Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  But the Reich Council had surrendered. The Reich Council had made concessions. The Reich Council... had betrayed the Reich.

  It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it had to be faced. Karl had thought he could count on Voss, as a matter of course, and several of the other ministers, yet they’d seen the protesters on the streets and turned against their sworn duty. Who cared how many students were arrested or killed on the streets when the Reich was in danger? The strikers... if they refused to work, they could be shot! And yet, the Reich Council - even the military - had betrayed its own people.

  Two days, he thought, savagely. Two days and the world turns upside down.

  He gritted his teeth in frustration. The reports had flowed in faster than the RSHA could handle them, long lists of new political committees all over the Reich. Thankfully, the rot hadn’t spread past Old Warsaw - Germany East wouldn't tolerate dissent when the easterners had to fight constantly to defend their settlements - but it was everywhere else. Even a handful of warship crews had been caught holding political meetings, in defiance of naval regulations. The Kriegsmarine, which had failed in its duty once before, was now failing again by not stringing the crewmen from the nearest yardarm. And the French were growing bolder in their resistance to authority. It wouldn't be long before strikes started to spread through the occupied territories.

  And no matter what they say about the economy, he thought, the real threat is political.

  Karl had never been to America, but he’d read the reports from German spies and political agents within the United States. America was a tottering country, permanently on the verge of collapse. The act of allowing the races to mingle alone had crippled the United States; allowing women the right to vote, to steer the course of global politics, had been worse. It was horrific to contemplate the destruction of all that was good, of all that was German, by a tidal wave of Untermenschen under the delusion that the state owed them something. One day, he was sure, the Americans would beg the Reich to save them from themselves, but until that day...

  I have to make sure the madness doesn’t spread into the Reich, he told himself. And if the Reich Council cannot be relied upon, I have to handle it myself.

  It was a bitter thought. He’d never liked or trusted the civilians, particularly the Finance Minister, but he’d thought he could count on the regular military as a fellow defender of German values. Young German lads might go reluctantly into the army - the Heer took conscripts, unlike any of the other services - yet when they left, they were imbued with the fighting spirit of Germany and a willingness to die in defence of the Reich. He’d expected better from the Field Marshals, the supreme commanders of the military, but they’d refused to do their duty and stand up to the whining civilians. They’d even allowed the rot to spread through their soldiers! It was worse than 1918-19!

  “Herr Reichsführer,” Marie said. “Sturmbannfuehrer Harden is here to see you.”

  “Good,” Karl said. “Send him in, then inform all callers that I am busy.”

  He rose to his feet as Sturmbannfuehrer Viktor Harden entered the room and snapped off a perfect salute. He was a tall man, wearing a black uniform with a single death’s head pin on his shoulders. Harden lacked imagination, Kurt recalled, but he made up for it with bloody-minded ferocity that made him perfectly suited to one of the police battalions that supervised concentration camps, rounded up Untermenschen for work gangs, hunted down insurgents and policed Untermenschen townships in Germany East. There had been a whole string of complaints against the man, Karl reminded himself, mainly from senior military officers with weak stomachs, but Karl didn't care. Harden got the job done and that was all that mattered to the SS.

  “Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said. He sounded vaguely surprised. It was rare, vanishingly rare, for an SS police battalion to be ordered to Berlin. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I did,” Karl said. He sat back down at his desk and studied Harden for a long moment before continuing. “You’ve heard the reports from Berlin?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said.

  “The civilians” - it was hard not to spit in disgust - “believe that making concessions to the protesters will be enough to prevent another set of strikes,” he said. “Those concessions, however, will only whet their appetite for more concessions, for more political surrenders, for - eventually - the end of the Reich itself. It cannot be allowed.”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said.

  “The Berlin Guard cannot be relied upon,” Karl hissed. It was unthinkable, but it had to be tolerated, for the moment. The guard would be purged later or sent to South Africa. “Nor can the police. They will both be there, as a sign of strength, when the next protest begins, but they will do nothing to stop it. Their men have already been contaminated by the protesters, by the fear of injuring their women and children.”

  He saw a smile of anticipation flicker across Harden’s face. The man was a monster, even by the SS’s standards, and his subordinates were, if anything, even worse. They had no qualms over slaughtering male prisoners and raping female prisoners before throwing any survivors into the army brothels - or worse. The unit existed purely to spread terror, purely to remind the Untermenschen that their lives belonged to the Reich. Bringing them to Berlin and turning them loose on Germans was a gamble, but it was one he had to take. There were times when even good Germans needed to be reminded that their sole duty was to the state.

