French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1)

by Vincent Dugan

  “Russia,” Frida murmured. She could hardly claim surprise. Three years of book discussions on Mein Kampf had her quoting Hitler’s masterpiece verbatim, the Fuhrer’s plan always on her lips. The Bolsheviks, founded by the Jews, financed by the Jews, were the main threat to Aryan culture and required extinction.

  “You are thinking.” Meyer offered one of his queer little smiles, revealing stained and crooked teeth and usually ending in a snarl.

  “The Fuhrer seeks plans for all the eastern territories.” His hand swept across a few feet of map, thousands of kilometers from Berlin where they stood.

  “Plans.” Frida swallowed.

  Meyer nodded, glasses bouncing on his nose. “The Fuhrer asked Commander Rosenberg for the means to hold the lands, prepared them for resettlement while utilizing the Slavs for menial tasks.” Meyer returned to his desk, opening a drawer and removing two sheets. “The agenda for today’s meeting.”

  Frida took them, eying the new letterhead “Ministry for Eastern Territories “The list beneath was extensive - agriculture, the destruction of the Bolshevik ideology in Russia, the elimination of the communes, a division of land for new German settlements. Then there were the minorities, Volga Germans, the Crimean Tatars, the Latvian Germans and the Lithuanians. The head of the ministry, Rosenberg, was an Estonian German who foresaw formation of Ostland along the Baltics.

  The agenda trembled in her hand. “I am needed at this meeting?”

  Meyer frowned. “You are to take notes, to prepare a record of the meeting, type and distribute it to all participants.” He wet his lips, enjoying her downcast expression. “You are to remain silent, a woman’s opinion of little aid for such decisions.”

  Frida ground her teeth. Her work for Rosenberg, her reading and discussion meant little to men like Meyer, a dedicated Nazi. Unlike German women who abided by the Nazi ideal, she was out of place, a fact she was reminded each morning when she awoke without a husband or child.

  Meyer dismissed her, too busy to waste more than a few minutes with Rosenberg’s pet project. A women in a man’s world had undermined the Ministry’s authority in Berlin, many officials not taking Rosenberg or his ideas seriously.

  Frida was not privy to these facts, steaming when she left Meyer’s office. She was a mere typist, a secretary, someone to write down what the men said without comment. Glancing through the agenda, she noted the names of the participants. Jerald Heinrich and Zobrest Jurgen did not even recognize women. Once they had tired of their wives, each man had moved onto their typists. She had learned to always knock on office doors, entering only when called. Even then a disheveled man and his assistant, sweaty, buttons hurriedly fastened, hair mussed and a curious odor greeted her. Fortunately Frida had escaped their attentions, her physical failures well known among the men in the ministry.

  The first meeting of the ministry was held in a once florid ballroom of a Jewish hotelier, seized to remove the immoral Jewish-Bolshevik biases against marriage and fidelity. Five chandeliers offered a dim light that glinted from the freshly polished parquet floor. A high row of windows were covered from the outside by nearly building length Swastika banners, a celebration of the Third Reich but also a precaution against snipers.

  The ballroom had individual tables seating four, not nearly enough for the avalanche of Nazi bureaucrats who accompanied the party’s ownership of the building. Four such tables could be combined, each bearing a white table cloth and a pair of thick crystal ashtrays, dwindling in number as they were snatched by members to decorate their own homes.

  Frida did not need them. She smoked just enough to get a taste with a nicotine kick in the morning then the late afternoon to jolt her through the day. German tobacco was awful, forcing her to search for American brands. She prayed the Third Reich would not go to war with the United States and cut off her supply.

  She reached the ballroom, a swirl of smoke hovering around the chandeliers. Two tables were occupied, the third lacked a chair, an open space as a reminder to Frida she was there to take notes rather than offer her opinion. Undeterred she grabbed a chair from a far wall, alone but able to hear the men around the table, each trying to match the other’s volume. The worst of the group was Hans Sprenckel. A former haberdasher reputed to exchange the worst cloth for the best while charging for the latter, he had been chased from Aachen in 1929. A master of written demagoguery he had composed explanatory notes for the Myth of the Twentieth Century. He claimed his words convinced Rudolf Hess to endorse the book and used that to sell his notes along with the book to millions of Germans. Sprenckel traveled around Europe preaching the Nazi gospel. His dedication had attracted Rosenberg and Hans became a coordinator of Aryan studies. It was a disaster, the remainders of the German intellectual class not taking him seriously but fortunately organizing the eastern territories needed little skill.

