Other Books by Sandra Saidak:
Kalie’s Journey Series:
Daughter of The Goddess Lands
Shadow of the Horsemen
Keepers of the Ancient Wisdom
Oathbreaker’s Daughter
In the Balance
Other:
The Seal Queen
From the Ashes
An Alternate History Novel
Sandra Saidak
Uffington Horse Press, San Jose, CA
Text Copyright 2015 Sandra Saidak
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art by Donji Cullenbine
This novel is dedicated to ALL of the victims of the Holocaust. The millions who died and the hundreds of thousands who survived. The righteous who risked everything to help friends and strangers, and those who stayed silent in violation of their conscience, and then had to live with that for the rest of their lives. And above all, to the children, who never had a voice in any of it.
Book I
CHAPTER 1
“In the beginning, there was chaos!”
Adolf paced the small room while his father yelled.
"Then, He came to us! We have order now; we have a future! The Golden Age of the Thousand Year Reich is just around the corner! So I come to see how my first-born son is preparing for that great destiny, and what do I find? You! Reading books in a stuffy dormitory! What's the matter with you? Your first year at Berlin's finest university! A brilliant future ahead of you! You should be living it up. Look out there!" Helmut Goebbels pushed his son to the small window.
Adolf looked, feeling both longing and fear as he watched the groups of students holding outdoor study sessions, or drinking beer and chatting in the late autumn sunshine. He already knew what would happen if he tried to join them. He should keep silent; just wait until his father got tired and left. Yet, for the last time he told himself, Adolf tried to make his father understand.
"I don't fit in here, Father! I try, but I feel like there's a wall between me and everyone else. No one likes me for myself--just my family name. I joined all the clubs you told me to, but...they're boring! They're full of braggarts and boot-lickers...."
Adolf clenched his teeth at the sting as Helmut slapped his face, wishing for just a moment, that he could get his hands around his father’s throat. "That is the cream of the National Socialist Party you're slandering! Grandsons of heroes--like you, Adolf! Your grandfather stood at the right hand of the First Führer. His speeches--"
"'Moved millions and knocked the old United States out of the war.' Yes, I know! And I spend every day of my life trying to live up to that image that you cram down my throat!"
"And this is how you glorify his memory? Wasting your time with books--" Helmut grabbed the collection of poetry Adolf had been reading and hurled it against the wall. “Why can’t you be more like Josef Heydrich? He comes from lesser stock than you, Adolf, yet look what he’s done with himself!”
Adolf tried to laugh, but it came out as a groan. Only two years ago, when Josef first was first accepted into the University, Helmut had stormed about the degeneration of standards that would allow lower stock into the hallowed halls for which a Goebbels was destined. Now, as the Heydrich family continued to rise, their eldest son a top student, Helmut had begun comparing his son to theirs—always to Adolf’s detriment.
"You have a duty to your race,” Helmut said, as the familiar speech wound down. “And your family as well."
Adolf set his jaw and stared out the window until he heard his father's footsteps lead to the door. Then he turned, already at attention. "Heil the Führer," Helmut said formally, clicking his heels and saluting. Adolf limply returned the salute.
When the door finally shut, Adolf sat heavily on his hard bed, fighting tears--and the shame and horror that any Aryan man would feel at such weakness. Once he was back under control, he picked up the book his father had thrown, surprised to feel the same urge to throw it--or anything else he could get his hands on. Suddenly claustrophobic, Adolf left the dorm.
Hitler University was very old, and Adolf had heard that long ago, like so many places in the Reich, it once had a different name. The autumn air was growing cold, but Adolf found comfort in the sensation as the stinging chill dried his face.
Next to the campus was a beautiful park, one of the many public works commissioned by the First Führer, to be enjoyed by all Aryan citizens. Several young men were running along the track, while others worked out on the par course. A multi-aged group of women sat on benches, chatting, while a pretty blonde woman from the Party’s Kinder-Korps led their children in a game of capture the flag. Behind them, some older boys were playing Wermacht. Adolf smiled briefly as the rat-a-tat-tat of their toy assault guns brought back memories of his own childhood.
Then he noticed Josef Heydrich holding court with a group of fellow academic and athletic stars. For a moment, jealousy tore through Adolf, hotter and more painful than even his anger at his father. Like Adolf, Josef was tall, blond and muscular, but from Adolf’s perspective, the whole package fit better on the older boy. As if it was all Josef’s by right, but Adolf’s only through some accident of nature.
Josef had his arm around a girl Adolf recognized as a campus beauty pageant winner. Although every girl who attended the University was officially a Domestic Engineering major, there to receive a bit of polish before making the best possible marriage, many came here hoping to be discovered by the film industry. Talent scouts rarely bothered looking anyplace but campuses these days. The girl beside Josef would probably soon be a star.
Once past the park, Adolf headed for the nearby civic center, hoping to find something there to take his mind off his troubles. Party sponsored cultural events and art exhibits occurred there almost every day.
People made way for Adolf as he moved through the crowded street. Even at eighteen, without his illustrious family around him, others deferred to his natural superiority. Or perhaps, he thought bitterly, it's the expensive clothes and platinum Hitlerjugend badge that does it.
