Title: Immigrant Soldier,
The Story of a Ritchie Boy
Author: K.
Lang-Slattery
Genre: Historical
Fiction
Herman watches in
horror as his cousin and a friend are arrested by the SA. As a Jew, he realizes
it is past time to flee his homeland, a decision that catapults him from one
adventure to another, his life changed forever by the storm of world
events. Part coming-of-age story, part
immigrant tale, part World War II adventure, Immigrant Soldier, The Story of
a Ritchie Boy follows Herman as he evolves from a frightened and
frustrated teenager looking for a place to belong into a confident and caring
US Army Intelligence officer serving in the Third Army. The reader is swept along as the hero
experiences fear, romance, loyalty, disappointment, friendship, and compassion
in his quest for an understanding of hate and forgiveness.
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Author Bio
Kathryn Lang Slattery is a
published author of fiction and non-fiction for youth and has become an expert
on many aspects of the Ritchie Boys of WWII.
Born during World War II and raised in 1950s Southern
California, she enjoyed a childhood filled with reading, drawing, and long days
at the beach. College took her to Los Angeles where she studied art and English
at UCLA, earning a BFA. She then
travelled to Mexico City where she did graduate work in art and education at
the University of the Americas. The years afterward passed, filled with
teaching art, English, and cooking, and traveling around the world, including a
2 year car trip through Central America, Europe, the Middle East and the Indian
sub-continent. Later she returned to her hometown, where she raised a daughter
and a son and devoted over 20 years to Girl Scouts as a volunteer. Finally she
returned to her early love of writing, concentrating first on creating stories
and articles for young people. She has been published in several highly rated
magazines for the youth market, including Spider,
Ladybug, Jack and Jill, Boys’ Life, and Faces.
Immigrant Soldier, The Story of a Ritchie Boy, her first adult novel, is based on her uncle’s World
War II experiences. More than a decade
spent researching, interviewing Ritchie Boys, and turning a true story into fiction became an odyssey of
discovery. “I wanted to tell his story,”
she says, “because it was different from any other Holocaust story I had read.
The young Jewish hero is not a victim, but a young man who gradually grows from
a frightened and frustrated teenager, looking for a place to belong, into a
confident US Army Intelligence officer who struggles with the conflicting
emotions of hate and forgiveness.”
Kathryn lives in Laguna Beach, California, only steps
from her childhood home, where she is surrounded by trees, birds, and her
vegetable garden. Besides writing, her main interests are travel to foreign
places, creative gourmet cooking, pastel painting, and time with family and
friends. She finds tranquillity simply by looking out her large living-room
windows to her view of one tall sycamore, her lush garden, and the natural
hillsides beyond.
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Book Excerpts
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
KRISTALLNACHT
THE QUIET OF THE EARLY November morning was shattered by loud voices and the
screech of brakes. Herman
peered through the crack in the stable door.
A prickle of fear shot up his neck at
the sight of a covered truck, two police motorcycles, and a black sedan in
front of the homes across the street.
Two brown-shirted SA officers, the
Swastika symbols on their armbands blazing, pounded on his cousin’s front door.
Hatred rose in his throat.
Nazi Storm Troopers—they were nothing
more than thugs, bullies for Hitler and his political party. Two more men in ugly, brown uniforms
beat at the door of the neighbor’s home where Herman rented a room from the
horse dealer and his wife.
The faces of the SA men contorted with anger and their
words polluted the air. “Achtung! Alles’raus!
Attention! Everyone out! Get out, you stupid Jews.
Wake up! Schnell! Juden! Alles’raus! Schnell! Fast! Jews! Everyone out! Fast!”
The thud of Herman’s heart was palpable. Pain seized his gut. The door of his landlord’s
home opened a crack. One of the SA men kicked it wide, and the loud
smack of his boot against the wood sent a chill down Herman’s spine. As the Nazis pushed into the house, he heard the confused sounds
of loud voices and smashing furniture. An image of the
horse-dealer’s wife, beautiful Frau Mannheimer, exploded in his mind, her
nightdress ripped, her golden hair gripped in the SA man’s fist. He heard her high-pitched scream leak into the cold morning, and
he lurched forward, outside the barn.
He was barely through the stable door when a
policeman stepped from behind the black truck. His pistol glinted in the
gray morning light, and the sight of the weapon shocked Herman like a jolt of
electricity. His wild impulse to be a hero evaporated. He ducked behind the wide doors, angry and ashamed, listening to
his heart pound. He pressed both hands against his abdomen and
took several deep breaths.
He shook his head to clear it and again put his
eye to the crack between the door and the jamb. The policeman must have
heard something because he waved his pistol
menacingly. He was poised in a half crouch, as if ready to
run, and his gaze swept past the stable, down the street, and back again. Finally, he turned and moved toward the open
door of the Mannheimers’ home.
Herman inched farther back into the shadows and
waited. Less than an hour ago, he had walked to his
morning job, the feel of the street cobbles solid and familiar under his feet,
his breath visible in the cold air. In the stable yard, blades
of stubborn, frost-crusted grass pushed through the trampled earth. He had dipped his fingers into
the water trough, breaking the thin film of ice that glistened in
the dawn light. The black surface of the water mirrored a
reflection of his gray eyes, strong chin, and the curl of dark hair that fell
over his forehead. He pushed back the loose hair with his wet
fingers and entered the barn.
The warm odor of straw and manure enveloped him. The powerful draft horses moved in their stalls. The soft stamp of their hooves and the bump of their flanks
against
the boards comforted him like a morning lullaby.
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