Earlier this year, I published the book "The Mist of Oblivion": the prequel to a series I am currently completing.

The book focuses primarily on Heinrich Ernst Göring, a former jurist, diplomat, and governor of German South West Africa (now Namibia).

In my book, he is an old man, afflicted by Alzheimer’s and rheumatic ailments. He spends much of his time reflecting on the life he has lived—and the women he loved: Ida and Franziska (Fanny). He was once a man driven by fervent ideals of creating a society based on equality for all—and of improving living conditions for the people in the colony.

His ambition was to establish a model society where Black and white people received the same education and the legal system was founded on equality before the law. However, the reality he encountered forced him to make compromises that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Despite this, he was accused of loving the native population more than his own countrymen. He was ousted from his position and returned to a Germany that had changed drastically from the country he had once left...

He is now an ailing, impoverished man, forced to live with his wife and her Jewish lover in the latter's luxurious estate.

It is in this environment that the two brothers—Albert and Hermann Göring—grow up. One would eventually become one of the most notorious figures of our time, a co-founder of Nazism and Hitler’s designated successor.

His younger brother, by contrast, would sacrifice his livelihood, his fortune, and his freedom to save as many people as he could from concentration camps and death. Here are the first five chapters of "The Mist of Oblivion," the prequel to the series about the two brothers Albert and Hermann Göring:


Whether you like them or not, I would greatly appreciate it if you left some feedback.

Heinrich Göring, sixty‑three, sat as he always did by the window in his small corner of Veldenstein Castle. From there he could look out across the hills surrounding the little town of Neuhaus an der Pegnitz. The morning sun struck the stone walls and made them glow faintly. The newspaper lay open before him, but the fingers resting on the page trembled. Heinrich pulled his hand back at once, as if he didn’t want anyone — not even himself — to witness the shaking.

He remained still for a moment, his back held too straight, his gaze fixed on the landscape, when he noticed a movement along the castle’s rock face. An animal? He seized the binoculars with sudden resolve and aimed them at the slope.

A heartbeat later he was on his feet. The binoculars hit the floor with a sharp crack as he hurried barefoot across the courtyard. The old man moved faster than he had in years. The stones cut into his feet, but he didn’t even feel it — because there, clinging to the cliff, was his eight‑year‑old son, Hermann.

Heinrich’s face tightened. The boy had always sought out heights, always climbed a little farther than other children dared, as if he had something to prove. Now he hung on with one hand, while pressing something to his chest with the other. He didn’t look frightened. On the contrary — his eyes shone with pride when he spotted his father.

Heinrich didn’t dare call out. He leaned over the edge instead, his heart pounding. His hands shook more than usual, but he pressed them against the stone to hide it.

“Father, look what I found!” the boy shouted, stretching out one arm. His other hand clung to a small bush already beginning to tear loose.

Heinrich opened his mouth, but no sound came. His throat tightened. Throughout his career he had shouted commands to hundreds of men — yet now, faced with his own son, his voice deserted him.

The bush gave way. Hermann lost his footing for a moment, and a flash of pure terror crossed his face.

In the same instant Heinrich lunged forward and caught the boy’s arm. His fingers slipped for a second, but he hauled him up to safety.

Once Hermann stood on solid ground, Heinrich remained bent over, shoulders raised, breath ragged.

The boy looked down.

Adrenaline burned through Heinrich’s body. “Hermann Göring! Have you completely lost your senses! Don´t you understand what could have happened if you’d fallen?”

The boy stared at him, more puzzled than afraid. His gaze flickered. “But the owl, Father. Its wing is hurt.”

“My dear Hermann… It’s a sheer drop — dozens of meters. Don’t you understand that?”

Heinrich leaned forward to look at the small creature the boy still held against his chest, mostly to steady his own breathing.

“It’s a beautiful little thing,” he said. “But you must promise me never to do anything like this again. It could have ended terribly, Hermann. We don’t want to lose you.”

At that moment Heinrich’s wife, forty‑one‑year‑old Fanny, came running. She had held her dress up to keep from tripping, but now she let the fabric fall and drag behind her. Her face was pale.

“What has happened!” Her voice was sharp, but the tremor beneath it betrayed her panic. “You didn’t climb the cliff, did you? Have you lost your mind, boy?”

“I had to save the owl,” he repeated, as if that explained everything.

Fanny’s breath hitched — then came the slap, driven more by fear than anger. “You will never do that again.”

