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182 pages

English

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Lisa Jacobson, a young Danish girl, is a victim of vicious World War II retribution.She leaves Denmark and discovers success and tragedy in the Gower Peninsula of South Wales.During the 1950's and 60's she is persecuted by betrayal, deceit and revenge, but the passion of her Celtic mother and the warrior spirit of her Viking father, give her the strength to fight and prevail as a love behind closed doors tames and heals the cruelty of her past.Her real story begins and ends in the yellow sands of a Celtic dream.

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Political

Politics

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Publié par	eBookPartnership.com
Date de parution	20 juin 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783011698
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Ragged Cliffs
Ragged Cliffs
Julian Ruck
CONTENTS
HALF TITLE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
PART - I
CHAPTER - 1
CHAPTER - 2
CHAPTER - 3
CHAPTER - 4
CHAPTER - 5
CHAPTER - 6
CHAPTER - 7
CHAPTER - 8
CHAPTER - 9
CHAPTER - 10
CHAPTER - 11
CHAPTER - 12
CHAPTER - 13
CHAPTER - 14
CHAPTER - 15
CHAPTER - 16
CHAPTER - 17
CHAPTER - 18
CHAPTER - 19
CHAPTER - 20
CHAPTER - 21
CHAPTER - 22
CHAPTER - 23
CHAPTER - 24
PART - II
CHAPTER - 25
CHAPTER - 26
CHAPTER - 27
CHAPTER - 28
CHAPTER - 29
CHAPTER - 30
CHAPTER - 31
CHAPTER - 32
CHAPTER - 33
CHAPTER - 34
CHAPTER - 35
CHAPTER - 36
CHAPTER - 37
CHAPTER - 38
EPILOGUE
Also by the same author . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright © Julian Ruck, 2006
First published 2006 in the United Kingdom by Isis Publishing www.julianruck.co.uk
Reprinted: June 2006
Revised edition 2010 published by Dinefwr Publishers Rawlings Road, Llandybie Carmarthenshire, SA18 3YD
First Kindle E-edition 2011 Published by Palamedes Publishing
The right of Julian Ruck to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The author would like to stress that this is a work of fiction and no resemblance to any actual individual or institution is intended or implied.
A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library.
ISBN 978-1-904323-18-1 (Print edition)
Cover illustration: Jeff Kirkhouse
For Lynney, excuse me!
PROLOGUE
Denmark – February 1945
“To you in the Danish Resistance movement I say this: we know what price you have paid and are paying for refusing to be tempted by Nazi threats; we know something of your achievements in harrying and wrecking the German war machine which rolled across your borders nearly five years ago. We admire your steadfastness and skill. Your performance is a valuable contribution both to the Allied cause and to the future prosperity of a free Denmark . . . ”
Sixteen-year-old Lise Jacobson listened and tried to understand. Her young mind was unable to distinguish between war and hatred, but she knew that the words of Winston Churchill being broadcast by the BBC’s Danish Service were the only true link to encouragement and hope for most of her countrymen. ‘Hope’; the girl twisted the word around from each corner of her mind and tried hard not to despair. Tonight she was muddled and confused. She had been unable to hate the German conquerors who now occupied her country. Worse, she had become fond of a young German soldier who patrolled the small town where she lived.
The two had spoken with each other on a few occasions and had even enjoyed some short walks together. It was while the girl thought about these encounters with their timid silences and careful smiles that the piercing sound of shattering glass interrupted her innocent romantic fantasies.
The girl was alone, her parents had gone to some friends for the evening. Ignoring the efforts of Churchill at patriotic propaganda she left her chair to see what all the noise was about. Her hometown was a quiet place, crime non-existent; she had no need to fear anything untoward. The cat had probably knocked a milk bottle onto the floor and was now attempting to lick up as much of the creamy fluid as it could before human retribution arrived.
Walking into the kitchen, the girl was confronted by two men. Their heads were covered by woollen balaclavas; two eye holes had been crudely cut from the material. Masked anonymity inspired terror. They knew what they were doing.
Before the girl could utter any sound, any gasp of shock, one of the men grabbed her by the hair and slammed his hand over her mouth. He spoke quietly, the frustrated schoolmaster at the end of a long day, suppressed anger hurting the educated tone.
“Fornicate with the Nazis would you? You slut.”
With that the other man pushed her onto a chair and gagged her with a stinking dishcloth. The girl was too terrified to understand what was happening. She had never experienced, never known such violence and hatred.
Her hands were tied tightly behind the chair. The teacher spoke again, the other smaller man having said nothing so far.
“Beautiful hair you have.” He hissed into the girl’s innocent face. “What a pity.”
His eyes penetrated. They detested. She tried to turn her head away but there was no escape from the horror that stared at her with such disgust and venom.
