WRITER

WRITER

AUTHOR

Now Available: THE 7 PRINCIPLES OF JESUS

The 7 Principals is now available in paperback and Kindle additions from Amazon Books     http://tinyurl.com/qyymlzd

The 7 Principles of Jesus is a unique and provocative romantic thriller genre built around the 7 Principles as a theme. And just like The 7 Principles of Highly Effective People tweaked millions of the curious into delving into that book, The 7 Principles of Jesus is designed to try to do the same thing. Hopefully, a great many Christians will be curious about a returned Jesus’s 7 new Principles based on the tumultuous conditions of the world today. It is an opportunity to think more holistically about Jesus.

 A brief Synopsis 

Peter Blake, a famous award-winning young architect, appears to be guilty of the predawn murder of two employees of the Hugo Company, the contractor building the huge American Revolutionary War Museum that he had designed. He has to escape to avoid being imprisoned without bail until he can prove his innocence. He is assisted by his attractive young attorney, Sofie Sonenberg, on a wild but romantic chase through New York City and environs and escapes in his Otter One seaplane to his hidden camp in the mountains of North Carolina near Mirror Mountain ski center. The sinister Boris Karpinski from the Hugo Company pursues him in his helicopter. Sofie and Pete fall in love and secretly marry and months later on Easter Sunday in a glass-topped mega church a dramatically changed Peter reappears in at cataclysm event.

An apparent miracle has just occurred in the Christian Heaven Church in Angletown, North Carolina during the Easter service. Tape showing the miracle quickly appears on TV sets around the world. During the service that followed the miracle, The Man They Call Jesus explains that five months ago he was a normal man but that fateful events that he doesn’t understand has transformed him into what you see before you today. He tells of Seven Principles that he will give over the next forty days before he must leave.

In the second part of the book, “The 7 Principles of Jesus,” A Second Coming is joyously declared in the press and TV. Christianity is in total shock and the clergy are dismayed because none of them had ever planned what to do if this happened. They had all considered the possibility of Jesus’ actual returning as a religious abstraction, a goal, but nothing that would ever occur in their lifetime despite what they had told their congregations.

Now in addition to the police and Boris Karpinsk, the whole Christian world and the paparazzi are looking for him. The mega church’s pastor gets his friend president Harriet O’Brien to help get Peter away safely and to set up a secret office in Washington D.C. A problem for Peter arises because some women are overcome by physical love for the actual man Jesus they have been always told to love.

Sofie is also shocked by the “miracle” that seems to have transformed her husband but she reluctantly agrees that Peter must now complete his 40-day commitment despite the new evidence of his possible innocence of the murders. Karpinski’s employer, the Hugo Company, is dominated extreme fundamentalists and they believe that Peter is the Antichrist and must be destroyed.

Although Peter has to remain in “disguise,” he spends the 40 day Second Coming traveling to visit important people and giving his Principles on Sundays in surprise venues around the world, the last of which takes place in RFK Stadium in Washington before world church leaders, congress and the press and TV and 54,000 seats for the public. The world stops, stores and offices close, and almost everyone in the world stops to watch this great event on this, the last 40th day of the incredible Second Coming.

New Novel: FIRE

David C. Ashley davidcashley@gmail.com

FIRE is available in paperback and e-book format at the Amazon Website. You can download a Kindle App to any electronic device to read the ebook version.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QOKQEU0

Fire Synopsis:

Tiffany Churchill, a shy only child living with her troubled parents in their Manhattan town house, spends a happy summer with her new boyfriend and classmate, Nevio, from her Syracuse University Architecture School class. But then when they head back upstate to the demanding rigors of their sophomore year, an incredibly handsome Swiss transfer student is assigned to the seat next to Tiffany in her design studio. Concurrently, her father, Willis, hires a comely Hungarian immigrant as his home secretary for his new business venture of becoming a conservative talk show host. Willis rents her the basement flat under their town house where his home office is located. Trouble brews as his wife Grace, a literary agent, becomes wildly jealous and suspicious of Willis’s new office assistant while simultaneously Tiffany finds herself trapped in a triangle situation at school. Boyfriend Nevio decides that he needs to go to extraordinary measures to maintain his relationship with Tiffany.

Some unusual events occur and are resolved together at Christmas time in a happy ending.

This novel was written as part of a class assignment in Megan Davidson’s class, Novel Bootstrap, at the Syracuse YMCA Downtown Writer’s Center.

SHORT STORY

The Saboteur

9.6.2011 (Available online at Amazon)

By: David C Ashley

She scurried across the room with no clothes on as if it were an ordinary thing that she did every day. Henry could hardly believe it. In all of their seventeen months of knowing each other, he had never actually seen his wife nude before. Yes, they had ended up having sex a few times before they were married—just a few hours ago—but he suddenly realized that he had never actually seen her totally nude. Always before, their relations had been a frantic culmination of excitement in a darkened bedroom—hers usually—where bodies were felt, for the most part, and not seen. So he was almost totally unprepared for the towering, voluptuous Amazon of a woman who casually paraded across their honeymoon bedroom into the bathroom as if it were something she did every day, and then closed the door. He sucked in a long breath and then let it out slowly in a long soft whistle. “Beecher, you are unbelievable; I thought I had seen everything.”