  The bloated Hans, his decade long prosperity had seen him recover lost time at the dinner table, led the discussion as it was. He offered a plan, the other five agreed or expanded on his thoughts to ludicrous results.

  “The Germanic peoples will be one.” He declared. “The eastern occupied territories will serve the Aryan people, providing food, resources and space for expansion.” He began ticking off the territories not yet under German control that would serve his needs.

  “The British control hundreds of millions of Indians with tens of thousands of men. We can do the same.”

  Frida sighed. She reached in her pocket for a pack of Lucky Strikes. Lighting one, she held her cigarette with one hand while taking shorthand notes of the plans. The nicotine kick meant she no longer struggled to keep her eyes open as Hans spoke of the British in India, something he knew nothing about.

  “The Slavs will work the land.” Hans’ left hand man was also the oldest at the table. Baron von Knebblesdorf clung to a family name that would die with him. His family’s distaste for the Slavs dated back to 1240 when Peter Nevsky defeated the Teutonic Knights at Lake Peipus, one of the baron’s ancestors dying in the icy waters.

  “Stalin understands the Slavs,” the Baron said, puffing on his pipe. “He is not one of them, he killed those who did not do their duty, and he left us with quiescent Slavs, the workers.

  Frida knew the argument well. Stalin the unwitting ally had cultivated Russian society for the fatherland to reap the gains. She doubted the Slavs would be any more cooperative with the Germans than they had with Stalin.

  The next to speak was one of Rosenberg’s Estonian acquaintances, an economist with a vague pedigree. “Once the eastern territories are acquired, Europe will be reorganized, a continental trading system established, operated from Berlin. Rumanian oil, Hungarian grain, Czech arms, Ukrainian coal, Swedish iron ore, all of it to feed the needs for the new Germania.”

  Germania, Germania, Germania. Frida recalled her economics professor speaking of autarky, an economic system where trade was unnecessary as a nation produced all it needed. A Germania stretching from the Volga to the English Channel might put a lie to the economic law that autarkies always failed.

  “They will join to protect their interests or with force. A founding member of the Estonian fascist party Jorg Hofler was eager to make all bow before him.

  “The French will not fight, they are as lazy as the Slavs.”

  Hans agreed with the Baron. “The French are weak. Laval can be purchased and Petain is easily controlled. Mussolini is the same. No one in Europe can compare to the Fuhrer in making plans, implementing and succeeding.” It was not a statement that would draw a whisper of dissent from around the table. Not even Frida, rarely agreeing with Hans, could dispute the Fuhrer’s brilliance, foresight or will. Even if those around the table did not know how to reorganize the new territories, the Fuhrer could guide them along the correct path.

  “The British will fall into line.” Timo Schuhart, a German consulate adjutant in Edinburgh in 1928-1929 was the Anglo expert in the room. His expert advice included the assertion the British would not declare
war. The blunder had not dimmed his confidence or stifled his predictions.

  “Chamberlain no longer has a cause for war. He must declare the peace or the empire will crumple.” He shifted in his chair, feet unable to touch the floor, his stature creating a Napoleonic ego unconnected to reality. “We can take the empire from them.” He snapped his fingers as he named off future conquests – Egypt (snap), the Levant (snap) southern Africa (snap), Caribbean islands (snap). Frida wondered if the little man could find his conquests on the map. His plans having German troops magically transported across oceans and entire continents with the ease of a Sunday stroll through the Tiergarten.

  Hans was not one to engage in such fantasies. “We must begin in Poland. The large estates will be broken up, the best land will be secured for German settlers, the remainder for the Poles, those not confined to the cities.