Hermann staggered half a step back. Fanny seemed to regret it instantly; her hand hung in the air, as if she didn’t quite recognize it as her own. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Hermann stared at her, stunned, then with a darkening glow in his eyes. It was as though something closed inside him.

“Stop shouting,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was frighteningly steady — and before she could react, he struck her hard across the face. She brought a hand to her cheek, but it wasn’t the pain that unbalanced her — it was his expression. There was something in it that immediately scared her – something she didn’t know.

Hermann turned and walked away with quick, decisive steps – without even looking back.

Fanny stood trembling, breath uneven. She pressed her hand to her cheek, but the fingers shook too much to offer support. “For once it could have been you who corrected him…” Her voice was low, nearly broken. “Are you… have you been drinking again? I’m so tired of being the one who keeps order. Don’t you see that, Heini?”

Heinrich didn’t answer. He simply stared after the boy, his eyes empty, as though he were looking at something far behind him — something he had lost long ago.

Fanny kept watching Hermann disappear, her shoulders sinking. “I’m sorry, Heini… I didn’t mean it. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

When she turned, Heinrich was already walking back toward his small, secluded room, apart from the rest of the family.

Fanny remained standing for a moment. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “It will be easier for you when we’re gone,” she whispered, almost as if testing the words on her tongue, before she walked on. 

Fourty- four years earlier. 

Oleksiy was hauling crates and sacks of flour onto a civilian ship. His shoulders felt heavy — from the load, yes, but even more from the unease that had settled in him. The Eastern War had raged for months. At home their emergency stores were nearly gone, and rumours said the public granaries were no better.

He sighed. Sevastopol was the main harbour of the Russian fleet, yet it hardly seemed as if the tsar cared for the people living here. Word spread that the enemy was drawing closer, that an attack could come at any moment. Still, fewer and fewer warships lay ready in the harbour.

And in the midst of all this, his wife, Yeva had become pregnant again — when they could barely feed their two sons as it was.

“Oleksiy Odeska!?”

He set down the flour sack and turned to the overseer.

“Report to Commander Ivanov at once!”

Without a word he hurried toward the harbour office, his cap carried loosely in his hand as though he had forgotten he was holding it. He knew that a single misplaced remark could cost him his job, so he knocked softly on the commander’s door and stepped inside.

Behind the desk sat a stern man with round horn‑rimmed glasses, surrounded by stacks of documents.

“Sit. You understand why you’ve been summoned?”

“No… I must admit I’m not certain.”

“You spoke Ukrainian during working hours.”

“Ukrainian…? But that’s illegal…! There must be some misunderstanding—”

The commander flipped through a ledger, letting his finger slide down the page.

“‘Чекати з моря погоди…’ What language is that?”

A sharp pain twisted in Oleksiy’s stomach.

“It’s Ukrainian… but it’s only a saying. It means—”

“I did not ask what it means. Do you admit to saying it?”

“Yes… but… I was only trying to be funny. I was waiting for a new assignment and—”

“I did not ask for an explanation. You answered in Ukrainian. Yes or no?”

“Well… yes, but—”

The commander snorted.

“If you cannot even control your own mother tongue — or your own dignity — how can we trust you not to be drunk on duty?”

“My dignity…?” Oleksiy stammered.

The man read on.

“It’s written here in black and white. You break regulations often. Do you think we benefit from employing a man who has shown up drunk?”

“I was called in at times when I was supposed to be off duty…”

The commander slammed his fist on the desk.

“That is enough! We are at war. You have repeatedly shown yourself unstable. I doubt you are even a loyal Russian.”

“Not loyal? I have never done anything to —”

The commander rose.

“How many times must I tell you? I will not tolerate being contradicted!”

“But sir, surely I must be allowed to—”

“Get out! Find yourself another place to work. You have no place here.”

“Please, commander, I beg you—”

But the words were useless. He was dismissed.

Dismissed. Oleksiy’s shoulders sagged as he stepped outside. He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. One careless word, spoken in frustration, had brought his entire world crashing down.

He had watched neighbours and childhood friends driven from their homes. He had stood silent at the edge of gatherings while the men around him discussed the tsar’s latest decree, laughing, gesturing, quoting newspapers he couldn’t read. When someone asked his opinion, he answered with a brief nod and let his gaze fall to the ground. His fingers wandered restlessly along the cracked leather strap of his bag — as if searching for something to hold on to.