Then it happened. The cat they had inherited with the room suddenly started making retching sounds and its body simultaneously began convulsive forward thrusts. Everyone who has ever owned a cat knows what that means: it’s preparing to throw up and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. Henry knew from childhood experience with a family cat, that he had maybe a second or two to react.

“Oh my god, please don’t do it,” he said, as he lunged forward toward the cat. He just managed to grasp the cat and hurtle it off of the bed, but in his haste he tripped forward and the cat ended up right in his wife’s open suitcase. By now the cat was violently ejecting large quantities of foul smelling whitish yellow semi-fluid material into the suitcase. It was too late to stop what was to be the start of a much more exciting honeymoon than either of them could have possibly imagined.

“Honey, the cat just threw up,” he yelled to his wife, Beecher, who was now taking her precious quick shower after their exhausting half hour boat trip to the island. But with the door closed to the ancient bathroom to keep some semblance of warmth inside and the sound of the shower, she didn’t hear him. Realizing the folly of just yelling, he gave the now forlorn looking cat, whose name they had been told was Stutz, as angry and shocked a look as he could muster. “Stutz, or what ever your name is, you have gotten us both in ultra deep trouble.” But he should have remembered that making eye contact with a cat, for whatever reason, is to allow their unique feline characteristic that cats possess of staring down their adversary, to take hold. Stutz just stared back at him in the most innocent, blank fashion imaginable.

Angry and frustrated, he turned his attention to the horrible mess in Beecher’s suitcase. Unfortunately, even the clothes she had just been wearing, she had neatly laid on top of the other clothes in the suitcase. The scuffle with the cat had disturbed all of the garments and, as fate would have it, nothing in the suitcase seemed to have been spared from the yucky, smelly mess the cat had just disgorged.

“She’s going to want to kill me,” he realized. “This will be a true test of our love.” Visions of being in a courtroom where a judge was passing sentence on him for some heinous crime he had committed accidentally, passed through his head. He was the one who had pleaded with Beecher not to remove the cat from the room. “After all, Madam von Stein told us that Stutz normally lived in this room and liked to look out the front window because it had a commanding view of the entrance courtyard of the two story complex of small buildings.” They had brought some extra clothes because the tiny brochure Madam von Stein had mailed him warned that the service boat only came every two weeks after October 1st and there were no onsite laundry facilities—unless you were willing to wash your own things in the cold, salty ocean water that was pumped to the toilets.

“Coming here was my choice, not hers,” he remembered. She had opted for Lake Placid, New York, so they could do some skiing at Whiteface Mountain if they got some early snow before Thanksgiving.

“I’m sure I can could teach you to ski in a day or so,” she had said.

It got down to a coin toss, which he won. But after the look on her face, he volunteered, “Let’s make it two out of three.”

She lost again. “Oh shit, let’s go,” she had said. (He never used the word “shit” even in very private conversations) “It can’t be that bad and since I’m always up for a new adventure and I’ll have my writing material with me; how bad can it be?”  She was about to find out.

They had been told upon arrival by a stern-looking Madam von Stein, “There is only enough fresh water for a two-minute warm, not hot, shower in the reservoir above your shower stall. And then all we can permit each guest is to have a shower every third day because the fresh water is very limited since it has to come on the service boat every two weeks. Oh, and the bathroom reservoir filling pump is only turned on by an appointment time with the front desk.” Even then, one had to endure a fierce glower of disapproval when you asked to have the water reservoir filled. They had wondered if she ever took a shower herself.

Beecher suddenly interrupted his stupefied grief by bursting out of the bathroom completely naked. Running up to him, she grabbed him bodily, carried him to the tiny creaky iron-posted bed and plopped down on top of him like a bear. This had been a tradition of sorts in their courtship, she being a foot taller than he was, at 178 pounds, 52 pounds heavier and much stronger than he was. He forever had to endure being treated almost like a rag doll, even if in a loving way, by this huge, lovely woman.

But as she stared down at him, like a captive on the bed, with a huge mischievous smile, suddenly she shouted out, “Oh shit, Henry, what is that horrible smell. Did you just puke or something?” Then she noticed her suitcase and gave out a blood curdling scream followed by a string of the most foul swear words Henry had ever heard and some that he hadn’t. First she buried her head in her hands and wailed in almost a cry for several moments. Then the anger started and she grabbed him around the neck in a headlock, which, if he didn’t know better, seemed like it could have been a death lock. The fact that his face was buried in her ample breasts, which under better circumstances would have been a supreme thrill, now was a suffocation dilemma.  “You dirty rat,” she screamed, “You’re the one who wanted that god dam cat to stay in the room. I don’t know whether to just kill you now or save you for some slow agonizing bouts of torture”.