Seeing nothing of interest, he walked past the civic center toward an older part of the city. Now the streets were cracked and dirty. Adolf paused as a truck full of Enemies of The State roared by, the war vintage Puma armored car smoking badly from its ill maintained engine. Probably on their way to the Colonies in Africa, he thought as he coughed from the fumes.
Adolf wandered through progressively rougher and dirtier streets, ending up in a nearly deserted plaza. Boards covered all the buildings but one so Adolf drifted over for a look.
It was one of the smaller museums, maintained by the Department of Education. It was just one room, small and cluttered, and for a moment, Adolf thought it was deserted. But when his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a young woman seated behind a desk, polishing a strangely wrought candlestick.
She was strikingly attractive, tall with blue eyes, and he thought her blond hair might even be natural.
Adolf looked around and saw piles of books, unframed paintings, and artwork of iron, brass and cloth. The woman continued to sit at her desk, seemingly oblivious to his presence. "What is this place?" he finally asked.
"A Judenmuseum,” the woman said, looking up.
“A what?”
“A museum of Jewish artifacts. The Jews were enemies of the Fatherland; an inferior race. They no longer exist, but these objects are kept as curiosities."
Adolf nodded. "I read about that race in school. But I didn't know there were places like this."
"Oh, yes. It was Himmler's idea, begun during the War. There are thirty-eight of these, scattered throughout the world. Hardly anyone comes to them anymore.”
Adolf smiled winningly. "So why is a beautiful girl like you wasting away in one?"
>
Instead of answering, she pulled her arm away from her desk, but not before Adolf saw the red bar code tattooed on her forearm. He stiffened. That color was reserved for the missgeburt; the people outside of the gene pool. Originally, it meant severe physical or mental defects. Those had long since been terminated. Today, it could only mean...
"Infertility," said Adolf, wishing he could melt into the floor. "I'm so sorry. I..."
"Do not concern yourself."
"What is your name?"
"Ilsa."
"I am Adolf. Goebbels."
"Such an important personage to grace my humble museum. What brings you here?"
"A desire to avoid my Political Science text, perhaps."
"Is that your major at the University?"
"For the moment. Until my father decides another major will further the brilliant government career he has planned for me."
"And what would you do if it were up to you?"
Adolf glanced sharply at the woman. Was there a mocking note in her voice? And even if there wasn't, why discuss his private dreams with a total stranger? Because sometimes it's easier to open up to a stranger than someone you know, Adolf answered himself.
"If I could choose, I would be a teacher," he said, half afraid she would laugh.
But Ilsa only nodded. "A worthy profession. And your family might even approve, if you planned to become a professor at some great university. But that's not the kind of teacher you'd be, would you?"
Adolf raised an eyebrow. "You are most perceptive, fräulein. No. I would be a humble village schoolmaster. I would teach the young ones, before they grew obnoxious."
"'Woman's work,'" snorted Ilsa.
"So my father would say if he knew. So he won't." Adolf looked away. "Are all father's bastards, or just mine?"
"I suppose none of them start out with that intention. But most of the parents I have known make me grateful I shall never be one." Ilsa shook her head. "Come, Herr Goebbels. As long as you are here, let me show you around. After all, it's my duty."
Ilsa pointed to a portrait of Heinrich Himmler in a corner. "Our Illustrious Leaders," she began, "saw that the body of Germany was riddled with disease. Unchecked, they would have utterly destroyed our glorious civilization." Her voice, suddenly mechanical, startled Adolf. This was not at all how she had sounded before.
Ilsa continued what was clearly a memorized speech about the Jews and their inevitable destruction. Adolf noticed that Ilsa was more than bored by the words she mouthed; her voice dripped with sarcasm. He also noticed that the portraits of Himmler, Eichmann and other heroes of the Fatherland, were gathering dust in a dark corner, while the Jewish artifacts were extremely well cared for. The metal vessels and sculptures showed signs of constant polishing, and the books, though worn, were free of dust and dirt, even those that were probably centuries old.
They stopped by a small table, covered with photographs. "You can tell from these pictures,” the speech went on, “that Jews were of another race entirely. Inferior, and nothing like ours.”
Adolf picked up a photo. It was of a little girl, picking flowers in a beautifully kept garden, in front of a house very much like his family’s home. The girl bore a strong resemblance to Adolf's youngest sister.
“I don’t think they look so different,” said Adolf. “How were they rounded up in the first place?”
“Synagogue records, passports, tips from neighbors.” Ilsa’s voice had changed again. Her words were her own now, and looking into her mysterious blue eyes, Adolf had the strange feeling that he had just passed some kind of test.
Ilsa went to the table of dishes and candlesticks. "Do you know they weren't really a race at all, in the technical sense of the word? The only thing that set them apart was their religion. Perhaps 'way of life' is more accurate."
"How do you know so much about them?" asked Adolf.
