Free Stealing Trinity by Ward Larsen Page B

pages. He wondered what was happening in Germany. Amid the chaos and muted relief, had Gruber and the others escaped? An image came to mind -- it had been in the Ukraine. His unit had set a barn on fire during a rushed retreat, not wanting to leave anything for Ivan. Amid the blaze, a few chickens had run out, screeching and flapping their smoldering wings. Yes, he thought with a smile, thats how it must be. Braun was sure he'd never see any of them again.
    He tucked the newspaper under the arm of a fine charcoal gray suit he had purchased only hours ago. It was used, but in excellent condition, an expensive Italian cut that fit perfectly and retained the signature label. The shoes were also Italian, and together the ensemble reeked of wealth. Even second hand, it had cost thirty dollars. Fortunately, the rest of Braun's needs were modest. He would eat another meal, take a room, and tomorrow find a quality haircut and a shave. When the time came, he had to be eminently presentable. The Coles of Newport would expect nothing less. Or would they?
    It had been five years. He knew that Americans, in spite of their patent wealth, had been making sacrifices for the war. Rationing of gas and sugar, copper and tires. But Newport, where the robber barons of capitalism sunned their egos so openly? Would Newport sacrifice? Braun smiled inwardly. Of course not. Discretion. That would be the order of the times. Let the hedgerows grow higher. There would be no shortage of beef on the dinner table or tea to accent one's afternoon. The industrialists would make a mint out of this war, the only concern being not to flaunt the local ease.
    Not that there wouldn't be hardship. There must certainly be a shortage of able bodies to keep the gardens lush and the stables clean. The sons of proper society, those who couldn't manage 4-F, would have to take their commissions and go away, even if it was only to plum headquarters assignments in D. C. or Rome. And there would be no end to the tedious fund-raisers and War Bond drives. In her own inimitable way, Newport would do her part. As would the Coles.
    A vision of Lydia came to mind, her long dark hair and curving figure. He wondered how much she had changed in five years. She'd sent a picture back in '41 or '42, tucked into one of the last letters that had found him. Still attractive, in an ordinary sort of way, and with the same hopeful pout. Braun had returned a few letters in the beginning, but his enlistment in the Wehrmacht predictably intervened. From there, a friend in Paris had forwarded a few of her buoyant missives, but the arrangement was unsustainable. Lydia would never hold him at fault for not writing -- she knew he'd gotten lost in the fight. Braun had simply neglected to tell her for which side. When he finally walked in the door after so many years, she would forgive. Of this, he was sure.
    The rest of the family might have questions, of course. He would concoct a few vague stories, but nothing heroic. Everyone knew the true warriors were the ones who said the least. With the war winding down, men would be coming home by the boatload. Braun would claim to be a soldier on leave, a slim departure from the truth. Two weeks to begin. Or maybe three. Long enough to reestablish himself in good stead with the Coles of Newport.
    He'd met her at a Harvard-Wellesley mixer, and they'd done exactly that, wantonly, during the summer of 1940. At first, Braun had been amused by the prim, reserved Lydia, seeing her as simple fare, a light challenge for conquest. The results came immediately, and if she demonstrated a distinct lack of expertise, it was more than compensated for by rampant enthusiasm. The entire, exhausting affair would have fizzled quickly had it not been for Lydia's prescient invitation -- two weeks with the family at Harrold House. This was where Braun had become truly enraptured.
    He remembered his first impressions driving down Bellevue Avenue. Expansive lawns gave separation from