“Honey, Beecher, I plead guilty for the cat’s presence, but not guilty for its throwing up. Please, it wasn’t my fault,” he said looking up at her as she stared down at him from about six inches from his face with a hard stern expression. “I tried desperately to get the cat to a safe spot to throw up, really I did,” he said in his most pleading voice.

There was momentary silence as Beecher stared down at her crestfallen new husband. But then a tiny smile started followed by a huge burst of laughter that exploded from her as if it had been brewing in a steam boiler. And she flung her head back and flopped down beside him and just laughed. He tried weakly to laugh as well, not knowing exactly what else to do. Just as suddenly, her laughter stopped. She jumped off the bed and ran to his suitcase and dumped the contents out on the bed.

“Hey, how am I supposed to have anything to wear now. Your midget waist of 28 inches isn’t going to cut it with my 34 inches of blubber. And your “small” size shirts aren’t going to very kind to my breasts. They have to go somewhere. Maybe your pajamas will fit me though?” She hurriedly grabbed the top part and a smile of delight came across her beautiful face as the buttons seemed to cooperate. “Now let’s check the bottoms.” Success! Henry’s baggy pajamas fit her, albeit tightly. “Sorry Henry, the least you could do for your poor wife is to give up your ugly pajamas. And thank goodness my coat was hung up separately. But don’t think for one second that I’m now happy. Here we are in this god-forsaken treeless little rock of an island, the only guests, with a half witch as a hostess and an icy wind that blows constantly and relentlessly under almost always grey, stormy skies. My only positive thought about this place is that it would make a great site for a murder mystery. Maybe I’ll start on that tomorrow after I finally warm up. Except there’s nobody to murder except you and that witch, so it will be a hard choice under the circumstances. That boat ride not only took the contents of my stomach away, but also my otherwise warm and pleasant disposition. So what do you have to say for yourself, mister?” She glowered at him with as serious a look as she could muster.

Henry felt like the proverbial dog that had just been kicked because it just happened to be in the way. But now he was willing to admit to himself that she was right. The Lake Placid Club would have been a far better choice and he even might have been able to learn how to ski. There would have been other congenial people, good food, warm showers on demand and courteous hosts, not this Machiavellian woman who had greeted them or rather “allowed” them to stay here. Madam von Stein had pointed out when they arrived, with tne annoyingly chilly tone of one set upon by forces beyond her control, that the only reason she was still open and was willing to accept them as guests was that the Coast Guard required her to either stay here during the fall and winter and perform certain watch duties during the duration of the war, or she would have to allow them to take over and she would lose her only source of income. They had already taken her husband, Hans, and put him in a detention camp for Americans of recent German ancestry. She wasn’t even allowed to visit him.

The Selective Service folks had declared Henry 4F for several reasons: too short, only 5’-1 ½” in height (5’-2” was the minimum), flat feet and 20/60 vision. He wore bottle-bottom type thick glasses. He was one of the few men still attending Cornell University during the war where they had met. He often worried that Beecher had selected him as a mate only because of that reason. Why would such a beautiful, dynamic woman want a little nerd like himself? Yes, he was brilliant in all the sciences and was at the top of his class in Engineering Physics, the toughest school at Cornell, but what did that matter in affairs of the heart? He also worried that if she knew that he would have declared himself a conscientious objector if he had been drafted, she would have thought him to be a coward and rejected him. He knew he lacked the fortitude of some of the soldier types who had gladly gone off to fight in the great war. Still, his sense of compassion for his fellow man kept him in a kind of limbo between war and being a traitor of some kind. Did Beecher somehow sense this in him, he wondered?

He had selected his choice of going to Gull Island for their honeymoon because it was close, only a half hour boat ride from Portsmouth, New Hampshire where they had married in the white steepled Unitarian Church. He had heard wonderful stories of praise from folks who had visited the island in the summer, admittedly at a better time of year and before the war started two years ago.  So they were here now and there was no escape even if they wanted to. They also were surprised when Madam von Stein told them upon arrival that they would have to assist in some of the war-time measures that residents of the island were required to do.

“It’s the law,” she explained rather haughtily and forcefully, as if she almost enjoyed explaining some of the fine print that someone had inadvertently agreed to. “Night shades in all the windows must be pulled at dusk and someone must check outside and make sure not even a sliver of light is visible that a German U-boat might be able to see. The 15 foot tall watch tower on the east end of the island needs to be tended at all hours of the night to watch for possible German planes. There is a heavy cardboard display of the silhouettes of about twelve different types of German planes that you need to memorize such as Messerschmitt fighters.”

