War Cry. Wilbur Smith

      Two months had passed since war had been declared and the autumn sun that shone down from the clear blue skies over Bavaria was so glorious that it seemed to cry out for beer to be drunk and songs to be sung in hearty, joyful voices. But the Oktoberfest had been cancelled and the Double Phaeton limousine proceeding up the short drive of the villa in Grünwald, just outside Munich, bore tidings that were anything but joyous.

      The car pulled to a halt. Its chauffeur opened the passenger door to allow a distinguished gentleman in his late sixties to disembark and a uniformed butler admitted him into the house. A moment later, Athala, Countess of Meerburg, looked up as the family lawyer Viktor Solomons was shown into the drawing room. His hair and beard might now be silver and his stride was less vigorous than it had once been, but the impeccable tailoring of his suit, the gleaming white of his perfectly starched collar and the flawless shine of his shoes reflected a mind that was still as precise, as sharp and as insightful as ever.

      Solomons stopped in front of Athala’s chair, gave a respectful little nod of the head and said, ‘Good morning, Countess.’

      His mood seemed subdued, but that was only to be expected, Athala reminded herself. Solomons’s beloved son Isidore was away at the front. No parent could ever be light-hearted knowing that their child’s very survival now lay at the mercy of the gods of war.

      ‘Good morning, Viktor, what an unexpected pleasure to see you. Do please sit down.’ Athala extended a dainty hand towards the chair opposite her. Then she turned her attention towards the butler who had shown the guest in and was now awaiting further instruction. ‘Some coffee, please Braun, for Herr Rechtsanwalt Solomons. Would you like some cake, Viktor? A little strudel, perhaps?’

      ‘No thank you, Countess.’

      There was a sombre tone to Solomons’s voice, Athala realized, and he seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to look her in the eye. He has bad news, she thought. Is it the boys? Has something happened to one of them?

      She told herself to remain calm. It would not do to betray one’s fears, especially not while a servant was still in the room. ‘That will be all, Braun,’ she said.

      The butler departed. Athala felt a sudden desire to postpone the bad tidings for just a few seconds. ‘Tell me, how is Isidore getting on? I hope he’s safe and well.’

      ‘Oh yes, very well thank you, Countess,’ Viktor replied, with a distracted air, as though his mind was not fully engaged. But he took such pride in his beloved son that he could not resist adding, ‘You know, Isidore’s division is commanded by Crown Prince Wilhelm himself. Imagine that! We received a letter from him just last week to say that he has already seen his first action. Apparently, his major declared that he conducted himself admirably under fire.’

      ‘I’m sure he did. Isidore is a fine young man. Now … what is it, Viktor, why are you here?’

      Solomons hesitated a second to gather his thoughts and then sighed, ‘I fear there is no other way of saying this, Countess. The War Office in Berlin informed me today that your husband, Graf Otto von Meerbach, is dead. General von Falkenhayn felt that it was better that you should hear the news from someone you knew, than simply receive a telegram message, or a visit from an unknown officer.’

      Athala slumped back against her chair, eyes closed, unable to say a word.

      ‘I know this must be very distressing,’ Solomons went on, but distress was actually the last thing on her mind. Her overwhelming feeling was one of relief. Nothing had happened to her sons. And finally, after all these years, she