The two men tugged and pulled her hair in all directions and began hacking it off with a blunt pair of scissors, cutting her scalp in various places at the same time. Within seconds the kitchen floor was covered with long, shining strands of childish innocence.
Tears poured down the girl’s face and mixed with the trickles of blood from her butchered scalp. When the two men had finished cutting, a razor was employed to complete the mutilation. Their violent efforts at hairdressing completed they untied the girl’s hands and hauled her onto the kitchen table. She tried to fight back but resistance was futile against the combined strength of her two attackers. She did manage though to tear the right shirt sleeve of the dumb, smaller assailant and see the dark brown birthmark on his shoulder that resembled almost exactly some preying eagle about to lift its prey off the ground, its talons outstretched and deadly, the wings spread ready for immediate flight.
The teacher began to undo his trousers, his excitement already apparent, his eyes mad with revenge and lust.
“Fuck with Nazis, you bitch! Well you should find us a luxury shouldn’t you,” he rasped.
His partner held her arms on either side of the table while the teacher carried out a savage punishment for her disloyalty. He wrenched her legs apart and thrust inside her. His eyes empty of mercy.
Her womanhood was ripped. Torn.
The girl passed out only to be brought round to consciousness by the smaller of the two. He had watched for long enough; he was already bitter at having missed the opportunity to devastate a young woman’s virginity. His attack was frenzied and quick, his excitement too far gone to savour a long assault.
The girl neither heard the animals leave, nor their mocking laughter as they slammed the kitchen door.
The two patriots had made a loyal contribution to the freedom of Denmark.
Winston Churchill would have died of shame.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
Swansea, South Wales – 1952
Lise Jacobson listened to the detached ramblings of the decrepit Baptist minister as he committed her mother’s body and soul to the hereafter. Her beauty ignored the morbid background of the ancient and neglected cemetery. Her unsure blue eyes and long, almost white, soft hair remained uncorrupted by the grief of black clothing she wore and the sin of death that surrounded her.
Her straight back and five foot six inches made her the ideal object of most mens’ desire for the perfect woman. Breasts, hips, arms and legs had all been put together by a divine genius. The warrior spirit of her Viking father and the poetry of her Welsh mother also ran through her blood to create a face that was unspoilt by the bold tattoos of experience and the raggedness of too many years.
The minister finished reading from the Book of Revelations and rushed back to his chapel of fire and brimstone. Armageddon was an impatient Master; besides, it was starting to rain and he hadn’t brought an umbrella.
Lise was left standing by the gaping hole, alone. She studied the mound of greedy earth which lay alongside the grave and bent down to pick up a handful; her small hand only allowed a token gesture as she dropped the soil onto the coffin lid that now covered her mother’s lifeless face. The last time she had made such a gesture had been at her father’s funeral. It had rained then too.
She remained standing and staring into the hole, oblivious of the rain that was quickly turning into a deluge. The coffin had been inexpensive; simple yet adequate for the purpose for which it had been made, there were none of the ornate trappings of wealth. Her mother would have been pleased, Lise thought, as she had always encouraged thriftiness in her daughter.
For a moment, guilt altered the serenity of Lise’s face. There had been no tears. Until now they had refused a happy release; her mother’s long illness had prepared the daughter for death. There was no shock, no surprise. Now, as she looked at the pathetic wooden casket, its poverty, its isolation, she cried. If only she had had the money to send her mother back to Denmark, to rest in peace alongside her dear father. It was not to be.
At last she stepped back from the hole of death as if frightened that it might not be satisfied with just one body. She looked around the cemetery one last time in the vain hope that maybe just one of her relatives had decided to pay their respects. There was no one.
The Bethesda Baptist Chapel was quiet and deserted. The rain had stopped pouring. It tumbled instead. Even the elements sometimes displayed a degree of respect for the dead. An irritated gravedigger coughed between a dampened Woodbine hanging from his lower lip. The lip was a richer brown than the tobacco he smoked or the soil that paid his wages.
Lise remained where she was. Alone. One woman amongst forgotten loved ones and dried-up tears. She looked out across the discoloured slabs In Memoriam and shuddered.
At last she braced herself and began the walk home. At the gates to the cemetery she took one last glance at her mother’s final resting place, the cheap wooden cross not yet erected. In these last seconds of farewell all she saw was the impatient gravedigger, shovel in hand, drop himself into