Henry and Beecher couldn’t imagine how a Messerschmitt fighter could be spotted. Fighters can’t take off from submarines; but the official explanation was that somehow a German aircraft carrier might be approaching the coast. How such a huge ship could get anywhere near the coast without being detected, was a mystery to everyone on the island. The only other people on the island other than Madam von Stein and George McCracken, the old handyman cook, were two lobster fishermen, John Quinn, his wife Mary Quinn, their two teenage daughters, Abigail, 16, and Kathleen, 17 and the other lobsterman, Nicholas, “Nick,” DeLeone and his wife, Loretta DeLeone.  This totaled ten people to fill nine hours of watch duty. The only concession to the two guests on the island was that they would be allowed to serve their hour’s watch together if they wished. They also were not allowed to write letters explaining their duties, which seemed silly to Henry and Beecher, since the only way to mail a letter would be by using the service boat that was not scheduled to return for almost two weeks.

In order to try to make amends, Henry took the mess of dirty laundry down to the generator room where there was a single, cold seawater laundry tub. He washed away as much of the acidic slime from Stutz’s throw-up as possible. Then he hung up the resulting scroungy looking mess of clothing in the boiler room using a rope cord Madam von Stein had loaned him. It was the only truly warm palace on the whole island.

Beecher was not to be appeased, however. She didn’t intentionally want to punish Henry, but she just couldn’t suppress her unhappiness. And it was compounded by the horrible incident with her clothing for which she secretly still blamed him. I know I’ll still love him after this is all over and we are home again, she said to herself, but for now I’m just blown away.

It was constantly cold. If thermostats existed, Beecher didn’t see them and her scientist husband didn’t seem to be much help. The one thermometer she found on the wall of the compound’s dining room read 57 degrees. And at night she knew it got colder because George McCracken, who was also responsible for shoveling coal into the hopper for the one boiler that heated the complex of four buildings, had to sleep too. Usually by dawn she could see her breath inside their bedroom.

But the real reason that Henry knew he was being punished was that Beecher complained that she needed to keep her coat on in bed because it got so cold and that she was exhausted every evening from shivering in the cold every day. The result, of course, he discovered, to his dismay, was that there was to be no honeymoon sex, at least for now. He was heartbroken, but blamed himself. And Stutz’s habit of walking on them when they were in bed whenever he chose, meowing loudly in the morning for his food and needing to be let out for his constitutional, didn’t help matters one bit.

“Please, Honey, can’t we just cuddle at least for a while?”

“Just until I fall asleep and I’m exhausted,” was Beecher’s bland reply. And very soon she was asleep or gave that appearance.

Dinnertime in the big common dining room was no better. The food was atrocious that George McCracken prepared on the coal stove that he started each morning. At least Henry thought so and Beecher for once agreed with him. An old Frigidaire kept food barely above a rotting stage and the root cellar produce was often victim to the local rat population. He cooked the meat with all the fat on it. Madam von Stein reminded everyone, “It’s wartime and all the fat, stems and rinds must be eaten. Henry, you are excused from the meat part of the meal because you are a vegetarian, but conversely, you  are expected to eat any cooked potato skins that anyone else leaves.” Madam von Stein talked constantly about her former life on the main land and complained that her grown children never came to visit. Henry and Beecher could see why. Where were the soft candlelight and music and soft words of love they had hoped for on their honeymoon? It seemed like a nightmare come true.

Madam von Stein’s first name was Margaret, but she corrected Beecher when she tried to call her that. “Mrs. Manwell, I prefer that you use my business name of Madam von Stein and not Margaret, if you don’t mind. My husband, Hans, and I purchased this part of the island with its buildings from the Coast Guard in 1938. The Coast Guard built it 23 years ago as a training post after World War I, but then decided they didn’t need it when hostilities seemed to calm for a number of years. Soon after we bought it, they came back to us and offered to buy it back because Hitler had come to power in Germany and potential war fever was stirring internationally again. But we refused. Hans had already spent hundreds of hours fixing things up and we had an established tourist trade by then and were making pretty good money. I do apologize for some of the hardships winter guests like yourselves must endure, the handyman is not a very good cook and the heating and sanitary systems are original, but I’m sure you saw all of that on the back of the brochure that I sent to you.”

Henry realized that he had never noticed the material on the back of the brochure. He had assumed that it was just boilerplate of some kind because the printing was so small he could barely read it. But Beecher gave him a look that could kill. “Yes, Henry, I’m sure you read every word; maybe you even memorized it,” she said coldly.

Even Madam von Stein caught the unmistakable meaning in her voice.  “Well, who would like some dessert? We have a choice between canned prunes and graham crackers with peanut butter. And would anyone like a cup of hot water and instant coffee?”

Beecher decided that the hot water for the instant coffee would be a good hand warmer even though she didn’t normally drink coffee and Henry decided the graham crackers would be a good snack for later that he could slip into his pocket. Madam von Stein locked the kitchen after meals, so he had learned to be sure to eat enough of whatever distasteful food there was because there was nothing in between. “And Madam von Stein, please call me Beecher if you don’t mind and not Mrs. Manwell. We haven’t actually decided whether I will keep my last name, which is Vanderbilt, or even maybe use a hyphenated name.”

This was certainly unusual in 1943 for a woman to not use her husband’s name and Henry sat with his mouth open in wonder as if he had been asleep when they had discussed these options. He decided to be tactful and said, “And please call me Henry, not Mr. Manwell, if you please.” Even the usually stern faced Madam von Stern let a little smile creep across her face. She had come to like her possibly naïve young guests.

