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Georg E Mateos

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Books by Georg E Mateos
You too Brutus? (Und Sie auch, mein Sohn...)
By Georg E Mateos
Posted: Thursday, May 06, 2010
Last edited: Thursday, May 06, 2010
This short story is rated "PG" by the Author.
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Recent stories by Georg E Mateos
· The Hell’s furnaces (Die Ofen von HOlle)
· The song of Death (Das Lied von Tot)
· Sailing in a steel coffins (Segel Stahlerner Sarg)
· Abraham's barbed wire (Abraham’s Stacheldraht )
· Sigfried's Death
· Sieg Heil
· Gerry, the dog.
           >> View all 70
You go to the funeral of your brothers without wearing your uniform, a kind of rebellion against, a kind of morally spitting on the hypocrisy's face.
You try not to show your pain but the pallor will betray your dying heart.

Excerpt from the book under work:
“The Life of Walther Alexander”

Und Sie auch, mein Sohn...

Julius Cesar final words, or so we were told they were, could that willing to be the German Folk Onkel Adolph say, if he knew that the ground under him was starting to tremble because of conspiratorial shakes.

At the Heidefriedhof cemetery Walther saw a few familiar faces, there was his father talking to the Mayor of Leipzig Carl Goerdeler, and the former pals of his uncle Albert, Colonel Henning von Tresckow and General Hans Oster, and a few more unindetifable ones milling around as they waited for the Luftwaffe funeral carriers to arrive.
There was his uncle Albert and few black dressed SS officers holding themselves apart from the Wehrmacht Elite.
As it was, Walther saw a flurry of coming and goings of Prusians disgusted with the take over of their precious military traditions and strategical planning privileges by a bunch of beerhalls brawlers and few renegades officers seeking promotions and status to be where they didn’t belonged to be.

From time to time, his father would take a expresionless glance in his direction as he would look in the direction of his mother surrounded by the femalee side of her “family” as the protocol dictated. They saw more like a segregated bunch than a mourning one and Walther wondered if any of them had had a thought for his brothers, ever.

Protocol, tradition, why he was here?
Not because his father or the imperative call to attend to a ceremony well arranged by the good Doctor Goebbels, whose photographers and film camera crews people were in situ before the bodies of his brothers were cold…
Probably he was the most junior and the most low raking officer of them all and yet, what was expected of him?
To be proud that his brothers were dead?
Sind sie aus ihren verrückten Gemütern? (are they out of their freaking minds?)
How can anybody feel but sorrow, don’t the jews cover their mirrors, don’t the rest of the world at least wear a black something?
Why Fatherland all of a sudden is so proud of so many deads? It is like a deranged father getting drunk and holler his happines at the demise of his sons.
Down in the south of France, Walther had came to the knowledge of a mind boggling fact, that the Spanish Civil War, of which the Thrid Reich had taken part, had claimed over one million deads.
One million?
That many?
And he tried to calculate how many ships was needed to be sunk to reach one million shipwrek sailors.
One million dead?
It couldn’t be done.

A long motorcar caravan prescided by two motorciclists were heard before they came to sight.
A black limousine followed by two Luftwaffe carriers holding each a coffin wrapped with the Third Reich flag and after them four troop transport trucks where sitting facing opposite sides, smarty dressed where the honor guards from every branch of the Whermacht.
When the motorcade stopped, out from the limousine descended SS Oberstumbanfurer Lukas Kessler dressed with his best SS galla uniform. A Ukranian-German that never saw a militar barrac in his life, he was bigger than life and more dangerous than a pissed off cobra snake in a nudist camp.

Suddenly the funeral of his brothers wasn’t a funeral but a grotesque parade of peackoks with military caps crested heads and their fanlike tail marked with iridescent condecorations spots. The Prusians gang with their golden and blue badanas, the Nazi gang with their kaughing skull on red.
Ant the Luftwaffen, still basking under the spot of the Red Baron Richthofen but don’t faring very well under the obese Air Marshal Little Big Herman, where present perhaps not so much to present their respects to two fallen pilots but as an act of contrition. Slave labor in the airplanes construction doesn’t guarantee that a litle bit of friendly sabotage wouldn’t go a long way.

The soldiers had descended from the trucks and were ready to put the shoulders under the flag wrapped coffins as soon as the gathering could sorted who was first from whom and would stay nearest and in direct line from the film cameras.
A few pushing and shovings, a sharp elbow here and there with eyes giving icy glares and they were all ready.
For what? Mourning?…Hardly.

The childish display had shoved Walther all the way to the back of that circus like assembly and in disgust he just started to walk away.
A hand grabbed his right arm and he stopped. His father had come through looking for him, pain, for the first time ever, the son saw in his father’s eyes.
But Walther couldn’t stay and pulling his arm free he just went, but not before seeing the question in his father’s face. The same question Julius Cesar asked is son Brutus.

As Walther was leaving Dresden Hoellenfeuer cemetery he happened to walk over the same place that years after would hold a slab of stone with the inscription:

“Wieviele starben? Wer Kennt die Zalhl? An deinen Winden sieht man die Qual der Namelosen die hier verbrannt im Hoellenfeuer aus Menschenhand.“
("How many died? Who knows the number? In your wounds one can see the agony of the nameless ones, who burned to death here in a hellfire made by a human hand.")


Reader Reviews for "You too Brutus? (Und Sie auch, mein Sohn...)"

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Reviewed by Patrick Granfors
Wow Georg. This continues to be enthralling. Patrick
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
Powerfully written story; well done, Georg! BRAVO!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :D
Reviewed by Peter Schlosser (Reader)
I always wondered how Manfred Rommel would have felt when his father walked off with the Gestapo thugs and swallowed the golden hit of cyanide.
Reviewed by Mark Lichterman
Wonderful, though scary ongoing story. Characters realistically drawn. I look forward to the next excerpt.
Your friend, Mark
Georg, I hold you suspect of being German, your insight and expressions leave little room for doubt. (This is a compliment by the way, don't get mad ) We had enough of madmen, not need another.
Jasmin Horst
Reviewed by Mr. Ed
Another powerfully sad excerpt, my friend. And those last two lines will remain with me for a long time.

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