And these continual barriers to faith and serenity were just what was so maddening. How could one believe in anything after knowing the rape of war? Or disbelieve after finding his wife (and himself) still alive against such odds? No matter how much of life one experienced, no matter how much knowledge he acquired or how 'wise' he became—-he wondered seriously if such a word held any real meaning—-there was always one more piece of information to take in, one more tragedy to rationalize, and try to find some reason for. And until this new, confounded fact was taken in and digested, it upset and unraveled all the others, and would not let a man with half a conscience rest.
Through this long chain of reasoning, and especially this last thought, he finally unearthed what was bothering him, and poisoning the recuperative peace that he should have been experiencing. He started to rebel against what he found there, but knew he would be unable.
What was troubling him was simply this. In the earlier days of his acquaintance with Col. Joyce, and for reasons known only to himself, the Russian had confided probably more than he should have about Soviet intentions during the war. Perhaps it was the need to express and justify his thoughts to a younger man not yet so cynical, so certain and so weary of life. In any event he had told him, and Brunner now knew why they had insisted that the Coalition strike Dutch Larkspur first, and why they were now being instructed to withdraw.
The new orders had arrived that very day. They were to return to the fringes of Cerberus, there to re-form with heavy Russian reinforcements, for the inevitable assault on the Athena colonies—-the campaign to liberate and reclaim his home.
That was all fine, and how it should be. Incredibly tempting, except that in the meantime they were to leave Rembrandt and Van Gogh in the hands of the Soviets. And he could no longer pretend ignorance as to what would happen next: one more SSR possession, one less home for the Dutch. And one more subjugated people, for those who would not, or could not leave. It was 1946 all over again.
DAMN IT!
He had seen too much suffering and loss, been spared from final annihilation too many times to feel no responsibility, or to take such news easily. It was so unfair. What remained of the Dutch forces, along with their Swedish allies, had been contacted and told of the colonies' liberation. They were on their way, with deepest gratitude, to re-occupy their homes, and rebuild their lives.
And what would they find upon arrival? The Soviets firmly entrenched, regretfully explaining that for strategic purposes they must maintain, for the time being, a provisional government and strong military presence there. But not to worry, they would say, so soon as the conflict was ended and peace assured, all would again be set right.
THE BLOOD LEECHES, FEEDING OF THE MISERY OF OTHERS TO EXPAND THEIR DOMAIN. But what could he possibly do about it? He was only one man, and had his own family to think of first….. No. Though the excuse to turn his back was ready-made, he knew he could not yield. For this was what his ancestors had done under Hitler: in the name of loving and protecting their own, disregarding the lives and humanity of all who opposed them. It was WRONG, the seed and heart of all betrayal.
He watched his wife with the baby at her breast, knew there were other wives and children, other husbands like himself. All had lives, and all deserved to live them freely.