Night duty in the lonely watchtower could be trying, the young couple discovered. They had the 2:00 to 3:00 a.m. shift and decided that the first night they needed to do it together to be sure one of them didn’t fall asleep. It was windy and cold, getting down below freezing well before midnight. The only way to shield themselves from the wind and cold was to get down as low as possible below the solid wood railing. Then they discovered that hugging was also an excellent warmer. There was nothing to see because it was a dark, cloudy night and if there were a German plane somewhere, they decided they would hear it long before they would see it. For a while they talked together but fatigue got the better of them and suddenly they awoke as George McCracken appeared. Climbing over the railing, he jokingly asked, “Well, how many U-boats did you see tonight?”

Beecher was quicker on the draw than Henry and answered casually, “It was either two or maybe three because one might have been a whale.” They all laughed heartily, but a little sheepishly as well.

By the fourth day, they had settled into a routine. Beecher worked in the little anteroom off the dining room on her second novel—the first novel about an elephant in a 1930s circus and many rejection slips rested comfortably in her studio in the Hamptons—while Henry either read one of the many dog-eared paperbacks on the book shelves or wandered out across the island. And occasionally Madam von Stein prevailed upon one or both of them to help out in the kitchen. “George McCracken is 77 years old and he just can’t do everything by himself,” she would say, “and besides, if you want any heat today you better give him more time to shovel coal into the boiler.”

Henry came to enjoy the nooks and crannies of the tiny island. It was a five-minute walk from one end to the other, mostly through low windblown stunted evergreen shrubs, with no trees anywhere and craggy bluffs looking down into dramatic surf pounding on the ancient rocks below that sent towering bursts of saltwater spray into the air with a huge crash. The sound of the incessant pounding surf and continuous cries of the seagulls Henry found to have a hypnotic and soporific effect on his psyche. It’s like a great spiritual experience, he thought, and vowed to get Beecher out to the bluffs that afternoon to share it with him.

Beecher too had finally overcome her initial distaste for the island conditions and was enjoying herself. The coat at night in bed finally disappeared by the fifth night and wedded bliss started in earnest. Sometimes they missed breakfast, although it was hard to sleep through the final three bells that penetrated even the greatest howling of the wind. Although she now tolerated the big tomcat Stutz if he stayed off of her side of the bed, she had still not forgiven him for the shabby pile of what remained of her fine clothes. So she was surprised when Stutz suddenly, late on their ninth night, started softly growling as he looked out the courtyard window. His tail was also switching and he kept looking back at her through the almost dark bedroom as if to say, “Hey, I want your attention.” Henry was snoring softly and was oblivious to the strange goings on. There can’t be another cat here; what could he be upset about? It’s probably nothing and she almost decided to throw a sock at Stutz to quiet him down, but instead decided it was worthy of investigation. Maybe it was a seagull in distress or perhaps it was the one dog owned by one of the lobster fishermen.

What she saw immediately raised the hair on the back of her neck and sent a surge of adrenalin into her veins. Two men were struggling in the courtyard below. One man was sitting on the other, and holding something over the other’s mouth. Soon the man on the ground stopped struggling and the first man proceeded to tie his hands behind him and insert something into his mouth like a bandage or tape. She caught her breath as he rolled the man over and she could see his face. It was George McCracken! He was on the ground, motionless, and the other man was proceeding to drag him toward the shadows at the side of the dining kitchen building. The man then turned and quickly went to the side of the courtyard away from the pool of light from the one tiny bulb left on at night to allow guests to return safely to their cottages. He appeared to be looking in his backpack for something. Presently, he rose and pointed what appeared to be a flashlight out to sea. She gasped as she then saw flashes of light like Morse code coming from somewhere not too distant from shore. It was much too dark to see anything at sea that night, but it wasn’t hard to guess what it might be.

“Oh my god, a U-boat. And the man in the courtyard must be a German saboteur,” she said in a whisper. She looked around at Henry sleeping soundly behind her. She had misgivings about waking him; what if he shouted out?  What if he wanted to accompany her if she went downstairs? She was the big strong person in the family, the fearless one able to jump down from trees and climb on big rocks. She was bigger and stronger than most men and could outsmart them, if not outwrestle them. Could Henry get hurt? He was helpless at night without his glasses. She had to do it. It was up to her to do something and quickly. She surmised that the saboteur must have arrived in a rubber boat. Would the U-boat now be sending more people? Would they have to kill all the people on the island to keep anyone from telling about their presence? She gave Stutz a thankful look, put on her coat and sneakers and headed quietly into the hall and down the stairs.