Whenever the conversation turned to politics, he stepped back and found an excuse to leave. He always kept to the margins, always quiet, like a man who knew that words belonged to others.

Had they seen the sorrow? The anger?

Was that why the family had later been thrown off their tenant farm?

In any case, they had drifted across Crimea like so many others, searching for shelter and work.

Eventually he ended up here in Sevastopol as a dockworker.

That was before the war…

It had still felt distant then, but lately fear had begun to spread. Now it seemed they were trapped. The enemy could strike by sea at any moment.

Oleksiy forced himself not to think about it. The urge to drown his thoughts in the nearest tavern tugged at him. What would he tell Yeva? Where would they go?

A strange whistling sound cut through the air, and he gave a small start, scarcely aware of it himself — thin, almost shrill — but followed by a violent blast. The shockwave hit him like a wall. Dust and plaster struck his face, and pebbles rained down on the quay. They splashed into the water and clattered against the cobblestones like shards of glass.

He spun around — the office he had just left was gone. Only a smoking heap of splinters, rubble, and shattered glass remained.

He stared toward the harbour. Not a single enemy ship.

Suddenly the truth struck him.

The war had reached Sevastopol — but not from the sea. They were trapped behind the very walls meant to protect them. Outside, the enemy had sealed them in like rats in a cage.

Another explosion shook the ground. The smell of burnt timber and gunpowder filled the air. A child screamed somewhere behind him. A woman called out to someone who didn’t answer.

Oleksiy began to run.

His heart pounded so hard he felt it in his throat. Dust settled over the city like a veil, burning his lungs with every breath. He nearly tripped over a man lying in a crater but forced himself onward.

Their house had been hit several times; the walls were scorched, the windows blown out. But the basement room still stood. He threw himself inside.

“Yeva, we have to flee! They’re outside the walls!” he shouted, grabbing clothes, blankets — anything he could reach.

She sat frozen.

“Flee? But we’re trapped…”

Another explosion made the floor tremble. Dust drifted from the ceiling. “The ship!” he shouted, the ringing in his ears swelling until it drowned out his own voice. “The civilian ship at the quay. We’ll sneak aboard!” 

They stumbled out, into a city where total chaos reigned. The air was thick with smoke. Sparks drifted through the street. A building collapsed in the distance. In several places they had to all but climb over heaps of fallen rubble that made the streets nearly impassable. 

Finally they reached the harbour where hell had broken loose. Flames roared from the warehouses. People ran in every direction — some with blood on their faces, others clutching children to their chests. A horse screamed in panic, tied to a wagon engulfed in flames.

And in the midst of the chaos — a small family slipping between crates and debris. The crew on the ship shouted to one another, their voices swallowed by the bombardment. Ropes were thrown, chains dragged across the deck. Smoke lay thick over the water.

Oleksiy grabbed his sons and ran up the gangplank. He didn’t feel their weight — only the adrenaline driving him forward.

Only once aboard did he realise Yeva wasn’t with them.

He turned, his heart nearly stopping. Smoke blurred everything. A cannonball shrieked past and struck a stack of crates. They burst in a blinding flash. The shockwave knocked him backward.

“Run!” he shouted.

Yeva staggered, almost thrown off her feet. A sharp, piercing sound filled her head — as if the world were tearing apart. She felt warm blood trickle down her face. Her eardrums had burst.

But she ran. Half‑blind from smoke, half‑deaf from the blast, she ran toward the ship, toward Oleksiy and the children, toward the only thing that still resembled safety.

Strangely enough, it was only in old age that Heinrich Göring would anchor the memories of his first meeting with Ida. At the time he had been sixteen, waking early one morning in the home of steelworks owner Albert Remy, one of Bonn’s wealthiest men, settled in the city’s finer western district.

The day before, he had travelled by horse‑drawn carriage with Ida’s father all the way from Emmerich am Rhein. The journey had taken nearly six hours and ended late in the evening, when Herr Remy — an old friend of the family — insisted they stay the night.

The next morning Heinrich rose early and crept down the stairs in search of a toilet. He assumed the house would have one of those modern conveniences — the kind found in the homes of the wealthy.

On the ground floor he opened a door he thought might lead to such a room. Instead he stepped into a library, richly furnished and still, the air carrying the scent of paper and leather.

He was about to retreat when he saw her.

In an armchair by the window sat a small girl, barely five or six years old. She held a newspaper in her hands and studied it with a seriousness that made it seem as though she understood every word.

“Anything interesting in there today?” he asked, half teasing.