  “Juden.” The Baron licked his lips.

  Cigarettes were jammed into ashtrays, quivering hands revealed the nerves at the mention of the Reich’s most determined enemy. Silence hung like the smoke until Hans spoke. “The SS is responsible for the Juden. Most have left Germany it is not our concern.” Cigarettes were lit, the meeting continued.

  Frida listened, taking notes even as she struggled to piece together the contradictory arguments. The Slavs were useless but would provide cheap labor for the new German state. Aryans were superior but have to rely on Untermenschen such as the Poles and other non-Aryans in Rumania, Hungary, Bohemia and France to manage the new Germania. Germany would face no threats once the eastern territories were acquired but would have to remain a permanently militarized state to defend against a non-threat. The Slavs, having fought to the death against Stalin’s communal policies would happily accept their new German overlords. It wound on an on, hour after hour, windows dark by the time Hans called an end to it.

  Frida gathered her notes and returned to her office, the surrounding rooms empty as the typists were merely daytime workers, their hours counted and paid, extra work seen as a hindrance rather than a means for improvement. She had plentiful work for them, her notes a blueprint for how the still unconquered Eastern territories might be ruled. Placing her notes in a careful pile she shifted her thoughts from what she could not control to what she hoped to control, planning her next trip to Leipzig and Tersten Olbricht.

  18

  April 29, 1940

  “You require a drink.” Lisle held out a flute of champagne, nodding at Etienne when he hesitated to take it. The firmness of her mouth and her access to the finest vintages of the region convinced him to take it. Etienne sipped the bubbly liquid and blinked at is strength. Sitting back he allowed the alcohol to relax him.

  “I have information.”

  “The German.” Etienne raised on his toes. Fiorenza was plotting a refurbishment of his apartment, her budget threatening his solvency and sanity. A new vein of information from the American might earn him enough to save both.

  Lisle nodded, fingers smoothing out the wrinkles on his shirt. “He has provided well for you.”

  Etienne sucked in air, Lisle’s scent and her proximity making him uneasy. “Yes,” he murmured.

  “He likes to talk.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “He likes when I talk.”

  “Talk,” Etienne murmured, trying to blot out the image of Lisle in the arms of the German ruffian.

  “He knows of you.” Lisle leaned in to his ear. “He wants to know something about France.”

  Etienne wobbled. Lisle and the Germans had a one way relationship. He told Lisle, she told Etienne, he told the American, Etienne received his subsidy. France was not injured and Etienne used Lisle’s information to construct French policy.

  Lisle noticed his recoil. “No?”

  Etienne snatched up his glass and emptied half of the champagne. “I don’t know.”

  “For France?” She dipped her finger into her flute then flicked the champagne at him.

  Etienne tasted the drops that hit his lips. “Do not say that.”

  “For Lisle.” She plunged the same finger between her lips the slowly drew it from her mouth.

  Etienne shivered. “Yes.”

  “For Lisle.” She withdrew the bottle from the ice, holding it out to Etienne, who shook his head. She filled her glass and drank. “Yes?”

  “What does he want?”

  “The Germans want information.” Lisle’s forehead crinkled. “It is some agreement.” The lines around her eyes smoothed. “You have some understanding with the Bolshies?”

  Bolshies. This had to the influence of her Russian suitor as Lisle knew little of politics. Her feelings were simple. Germans were foul unless they served a purpose; other men were adequate unless they lacked a purpose for her. “Yes,” Etienne said. He was hardly revealing state secrets. “The Barthou government negotiated a defense agreement with the Soviet Union in 1935 but it is meaningless. We agreed to -.”

  Lisle had lost interest in the subject. Swirling the champagne in the flute she allowed Etienne’s explanation to float over her head. He stopped. Boring Lisle was the second worst sin, the first being breaking a date.

  “It does not matter,” he admitted.

  “The German fears this agreement.”

  Etienne squinted. The Germans fearing the French-Soviet pact could mean only one thing. “The Germans,” he gasped. “They are going to war with the communists.”

  “Pardon?”