But when she slowly opened the first floor door to the cottage, she saw no one in the courtyard. Unfortunately, she found it impossible to open the ancient metal door quietly. She hoped its creaking noise might not be heard over the howl of the wind. The saboteur appeared to be gone, however, perhaps back to the cliffs to meet others coming from the U-boat. She started toward the direction where she had seen the U-boat lights flash. Suddenly he hit her from behind knocking her to the ground. She heard him just in time to be able to swerve partly out of his way. She rose instantly and he was upon her, but she was able to throw him to the ground. They both ended up frantically grappling with each other on the hard-paved courtyard. Neither said anything, just the grunting and groaning of grasping body parts and trying to get positions. Suddenly the motion stopped. She had him in a headlock with his left arm turned up behind his back in a painful and inescapable position. He couldn’t move without incurring a painful response from Beecher.

She didn’t know any German, so she simply said, “Ready to give up? Or do you want me to break your arm before I shout for help?”

To her surprise, after a moment’s hesitation, he answered in perfect English in a boyish voice, “Yeah, I give up. You win.”

“Stand up and walk in front of me.” She pushed him over to the kitchen entrance by the dinner bell and rang it continuously.

It wasn’t long before everyone on the island was there helping to tie up the young captive. In the meantime, Beecher waved the flashlight in the direction of the U-boat to scare it off; she assumed they would quickly realize that their plan had been disrupted. George McCracken seemed OK, but quite stunned after he was untied. He had trouble standing, so they carried him to a side chair in the anteroom of the dining room.

“The Coast Guard warned us that this might happen,” Madam von Stein loudly announced to everyone in the room in her usual stern voice. The whole island population was assembled in the main dining room milling about with the prisoner firmly tied with laundry cord and also tied to a dining chair. “Look, he’s nothing but a kid,” one of the lobstermen, John Quinn, observed. “What’s your name, kid? Do you speak English?

The young man answered softly but firmly in perfect English, “My name is Hans Bruckerman and I am a member of the German Gestapo Intelligence Group, Mark 3B. My superiors told me that is all that I am required to tell you.” Madam von Stein silently winced when she heard the young man speak his first name. The same as my husband’s first name; what irony!

“What are we supposed to do with him?” Henry asked Madam von Stein.

But before she could answer, John Quinn shouted out, “The Nazis killed my brother in cold blood in the invasion of Normandy and this guy is a saboteur and should be hung or shot or what ever they do to saboteurs. I say we get on Nick’s short wave radio right now and notify the Coast Guard to come and get him.”

“Yeah, I saw that also on a newsreel after a movie in Portsmouth a couple of months ago,” Nicholas DeLeone’s wife, Loretta, volunteered. “They showed a captured saboteur being executed after a trial.”

“Yeah, I saw it too,” added Nicholas DeLeone. “It was pretty scary to see.”

Beecher had been sitting in a chair on the window side listening to this fascinating conversation. As a budding author, she couldn’t resist mentally framing this whole procedure as part of a plot where there must be some more twists and turns in the making. It just can’t be this simple. “Wait,” she shouted, “let’s talk to the prisoner and at least go around the room and let everyone have a say in what we should do. Isn’t that fair? He can’t go anywhere and we can keep him tied up as long as he’s here.”

“How old are you?” Henry asked the prisoner. “There can’t be any secret in that information.”

The youth hesitated, but then answered, “I guess not, I’m 19 and I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you that before I was drafted into the German military, like every other boy my age, I was an apprentice chef in a major German restaurant. I’m just doing my patriotic duty like all of your soldiers are.”

“But you’re not a soldier, Hans, you’re a saboteur,” Nicholas DeLeone noted. “As soon as you take off your uniform, put on civilian clothes and sneak into our country, you’re an enemy saboteur and you can be shot or tried for sabotage.”

“Maybe; but don’t you have to commit some act of sabotage before you can be a real saboteur?” Henry asked. “Don’t you have to blow up something or shoot someone before you can be tried and convicted of sabotage?”

George McCracken had been listening quietly on the side of the room still sitting in his chair. “Let me add something. This kid overpowered me and drugged me. And now my back hurts something awful. We’ll all freeze to death here if I can’t shovel the coal any more. And who’s prepared to do all the cooking if I’m laid up, which I think I am. Doesn’t that make him some kind of criminal?”

The room was suddenly silent as the impact of McCracken’s words began to sink in. The lobstermen and their families had their own cottages and didn’t need McCracken, but everyone else suddenly realized that someone was now going to have to do the cooking and coal shoveling and all the other critical duties that McCracken quietly and efficiently did every day.

Madam von Stein quickly seized the initiative and almost shouted out, “I think we need to rethink being so hasty in calling the Coast Guard. The prisoner can’t escape and for the moment we’re not sure if he really is technically a saboteur. I am concerned that the tourist business to the island next spring and summer could be hurt if there is bad publicity about the island, saboteurs landing here and the like. People will be scared away. I say we deal with this quietly. We can hold him here until the next service boat comes in five days and then deliver him quietly to the Coast Guard station in Portsmouth. And besides, I could use him in the meantime to fill in for George if George can’t recover from his injuries. Apparently he can even cook.”

“Where did you learn to speak such good English?” Abigail, the Quinn’s 16 year- old younger daughter, asked.