The girl startled, but recovered quickly. “Not much,” she replied calmly. “They mostly write about the war… But I’m reading about the smallpox vaccine. In England they’re still debating whether children should be vaccinated, while here in Prussia we’ve had it for many years.”

Heinrich stopped, as if something unexpected had struck him.

“May I see?”

She handed him the paper without hesitation. To his astonishment, the article was indeed about exactly what she had said.

At that moment the door behind them opened.

“I thought I might find you here, young man,” the steelworks owner said with a faint smile. “Already absorbed in the morning news. That bodes well.”

Herr Remy turned to the girl.

“Ida, breakfast is ready.”

She rose, curtsied, and left the room without a word.

Remy looked back at Heinrich.

“That goes for you as well, young man. Your father wishes to depart as soon as you’ve eaten.”

The encounter lasted barely a moment — so brief that none of them attached any particular significance to it.

Yet many years later Heinrich would understand that on this very morning, in this quiet room, something had shifted. Something subtle, almost imperceptible, that would one day reach far beyond their own lives.

A few months had passed, and the fighting in Crimea raged on. Steelworks owner Albert Remy read the newspapers with great curiosity every single morning, for the Crimean War, as it was now called, had become the chief topic of conversation in his social circle. He studied an illustration from the front with a troubled expression. Technological progress and human cruelty seemed to march hand in hand these days. Albert shook his head in dismay. The images brought the horrors far too close.

“No, things were better before,” he muttered. “Back then we were spared such barbarity.” He turned the page in search of something more pleasant.

The Remys’ daughter, Ida, had reached the age when Christmas meant gifts, scents, good food, and elegant gatherings. Christmas Eve was no exception. She had been dressed in a beautiful gown with matching ribbons in her hair, for tonight family and her parents’ most important friends were invited. With memories of earlier celebrations, she now stood tiptoeing before the great double doors leading into the drawing room where the festivities would take place.

When the doors finally opened, they revealed an opulently decorated room bathed in the glow of countless lamps and a magnificent Christmas tree adorned with real candles, sweets, and silver garlands spiralling gracefully around its branches. Her brothers were so excited they could hardly eat. After the meal, the long‑awaited gift‑giving began — a grand event in the Remy household, for Christmas Eve belonged to the children.

Their father seated himself ceremoniously and drew forth a large package. In a theatrical voice he read the card attached:

“Our dear son, Hugo.

With fire and steam the ‘inginieren’ may set both this — and his career — in gear.

With play and laughter learning’s light,

your future path will turn out right.”

His wife let out a small laugh, clearly embarrassed on behalf of her Dutch‑born husband’s poetic shortcomings and peculiar German.

“‘Ingenieren’… well, at least it rhymed,” she said diplomatically. “Next year I’ll write the poem,” she added, raising her glass toward him.

Ida’s eldest brother eagerly unwrapped the gift — a large, exclusive metal toy.

He examined it with a slightly disappointed expression.

“What sort of contraption is this?” he asked hesitantly.

His father beamed.

“Machines like this, my son, herald a new age! This invention is about to change the lives of the people of Prussia and all of Europe. It will carry travellers swiftly from city to city. It will build factories, create jobs, form towns and settlements. Mark my words: this invention will change our lives forever!”

The toy was shaped like a small factory building with a chimney and a mill wheel. The structure could be lifted from its base, revealing an interior of fascinating metal pipes and a tiny water tank. Beneath it sat an oil lamp. Ida watched, captivated, as her father showed Hugo and Friedrich Albert how to fill the tanks — one with water, the other with oil — light the lamp, and carefully set the building back in place.

“A steam engine like this drives both trains and factories. These are the kinds of machines my company produces… naturally on a much larger scale.”

Herr Remy was now more excited than his sons. Within a minute, steam puffed from a pipe on the side. A tug on a string made a whistle shriek. Soon a large flywheel began to spin, setting a smaller wheel in motion.

“This may be a toy,” he said proudly, “but the principle is the same. Machines like this are what my ironworks supplies to factories across Prussia. You’ll see — engines like these are transforming all of Europe. No, not just Europe — the entire world!”

His eldest son murmured almost inaudibly, “You’ve told us that a few times already, Father.”

Ida rose onto her toes for a moment, as if trying to catch a better glimpse of the mechanism. She bit her lip lightly — a habit she had when she was trying to understand something.

Instinctively she reached out, wanting to examine what made everything work, but her father stopped her.

