar example of the Austrian population's lax attitude toward the Poles. And this trend of intimacy between Aryan girls and Polish sub-humans was one he found particularly appalling. Orders had recently been issued, straight from the top, to weed out perpetrators of this pernicious crime. This he would do, and gladly.

"You are Frieda Greinegger?"


"Yes," she answered.


"Speak up!"


"Yes," she repeated.


"It says here you were observed in the company of your lover . . . a Polish slave named Julian Noga. Now what is this all about, Fräulein? As much as it disgusts me, as it would disgust any German worth his salt, I have it here in black and white. From a very reliable witness. But I wish to hear this described in your own words. Now what have you to say for yourself?"


"I say someone is mistaken. Julian is a worker on my father's farm. We are acquaintances, friends. Nothing more."

The Inspector laughed. "I see. So we are mistaken, are we?" He stared at her, his look venomous. It was difficult to bear such scrutiny, she tried not to squirm.


"I think not, Fräulein," he continued, raising his voice a little. "Perhaps you would like to reconsider your answer. This is not an insignificant matter and it could go very badly for you if you do not tell us the truth. Now, please listen carefully. You were seen in this Pole's company on several occasions, most recently two Sundays ago, in the vicinity of Efferding. Is that not so?"


"It's not possible."


"So, it was just a casual meeting? And you spoke?"


"No."


"You have never spoken to the Pole? Did you not call him a friend?


"On my father's estate we spoke to each other."


"About what, Fräulein? What do you speak about with a Pole."


"The farm. The weather. Ordinary things."


"And did he touch you while you were speaking about ordinary things?"

It was a deliberately impertinent question, and it stung.


"No."


"Did you touch him?"


"No."


"He is your lover."


"No."


"So what relationship can possibly exist between a girl such as yourself and this slave?"


"We are friends."


"And how does a young girl befriend such an individual? What sort of favors does he ask of his friend?"


She said nothing, there seemed no point in even attempting an answer.


"You didn't understand the question? Perhaps I should rephrase it. Explain the nature of this friendship, I am interested. We are, all of us, interested."


She still said nothing.


"I am waiting Fräulein, and I warn you, it makes me very unhappy to be kept waiting. Answer me immediately!"


"I don't think I can provide an explanation for something that doesn't exist. We are friends, not lovers. Acquaintances. That is all there is, regardless of what anyone says or does, there is nothing more."


"Nothing more? I see. Well perhaps you would like to consider this matter further . . . locked away in a prison cell! You are accused of an unlawful act. Consorting with a subhuman. I will have the truth if I have to beat it out of you. So think it over. Think very carefully. Take her away!" the Inspector barked at the sentry. She was jerked from her seat. "I am very displeased with this interview, Fräulein Greinegger," he concluded, as she was roughly escorted to the door.



Her courage deserted her halfway down the corridor. She was being dragged along by the same spiteful guard, his fingers digging into her arm, his insipid voice droning in her ear.

"A girl like you. Such a beautiful girl, why would you throw yourself away on a foreigner? What has that Poler got that's so special, eh Fräulein?"

He kept up a running commentary even as they left the building, bullying her, making increasingly suggestive remarks until she felt quite ill. Outside the gates he pushed her into a small shuttle bus. It took her to the prison a few blocks away where she was placed in the custody of Austrian guards. The cell, when she reached it, was almost a relief. It was bleak and spare but at least she was alone and away from her tormentors. There was a bunk built into the wall with a pillow and a rough wool blanket. She sat down and did her best not to cry.



Julian returned to the Greinegger estate late in the afternoon. It was a long ride, and he was tired and dispirited. Frieda wasn't at their meeting spot. He waited for hours but she never showed up. It wasn't like her to be late. Perhaps she was ill or perhaps her employers needed her, it was impossible to tell. All he knew for certain was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and another week of waiting before anything could be resolved.


The next morning the police arrived shortly after breakfast. Hans Rieger fetched him from the barn. It was like a bad dream. He was allowed to change clothes. Frieda's sister Margaret and the foreman stood like mannequins on the verandah as he followed the officer out. He did not speak to them. What was
there to say?


The room they placed him in was austere. There were four Gestapo and a male secretary. The Inspector in charge was a tall man, his face scarred down one side. He was reading from a sheaf of papers. After a few minutes, he put them down and turned to face Julian.

"Noga, we know everything about you," he said abruptly, "About you and Fräulein Greinegger. Consorting with an Austrian girl is against the law! A serious crime!" The German was intense and very mobile, crisscrossing the room impatiently as he spoke. Suddenly he moved closer and stared at Julian. They were the same height and standing eyeball to eyeball, it was an effort not to look away.


"I demand a full confession. Tell me precisely how involved you are with this girl. We are already aware of the details, but I wish to hear them from your own lips. And I warn you, you will bitterly regret it if you don't tell me the truth."


"There is nothing between us, sir. We're just friends."


A slow predatory smile crept across the Gestapo Inspector's face. "Friends? A Polish slave and an Austrian girl? I see. And how often did you meet your friend, these last months?"

"Meet, sir? We did not meet."


"It says here," he referred to the paper, "that you met near the village of Efferding in October. There was a witness. Well, Noga, what do you say now?"


"There has been an error, sir. We never met." Julian was firm in this. It was all the defense he had. If they knew more, had solid evidence against him, surely they would not require his corroboration.

The interrogation continued for some time. The Chief Inspector asked him the same insinuating questions over and over again, trying to trip him up on the details. It was easy enough to stick to the story. Total denial. And it was partly the truth. They were not lovers. Though he loved her, cared more for her than anyone on earth. But these men weren't clairvoyant. They may have their sources but no one, not even the Gestapo, could see into his heart. Or so he hoped.


By Krista Perry Dunn
Copyright © 2005, 2006 by Krista Dunn.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2005901048
ISBN : Hardcover 1-4134-8642-8
Softcover 1-4134-8641-X
www.julianandfrieda.com