Finally, I am able to write again. Words gather, fly restlessly in the midnight sky, then find their way to my pillow.
Soft as a blanket of fleece, the night pulls the meandering desert sky over the cold naked earth.
Buried under our comforter, like tender bulbs buried until spring, we lie quoting bits of this and that, unaware that far above the constellations the thread that binds sky to earth blurs, so fragile like our beginning.
Stars dance in the sky above, but down here shapes softened, not seen, simply felt, as hands and whispered breath draw fairytale prints on our souls.
Night turns to surround the planets as you yield, turning like a night’s face to settle on me, chest on breast; warm here.
In bed this morning you tucked into the curve of me as our feet danced about seeking warmth. We turn like in a roundabout until it is I who tuck into you . . . until it is I who trace the smooth flat of your back and write our names with my finger and then my tongue.
My heart knits into yours until only one heart can we make of it and as our love sings its song, the heavens grow drowsy with the harmony.
A Novel of
Love, War, and Regret
Theo sat on the old bench across from the entrance to the cemetery and pulled his jacket close to his chest. He was cold, and he knew he would not be warm for a while. The service for his closest friend had ended almost an hour ago. He would wait. After everyone left, he would go into the Friedhof and place his single rose atop the freshly turned soil.
Now he sat in the cold and felt old. Life was such a temporary place and he knew he could not wait any longer to do what needed to be done. He had to write down all he’d put away years ago, buried somewhere deep in his soul. He needed to reach beyond the comfort of these new days and unwrap the terrible, the hurt and anguish, all the regrets locked away but never forgotten.
Twenty years later and a continent away, family secrets revealed to Rick Dahlman demand he control his disbelief and anguish as he travels to Europe to unravel over thirty years of lies and deceit, a journey steeped in history. In a quest to find answers to his identity he will meet the classic, elegant Anna.
As Rick demands answers to his very existence from ghosts of the past, his emotional resolve is blindsided by the beautiful, headstrong Karlotta. Lost in a whirlpool of passion and desire so strong only their love and the surprising answers Rick finds in Theo’s diary will guide them to the awakening of a new life.
And so begins Theo’s Diary. The reminiscence of love and pain, war and regret . . . A life that spans two world wars, two continents, and almost ninety-one years. In his simple way, Theo will share the good and the bad, dreams and devastation, relationships so filled with passion you will stop and draw in a breath, just to slow time. And lives will be changed.
After several delays Theo's Diary has been released. It is available at Amazon, B & N, Goodreads, Kobo, and several other online outlets. Also, if you would like a signed copy, let me know and I can mail you a copy. Exciting times.
In my new book, Theo's Diary, launched in July of 2016, I write of the wonder of Erste Mai, the First of May, which is celebrated just as we celebrate our Labour Day in September.
In the village of Oberwienhausen, the residents dress up in period costumes and the excitement and delight of festival fills the air. The band plays in the Plaza as the Maibaum, the Maypole, is raised.
The children have been practicing for months at school. They dance and sing before the whole town marches out of the walled village to the park where there is dancing and eating and of course, the local beer and wine fill the day. Ever responsible, before dark, everyone marches back again.
This is the Friedhof, the beautiful cemetery just outside the main arched Tur, that leads into the village where Rick Dahlman will come to know more about his heritage. It is a peaceful place. I have sat here as I sought to gain an in-depth knowledge of the people who are buried here. People who lived and claimed a place in my story.
And this is my home in Oberweinhausen, also Anna’s home.
My vivid imagination coupled with the words written in Theo’s diary became the foundation for this novel. And although writing this book was not easy, it was a labour of love. I cannot count the number of times I stumbled, the nights I locked the diary away in a safe place as I pondered my ability to tell this tale, to mix fact and fiction, yet honour those I came to know and love so well.
Theo was the great-uncle of my late husband, Frederick Karl Duell, and Theo did write his diary, which he started in 1959.
We received the diary, hidden away for years, from a cousin still living in Germany. Of course, we had to translate it into English, but when we read the journal, we realized we would need to read it again and again. Theo’s words drew us back to another time, vividly, to a place in history that usually only rises to public awareness on anniversaries, or during PBS specials.
I had first thought to gather Theo words, what he experienced, and write a biography, but Fred thought otherwise. He wanted to preserve the facts, just wrap them securely with fiction.
Fred’s parents had immigrated to America from this same small town in Germany. He wanted to connect the two countries and several generations, a story not really that far-fetched. He felt that by adding fiction, it would strengthen the total impact of what Theo was trying to say.
We both hated war, as did Theo. Could we possible use the diary as a starting point to bring the horrors of war to an audience? How could we know? But that was our goal.
Fred was a pilot, first in the United States Air Force, and then as a commercial airline captain, and he died… flew west, way too soon. I was lost without this wonderful man and each time I re-read the diary, it begged to be written.
After Fred’s passing, I returned the original handwritten diary to Germany, to the medieval walled town where Theo was born. I strolled the cobblestone streets, visited the Friedhof, the cemetery where Theo is buried…sat by the river Main. I wandered among the vines and up to the hilltop as others had done for centuries.
Later I walked the battlefield in Belguim and France… Ypres, the Somme, and Verdun, then on to the eastern front, Masuria, and the Carpathians, trying to imagine the additional horror of what happened there, what turned into a deadly fiasco, orchestrated by the silent warrior called winter.
I stood with head bowed at Langermarck and Passchendaele; at the Canadian and British cemeteries and watched the sunset beside those who rested there… those who had given their all. Then I came home and wrote this book.
Every battle described here happened. I read and reread Theo’s descriptions, which were raw and heartwrenching. I memorize his anguish, but what is written here are my words. If there is an error, it is entirely my own doing, and other than the battles, the rest is pure fiction, well, almost.