“No, Ida. This is a toy for boys who will become engineers — not for young ladies, my dear.” He winked playfully at his wife.

Ida’s shoulders sank just a fraction, almost imperceptibly, and she withdrew her hand. She tilted her head slightly, as if considering a protest, but let it go. Instead she folded her hands behind her back.

Moments later her father retrieved a large, elegant gift from beneath the tree.

“This one, however, is for you.” He smiled as he read the accompanying verse:

“A little girl, a princess fair, 

shall tend her gently — Caresse, her care.” 

Her mother laughed warmly.

“Oh, Albert. Did you truly write that all by yourself?”

He admitted he had needed a little help with the name.

“I couldn’t find anything else that rhymed with ‘princess’,” he chuckled.

Ida unwrapped the gift with eager little fingers. Inside a large silk‑lined box lay a beautiful doll with a hand‑painted porcelain face. Its hair — real human hair — matched her own in colour. Albert proudly announced that he had had it specially made based on photographs of her.

Ida smiled and thanked her parents politely. But had she been allowed to choose, it was the steam engine that fascinated her most. She cast a longing glance toward Hugo’s machine and the impressive chemistry set Friedrich Albert had just received, though neither boy seemed particularly enthusiastic. Their dreams lay elsewhere — with the boys in the rowing club and their circle of friends — and those dreams did not involve chemistry sets or locomotives. They wanted hunting rifles, fencing gear, and uniforms.

Later that evening she sat with the doll in her lap, stroking her thumb across the porcelain cheek and resting her forehead gently against it.

No one noticed when she slipped away from the Christmas gathering and into the family library, the doll held tightly against her chest. Inside, surrounded by dark book spines and the faint scent of leather and dust, she pulled a medical encyclopedia from the lowest shelf.

With the solemnity only a child can possess, she placed Caresse beside her on the floor, opened the book, and began to read aloud — with a fervour as though she were uncovering a forbidden world. She read to the doll first, as if Caresse were the only one who could truly understand how thrilling it all was.

On the opposite side of Bonn, a far more modest family was celebrating Christmas that evening. Otto — who had once been named Oleksiy — and his wife Eva had recently arrived here as refugees from Crimea.

Unlike the Remy family, their home held no Christmas tree, no polished silver, no beautifully wrapped gifts. Yet the boys, Helmut and Georg, were just as full of anticipation as any other children in the city.

Ten‑year‑old Helmut and his brother Georg, two years younger, had been looking forward to the holiday for weeks.

They had once been called Vladislav and Yuriy, but their parents believed that German names might make the road into their new country a little less steep.

Helmut had been unusually quiet in the days leading up to Christmas. The German children had told him about Knecht Ruprecht, the dark helper who could appear without warning and demand that children recite their prayers. Helmut struggled with such things. His thoughts often wandered along their own paths, and words that others learned effortlessly slipped through his fingers like water. At times a darkness could seize him — a rage he neither understood nor remembered clearly afterward — but this Christmas it had stayed away. And on Christmas Eve, both he and Georg received fruit and nuts from the Christkindl, just like the other children. Eva had also knitted socks and a small shawl so they would not freeze.

His mother had once been named Yeva back home in Sevastopol — a simple and beautiful name meaning “life.” But one day her husband had said, smiling, “We have come home to the country where we shall live and die. From now on you are not Yeva, for we are no longer servants of a despotic ruler. Here we shall live new lives as free people! From this day you are my German wife, Eva, and I am your husband, Otto. My old name, Oleksiy, is dead and buried in Sevastopol. I will become a new and better man, Eva.”

He, who had once been heavily dependent on alcohol, had not touched a drop since they fled the city now swallowed by the horrors of war.

Here in Bonn he seemed transformed. Every morning before sunrise he went out to stand in the labor queues. He took whatever work he could find, yet often returned home without a single pfennig. Still, he was gentle, patient — almost hopeful — a man she scarcely recognized, yet one she had dreamed of for many years.

Life, however, was not as simple as they had hoped. They arrived in a country whose language was entirely different from their own, carrying with them a bundle of traditions, habits, and a cultural background that made it difficult to gain a foothold in the society they longed to join.

They came from a world where few could read, where the land was worked as their fathers had always done. Here they met machines, rules, and a wall of unfamiliar words. It was therefore a shock to discover that many of the Jewish immigrants possessed education or skills that gave them an advantage in this new land. Otto and Eva stood with empty hands — and with a language no one here understood.