“You keep out of this, Abigail, and get back to the house. You too, Kathleen,” Quinn commanded his two daughters. “I’m not in favor of that solution, Margaret (von Stein). He’s dangerous and he’s our enemy and we need to turn him in now.”

The two attractive young Quinn daughters—Abigail and Kathleen, 17, a stunning blue-eyed, black haired colleen—didn’t want to leave. They couldn’t take their eyes off of the tall, blond prisoner only a year or so older than they were. They went in the anteroom and around the corner just out of sight so they could listen to the adults’ conversation….and anything the handsome prisoner had to say.

Madam von Stein blushed visibly at Quinn’s informality of using her first name and his rejection of her suggestion. But just as she was opening her mouth to reply, Henry quickly said, “Wait, we don’t have to all agree on everything, but we should agree that everyone should have a say and a vote on what to do. Isn’t that fair? We have two opinions now on what to do. How many want to take Madam von Stein’s suggestion of waiting until the service boat comes and then delivering the German to the Coast Guard?” Beecher had a glow of pride as she watched her meek and mild little husband appear to quickly and intelligently take command of the critical situation. Part of her next novel maybe? “Let’s see a show of hands for the wait for the boat option.” Henry said. Madam von Stein, Henry and Beecher put up their hands. “OK that’s three; now let’s see hands for Mr. Quinn’s suggestion of calling the Coast Guard right now.” John Quinn’s hand shot up, then belatedly, Nicholas DeLeone’s and after a stern look from Nicholas, Loretta DeLeone’s hand went up.

Mary Quinn said, “I prefer not to vote; I abstain.” John Quinn gave her a questioning look; but her mouth was pressed tightly closed indicating she was not about to change her opinion.

“That’s three for radioing the Coast Guard now,” Henry continued. “So far we have a tie, but Mr. McCracken hasn’t voted yet. You appear to have the deciding vote Mr. McCracken. One would think that you might have a grudge against the prisoner.”

“Don’t put words in his mouth, Henry,” Beecher implored.

“Well I have mixed feelings,” McCracken started off. “Naturally I didn’t like what he did to me; but when I put myself in his place, hypothetically, maybe I would have done the same thing. And I’m not a man to rush things; so I see some merit in Madam von Stein’s idea. On the other hand, I’m not sure what this kid is willing to do, especially if I don’t recover soon from my injuries and I would like to quiz him on that for a moment.”

“Go right ahead,” Henry said.

Hans Bruckerman had been listening quietly, but obviously very intently, to the debate going on in front of him. “I’ll answer any questions that I can not involving military questions,” he said.

“The service boat will be here in five days,” McCracken said. “If we keep you here for that time, would you be willing to make yourself useful and do any tasks that we ask you to do assuming you are capable of doing them and they don’t involve anything that could compromise your military status?”

“Yes, I have no problem with that. You’ll find that I am a hard worker and I sort of gather that I’ll be helping you in the kitchen, which I can do.”

It seemed obvious the direction in which McCracken was leading the questions. He wanted Hans to agree to do his own duties, at least until he recovered. “Abigail Quinn is gone now, but let me ask her question again, “Where did you learn to speak such good English?”

Hans looked around for a moment maybe contemplating whether there were any military implications in answering that question, but then responded, “My father was an American soldier in World War I and met my mother in Germany during the occupation. He decided to stay there and become a German citizen. I don’t think my Gestapo superiors ever asked that question, so they may not know that. We spoke English at home, so naturally I had no trouble with your language.”

“But then how come you have a German last name?”

“My German grandfather, Otto Bruckerman, immigrated from Stuttgart, Germany to Framingham, Massachusetts in 1901, so my father learned to speak German at home. When he was drafted during World War I, he spoke fluent German when he was in the conflict and during the German occupation after 1918. So he and my mother, Hildegard, decided to stay in Germany after they got married and he became a German citizen. But my father still loved his native country of America and insisted that we speak English at home.”

Everyone sat with a stunned look on their faces. Here was a military person, only a boy, who, they all realized, could have just as easily have been an American soldier; maybe one of their sons for that matter. War doesn’t seem to care what your nationality is; there are black chess pieces and white chess pieces; but they are both equal when it comes to conflict and war.

“I had a son,” McCracken started in, “that I have never talked about here on the island. He was a conscientious objector during World War I and I disowned him. He was heartbroken I think. Anyway, he committed suicide because so many of us in the family bitterly criticized him for not being willing to fight the Germans. Later I realized how terribly wrong I had been. He was just nineteen when he died the same age as this boy. I’ve spent the last 24 years thinking about him and all the millions of other boys on all sides who died in wars everywhere and on all sides of the conflicts. I don’t want any more of it.”

“Sounds like you’re voting to wait for the boat?” said Henry.

“Yeah, I think we should give the kid a chance. We’re not asking him to violate any military rules and since we’re not sure ourselves what a real saboteur is, I’m willing to take responsibility for him. What do you all say?”

“You make a pretty good case, George. I’m changing my vote to let him stay,” said Loretta DeLeone.”

