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Jussi Adler-Olsen ist au?erdem Adler olsen verachtung ebook des Adler-Olsen, Jussi-Mrck 4-Verachtung to epub torrent download for free Ebooks. Jussi Adler-Olsen - [Department Q 02] - Disgrace (The Absent One) (epub) - dokument [*.epub] JUSSI ADLER-OLSEN Disgrace Translated by K. E. Semmel. Alphabet House Jussi Adler-Olsen Translated from the Danish by Steve Schein Author's Introduction This book is not a war novel. Alphabet House is an.
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The keeper of lost causes [electronic resource (EPUB eBook)] / Jussi Adler-Olsen . Saved in: Main Author: Adler-Olsen, Jussi. Corporate Author: OverDrive Inc. Le-dernier-livre-PDF-num-rique-gratuit/Telecharger Livre Gratuit Miséricorde ( PDF - ePub - Mobi) Par Jussi Adler-Olsen & Monique ecogenenergy.info Portrt von jussi adler-olsen: download pdf download ebook (epub) was heit es, Und wie schon in seinen vorangegangenen Krimis "Erbarmen", "Schandung".
But James was right. Someone had to do it. Besides, it couldn't be very different from the bombing raids on Berlin.
They'd made it this far. Bryan sat silently in his seat behind James, doing his job irreproachably, as always.
The vibrations gradually shook loose his combed-back hair. Bryan's hairstyle was his most distinguishing feature. Freshly combed, he looked almost as tall as James. In her eyes, Bryan was an Adonis. He'd stuck with her for a long time. As if responding to the authoritative cue of a conductor's baton, the Germans began greeting the arriving planes with an anti-aircraft overture.
James had foreseen the barrage a few seconds previously and given Bryan the signal, so they managed to change course.
From that moment on until some undefined time in the future, their fate was out of their hands. Unprotected and on their own. James was right. It was snowing over the target area, but the wind was constantly forcing the flakes to whirl upwards, creating holes through which it was possible to photograph. Assuming they were close enough. No one had been interested in their presence since they'd turned away from the barrage over Magdeburg.
Apparently they hadn't been observed. Bryan would do his utmost to ensure that they weren't. Many planes had crashed behind them. Far too many. In the midst of all the noise James shouted back to Bryan that he'd seen German fighters firing rocket-like things. A short flash followed by a totally devastating explosion. Perhaps experience had taught him something different now. Can you see the crossroads now? Then follow the turning towards the ridge.
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Some of the southern slopes could be steep. Can you see anything? You should have a good chance between here and Geising.
Why would that be, in such a deserted place? Can't you swing southwards now? Look at those trees!
Can you see how dense they are? Bryan was in doubt. Once such a building was discovered, the earthworks wouldn't provide sufficient protection against intense precision bombing. There's nothing in the vicinity to suggest recent building.
The entire network was to be photographed in detail. By Russian request.
Soviet troops were exerting heavy pressure near Leningrad and were threatening to roll up the entire German front. According to the Russians, the railway junction at Dresden was the Germans' umbilical cord.
Once severed, the German divisions on the Eastern Front would soon be lacking supplies. It was merely a question of how many cuts were necessary in order to be effective. Bryan looked down at the railway line beneath him.
There would be nothing to see in his photos but snow-covered rails. The first explosion came without warning and with incredible force, only a foot behind Bryan's seat. Before he could turn around, James was already forcing the plane into a fast perpendicular climb.
Bryan fastened the snap hook in his seat and felt the cockpit's tepid air being sucked out from under him. The jagged hole in the fuselage was about the size of a fist, the exit hole in the roof like a dinner plate. A single round from a small-calibre anti-aircraft gun had hit them.
So there was something they'd overlooked, after all. The engine screeched so loudly during the steep ascent that they couldn't tell if they were still being shot at.
He appeared satisfied with the answer. After a few seconds the Mustang's machine guns began ticking away. Several anti-aircraft muzzle flames pointed directly up at them, showing them the way.
In the midst of that deadly blaze there had to be something the Germans were extremely reluctant to have outsiders know about.
James swung the plane from side to side in order to confuse the enemy while the German gunners on the ground tried to get them in their sights. They never saw the guns, but there was no mistaking the sound. The Flakzwilling 40 made a bloodcurdling noise all of its own.