  Etienne tingled, a frequent occurrence while in Lisle’s salon. “They are going to war, the German told you of it?”

  “The German is frightened, he fears the French army.”

  Etienne puffed out his chest. Gallic pride was always sparked by an expression of fear or respect for the French army. “They should fear,” he said. “The Great War proved the German Hun that France cannot be swept away; it was the Hun that was swept away, and the French Army defeated them.”

  “With the American Army,” Lisle chirped. He tilted back her head and revealed the veins which stretched the chalky skin on her neck.

  Etienne gripped his glass, irritation blotting out her neck. “The Americans,” he sputtered. “They are barbarous, illiterate scolds who believe the world revolves around them.

  Lisle tapped her glass against Etienne’s. “They have the best looking men.”

  Etienne had no desire to discuss the Americans. “The German,” he said. “The German revealed their attack?”

  “He asked about the agreement,” she said. “He feared France will attack.”

  “France will never go to war for the benefit of the communists. The agreement will not be honored.”

  “That will please him.”

  Etienne prodded her again. “The Germans are going to war with the Soviets. When will they attack? Does the German know?”

  Lisle smiled. “He resisted revealing his knowledge.” Her lips curled into a near perfect circle. “Many men have secrets they resist sharing, except with Lisle.”

  “What is Lisle’s secret?”

  She approached, her fingers curled behind his neck as she pulled him down to her. She pressed her lips close to his ear where she shared the secret she had squeezed from the German. It was a secret that would follow him the entire day.

  The remainder of the afternoon had followed the routine of so many in the past though he had cut it short; his second appointment of the day a necessity. Every meeting with the American had been lucrative and mysterious. A simple message would be passed to him during his daily constitutional; a place and a time where there would be an exchange of written material for a sliver of money. This day, though, Lisle had revealed something of such value Etienne expected his financial worries to have been slain.

  The meeting was to be at Notre Dame, a location that always heightened Etienne’s unease. Religion had never been part of his life. His father Berlique had rejected all forms of mysticism and barred any member of his family, especially his children, from entering a church. If spotted at the cathedral, Etienne would
struggle to explain his presence.

  He wandered to the equestrian statue of Charlemagne overlooking the Seine, the least conspicuous spot he could find. He was to enter second after spotting his contact, but this day he would never see the inside of the ancient walls. Instead he would pass his information while watching the water flow below him.

  “A German invasion of Russia.” His contact, the shortest of the trio who took information, was also the most skeptical of Etienne’s abilities. “There have been rumors of a military buildup. Anything more specific.”

  Etienne was prepared, Lisle offering him the greatest detail of all, a date. The short, suspicious contact nodded at the news. “A disposition of forces would also be helpful.”

  “I doubt Lisle can remember such details.” Etienne turned, which earned him a rebuke. His short, skeptical contact prohibited any eye contact.

  “It will be helpful.” He moved off. “An envelope will be delivered to your office.” Etienne was left alone to consider what he had done. Lisle had acquired the date of the next war, information valuable to more than the just the Americans. For a moment he considered contacting the Soviets but his father’s voice halted him. The Bolsheviks were the greatest threat to France and if by warning them they were able to defeat the Germans, France would be betrayed.

  Etienne wandered away from the cathedral, Lisle and the Americans receding in his mind as he thought of Fiorenza. He was doing it all for her, not only the money but keeping the peace.

  II

  May 8, 1940

  Ianu stood at the edge of Letcani. He had ridden into town on an old peasant wagon bumped along the rutted roads. Their trek was diverted by trucks filled with Rumanian soldiers that trundled toward the Prut and Bessarabia, the Rumanian province bordering Russia. Three weeks after Passover, 1940, the roads not yet recovered from the spring rains. Great piles of mud were heaped around Letcani, used to fill the sinkholes dug deep by the spinning tires of the overloaded and underpowered trucks. Traffic through Letcani had increased, horses dragooned from nearby farms to pull the wagons which composed much of the supply train. As the horses slipped, slid and occasionally dove into the mud, war talk flooded the village. Ianu had not seen Milosh, who would have known what was happening.