Ilsa smiled. "I've little enough to do all day but read. That certainly wasn't part of Himmler's plan when he began these archives, but they have a fascinating history. Did you know ours was not the first attempt at exterminating them? It was tried over and over, all around the world, for five thousand years. They always endured. They lost their homeland, wandered the world, built up wealth and had it stolen...all for a belief in one God."
"What's so special about that?"
"Maybe nothing. But think about it. How many cultures on earth have survived for five thousand years? We've only been promised one thousand--if we can last that long."
Ilsa went back to polishing that curious candlestick. "What is that?" asked Adolf.
"A menorah. There are several here, but this is my favorite. An ordinary menorah has seven branches."
"This one has nine. What's the difference?"
"It's for a holiday called Hanukkah." Ilsa pointed to a book on the edge of the table. "I've just been reading about it. It wasn't their most important holiday, but there's a lovely story behind it, about a light in the darkness that never went out. A lot of their folklore seemed to be about that; about keeping the light alive, even in the darkest times."
Adolf took the menorah from Ilsa and examined it. The workmanship was impeccable, and Ilsa's polishing had given it a soft glow. "It isn't gold, is it?" he said.
"Of course not. Those are long gone."
"But they did have them once?"
"Oh, yes. Many of their holiday vessels were made of precious metals, but those were taken early on, and melted down. You might have a bit of them in the coins in your pocket, Herr Goebbels. Every so often, the Gestapo comes here, to see if there's any they missed. That's how I know things are worse than broadcasts say they are."
"Things are always worse than the broadcasts say," said Adolf. "I expect we'll be having shortages again. Crop yield is down again in North America."
Ilsa nodded. "In the Ukraine, too, I've heard."
Adolf sighed. "Well, I should be going." But he didn't move.
"Good luck with the Political Science study," said Ilsa.
He looked around again. The poor lighting seemed to imbue the room with an air of mystery; of treasure waiting to be found. The stacks of ancient books and alien artifacts beckoned him. "I wish I could stay," he said suddenly. "Just do nothing but read and talk to you."
Ilsa picked up one of the books on her desk. "Here, scholar. Take this with you. You may find it interesting."
She gave him a thick, paper bound volume, probably close to a century old. Its title was The Debate.
"Can you do that? Just give books away?"
Ilsa shrugged. "No one cares what happens to the books in here. Besides, I have to make room. There's a shipment coming in soon from the digs outside of Palestine."
Adolf whistled. "That region is still radioactive. Are you certain the artifacts will be safe for you to handle?"
"No. Did you think that would concern my employers?" She laughed. It sounded like glass breaking. "Farewell, Herr Goebbels."
“Heil the Führer,” he responded automatically.
Adolf tucked the book under his arm, and headed back to the university.
CHAPTER 2
At the Student Activity Center Adolf bought a newspaper. A thick black headline shrieked "Would-Be Assassin Believed to Be American!" Various articles beneath it described yesterday's attempted assassination of the Führer, assured citizens that those responsible would be caught, and showed grizzly pictures of the interrogations of suspects.
For no reason that he could name, Adolf wandered down to the Judenmuseum. He did not know if it would be open on a Sunday, but it didn’t matter. He needed the exercise.
Life at the University had improved for Adolf in the two weeks since he had stumbled across the place. Although he still had no real friends, his classes were going well, and his father had not visited again.
The rush of pleasure Adolf felt when he saw Ilsa surprised him. She was behind her desk again, repairing a damaged book with great care. He was nearly at the desk, book in hand, when he re
alized that this time, they were not alone.
Three young men sat on the floor among the stacks of books speaking in low voices. A dark haired young woman sat in one of the few well-lit areas, staring at a stained and crumpled painting. She had a sketchpad on her lap, and Adolf could see she was attempting to copy the painting. It depicted an old man on a mountain, holding what looked like a pair of tombstones.
"Nice to see you again, Herr Goebbels." Ilsa's voice startled Adolf. Conversation stopped, and the three men regarded Adolf curiously.
"I wanted to return the book you loaned me," he said, setting The Debate on Ilsa's desk.
"Finished so soon? Or perhaps it did not hold your interest?"
"On the contrary, I finished it in one night." He glanced curiously at the others in the room, wondering if he should leave.
Ilsa smiled mischievously. "Some of your classmates?"
Puzzled, Adolf looked again, and realized that the other visitors were all students at Hitler University. The tall, muscular man was Franz Krueger, a senior who assisted in Adolf’s Chemistry class. The other two men were vaguely familiar.
"They're semi-regular visitors," said Ilsa. "I get a few others, from time to time."
"They probably just come to look at you."
"Of course we do," said the woman doing the sketch.
The men laughed, but Adolf gaped. Even joking about homosexuality could be dangerous.
"Actually," said Franz, "we're a bunch of people who have nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon."
Adolf smiled in spite of himself. "Sounds like my kind of group."
"So come join us," said a short upperclassman with a beckoning wave. "Maybe you can add something to this discussion."
Curious, Adolf joined the group on the floor, and peered at the open book before them. "It's a book on Jewish laws," said Franz. "This chapter talks about duties to the poor.”
From the Ashes Page 1