When they were close to the ground, James levelled the plane with a jerk. They would only have this one chance. The entire area was two to three miles wide. The camera needed a steady hand. The landscape whipped along beneath them. Grey patches and white swirls alternated with treetops and buildings. Tall fences encircled the area they were flying over. Several watchtowers fired machine-gun salvos at them.
Alphabet House is an elementary story about breaches that can arise in all types of personal relationships, from daily life in a marriage or at the workplace to extreme settings like the Korean War, the Boer War, the Iraqi-Iranian War, or in this case the Second World War. There are several reasons why I chose this war to provide the novel's framework.
Primarily because I am the son of a psychiatrist and grew up in the surroundings of 'lunatic asylums', as they were called in Denmark in the late fifties and early sixties, and although my father was extremely progressive and a new thinker in his field, I couldn't avoid witnessing first-hand how the mentally ill were treated in those days.
Many of them had been in the system since the thirties and I was interested in the methods of treatment and the doctors and hospitals during that period, especially during the war. I got to know a few patients who - through the eyes of a naive, alert child - I suspected of simulating their mental illness. One of these chronically mentally ill patients essentially coped with life in the hospitals by uttering only two sentences.
He wasn't sticking his neck out here. Then he could enhance and round off practically any situation with a sincerely relieved, 'Oh, thank God!
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But is it possible to preserve oneself and one's mind in a situation like this if one isn't really ill? It's hard to believe, especially considering some of the hefty methods of treatment used at the time. Wouldn't our verbally limited patient become ill, sooner or later?
My father met the patient again after a period of many years. It was in the seventies, by which point the world had become freer in many ways. This had also had its effect on our man. He'd added a third sentence to his repertoire: 'Up yours! And again I found myself wondering, 'Is he ill or is he healthy?
She had worked as a nurse in Bad Kreuchnach under Professor Sauerbruch and was able to confirm and expand upon some theories I had developed.
In the summer of , under the starry Italian skies of Terracina, I outlined my fledgling story for my wife. Then, as now, I had the greatest admiration for authors for whom research and literary expertise were inseparable. She believed my story would be worth this kind of effort.
It took me almost eight years to realise. In the course of this period I've been grateful to Det Treschowske Fideikommis for their assistance in the form of a travel grant to Freiburg im Breisgau where a large portion of the story unfolds, to the military library in Freiburg, and to Oberarchivrat Dr Ecker from Stadtarchiv Freiburg.
Since then, my wife, Hanne Aldler-Olsen, has been my tireless muse and critic, constantly nourishing my faithfulness to my original ambitions.
In the perusal of my manuscript by my capable and wise friends - Henning Kure, Jesper Helbo, Tomas Stender, Eddie Kiran, Carl Rosschou, and not least my sister, Elsebeth Waehrens, and my mother, Karen-Margrethe Olsen - the story underwent a multilayered process that made it both shorter in length and more profound.
All elements were assessed and pondered over until the story bore the expression for which I'd hoped. Cold and windy, with poor visibility.
An exceptionally bleak January day, even for England. The American crews had already been sitting on the landing strips for some time when the tall Englishman approached. He was still not quite awake. Behind the group a shape rose halfway to its feet and waved to him. The Englishman waved back, yawning loudly. Functioning in daytime was difficult after such a long period of nothing but night raids. It was going to be a long day. At the far end of the airfield the planes were taxiing slowly towards the southern end of the landing strips.
Soon the air would be full of them. The feeling was both exhilarating and oppressive. The orders regarding the mission came from Major General Lewis H. Brereton's office in Sunninghill Park. The Americans were still impressed by the British Mosquitoes' discovery, during their November night-time bombing of Berlin, of the Germans' most closely guarded secret, the V-1 missile sites at Zemplin.
The latter's task was to select twelve British flight crews.
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Eight of them were to function as instructors and four as supporting crews with special photo-reconnaissance duties under the 8th and 9th American Air Forces. Two-seater PD Mustang fighters had been equipped for this task with radar and sensitive optical instruments. Only two weeks had passed since James Teasdale and Bryan Young had been chosen as the first crew to try out this equipment under so-called 'normal conditions'.
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