“And I think I’ll change my abstention to a yes, let him stay,” said Mary Quinn with a smile. She was looking toward the anteroom and had seen one of her daughters’ heads just barely visible around the edge of the door.

“Well, I guess we’re outvoted John,” said Nicholas DeLeone to John Quinn.

“I’m not changing my vote,” Quinn said, “but I’m not going to contest a fair vote. The kid can stay if George is willing to take charge of him. But you also have to be the one to take him to Portsmouth when the boat comes.”

Madam von Stein had been quiet, but she was smiling broadly and was thinking to herself, Oh, my god, I hope he can cook some delicious German dishes with the meager supplies we have.

Beecher reached over under the table and was holding Henry’s hand and gave it a big squeeze.

.…

On their 14th morning, when the service boat arrived, Beecher had an improvised cage on the dock with their luggage. In the cage was a large tomcat named Stutz. To their  surprise, there were no other leaving passengers.

About three years later, Henry and Beecher got a surprise phone call at their home in the Hamptons. The person on the phone said, “Hello, do you remember me, Hans Bruckerman? Would it be all right if my wife, Kathleen, and I stop by to see you? You might like to hear the story of why I wasn’t on that service boat when you left Gull Island.” Beecher pushed the purring cat off of her lap, put down the manuscript that she was working on and called out the news to Henry who was in the basement doing some kind of probably dangerous scientific experiment. The title of the manuscript she was working on read: Honey, The Cat Just Threw Up.

This is a short story of 7,088 words prepared for submission to the DWC PRO Workshop staff. September 6, 2011.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David C. Ashley is a writer and an architect who has designed major buildings in Central New York and New York City and is an emeritus partner of an 80-person architectural firm that he founded in Upstate New York. Born in New Jersey to two creative parents, an inventor father and artist mother, he followed their creative footsteps into architecture and now writing. He spent many years in New York City working for a renowned architect. He was a founder of GreeningUSA.org, an environmental organization dedicated to creating sustainable communities and was selected as the 2009 Green Advocate of the Year by the SUNY ESF Green Conference. His next book is titled Fire about an environmentally conscious teen-age daughter and her “rat” father and how an unusual boyfriend helps both to become better, happier, people. It’s a love story with a happy ending at Christmas time. He currently lives and works in Upstate New York.

ARTICLES AND ESSAYS :

Ashley frequently writes a column for the Central New York Chapter of the American Institute of Architects on sustainable issues in architecture.In April 2009, he authored the following article associated with his award of the Green Advocate of the year at the SUNY ESF annual green conference:

What If We Ran Out of Oil Tomorrow?

You open the newspaper and see that some Middle Eastern countries have started a nuclear war. Impossible? No, they have nuclear weapons and they hate each other. You sigh and say, “Well I’m sorry but that’s their problem.”

Then you get in your car to go to work and to fill up with gas and find the line is around the block. The news is that gas may be $30 per gallon or more in a week, so everyone is gorging on it now. The station has raised the price to $ 9.99 per gallon already. You fill up your Hummer with 33 gallons, but the attendant will only take cash for the $329.67 you owe. You only have $75, so you give him your wrist watch, wedding ring and, reluctantly, your World Series tickets. Your consolation is that it might have cost you $1,000 when gas gets to $30 a gallon..

You finally get to the rural school district where you work, but there is a sign which says “Closed.” You get out of your Hummer and read the fine print on the sign and it says:

Dear Employees,

We have to close three days a week now because we can’t afford the heating oil delivery which was going to be fifteen times our budget and they restricted it to only 65% of what we need. And below is a list of employees we have to let go. (and your name is on the list.)

This very possible scenario occurred rapidly. What if we had told you that in 20 to 30 years the same will probably happen anyway? By then the World population will had risen to 8.5 billion from the present 6.5 billion and oil demand will have doubled because of everyone wanting our standard of living. By about 2010, World oil production will be in decline even though demand is increasing. We have already used more than half of the oil in the earth. Result? Equivalent of $30 per gallon of gas, maybe much more.

What shall be do? Wring our hands? The answer is that there’s a lot we can do. Start with buildings. They use 45% of our total energy. (Besides, we’re green architects; we know how to do that).

First of all, we have the technology to design and build buildings, like the school used in the frightening example above, to operate with no net non-renewable energy use. We are actually doing it on schools now using ultra efficient building envelopes, capturing passive heating and lighting energy and using high efficiency equipment to first reduce energy loads to a tiny fraction of current designs. Then the small remaining amount can be provided economically by various renewable energy sources such as PV panels or biofuels. Expensive? No. Almost as cheap now and much, much cheaper in the future. Hummers aren’t cheap either. Only when you try to sell them.

Same with cars. They use 75% of the oil. The Rocky Mountain Institute has pointed out that if we built our vehicles from carbon fiber instead of steel (1/5 the weight for equal strength) we easily could have 100 mile per gallon cars. Expensive? Yes, but so is filling up at $1,000 a tank full.