  “Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said. “My men will be happy to crush them for you.”

  “Billet your men in the garrison,” Karl ordered. He’d been careful to ensure that only a handful of SS officers, let alone soldiers or civilians, knew he’d moved Harden’s unit to Berlin. “And stand ready to intervene when I call you.”

  He watched Harden go with a cold smile. The man was thoroughly unpleasant - even a couple of SS officers had filed complaints - but he did good work. It didn't matter to him just who his unit was told to attack; they’d slaughter helpless women and children, even German women and children, with the same enthusiasm they’d slaughter Slavic terrorists. The streets of Berlin would run red with blood. And, if something did go wrong, he would take the blame for the whole affair.

  It was a shame, Karl thought. There were many good young women in the university, young women who should have been churning out the next generation of Germans. And the older women who’d spearheaded the protests in support of the strikers had good connections. They couldn't be purged as long as their husbands held positions of power and influence. But that would change after Harden’s men had cleared the streets. The unmarried girls would be sent east, where they would become farm wives, while the married women were taught a sharp lesson before being returned to their husbands. They’d never dare go onto the streets again.

  And the Reich Council will have no choice, but to back me, he thought, as he rose. There were other preparations to make. I will become the next Fuhrer and save my country from itself.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Albert Speer University, Berlin

  16 August 1985

  Horst hadn't been sure if Gudrun would be allowed to return to the university or not, even though she’d been released from jail without charge. Her father might have refused to allow her to return to the university, as several other fathers had apparently done in the wake of the strike and protest movements, or she might simply have been expelled for daring to get arrested in the first place. The university might try to be a little freer than the average school, but there were limits. He was relieved - very relieved - when he saw her entering the university two days after she’d been released, only to discover that half of the lectures they were due to attend had been cancelled.

  “I’m glad to see you again,” he said, as they slipped into a meeting room. He wouldn’t have blamed her for taking advantage of the opportunity to drop out of the growing protest movement, but he was pleased to see she hadn't. “What did your parents say?”

&
nbsp; Gudrun winced as she sat down on a hard chair. “My mother apparently joined the crowd after she’d heard I was arrested, even defying my father to do it,” she said. “They bawled me out, then had a huge argument afterwards. Father wanted me to stay home for the next eternity, but mother insisted that I should return to university.”

  Horst raised his eyebrows. “Your mother must be a very strong woman,” he said. He sat down next to her, close enough to touch... if she wanted to touch. “Did they impose any conditions on you?”

  “Just wanted me to make sure I stuck to my classes and kept my head down,” Gudrun said, rather ruefully. “Father... was not very happy with me. I know he was worried...”

  “He had good reason to worry,” Horst pointed out. “Better than he knows.”

  Gudrun gave him a sharp look, then leaned forward until her lips were practically brushing his ear. “Is it safe to talk in here?”

  “Someone has been sweeping the building and removing all the bugs,” Horst said. He smiled at her stunned expression. “As far as I can tell, there isn't a bugged room left in the university.”

  “The SS must love that,” Gudrun muttered. She kept her lips close to his ear. “Have you had any other orders?”

  “Keep an eye out for troublemakers, but otherwise do nothing,” Horst said. “Right now, just about everyone in the university is a troublemaker. There’s going to be a big meeting this afternoon in the cafeteria.”

  “I’ll be going,” Gudrun said. “I’m already marked as a troublemaker.”

  “You were arrested for being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Horst reminded her, dryly. “But they’ll use that against you if they catch you causing trouble.”

  “I can't give up now,” Gudrun said. “Are you going to stop me?”

  Horst wished he could. It would be simple to ring her father and tell him that Gudrun wasn’t staying out of trouble. She’d be kept home... and he probably wouldn't see her again, even if she was released after a few weeks of grounding. The thought of her mad at him was almost painful...

  Admit it, he told himself, sternly. You’re falling in love with her.

  “No,” he said, finally. “But you do realise I’d have to report it? And you’d be at the top of the list because you were already arrested?”

  “I understand the risks,” Gudrun said, softly. “I’ve been arrested.”

  “It will be worse next time,” Horst hissed. “Gudrun, there are worse things than spending a night in a cell.”

  “You forget the bit about being stark naked,” Gudrun snapped. “Is that normal?”

  “You’d be amazed at what can be turned into a weapon with a little ingenuity,” Horst said, dryly. “Keeping the prisoners naked not only makes them uncomfortable, it ensures they have problems hiding anything from the guards.”

  “Yeah,” Gudrun said. “You promised you’d teach me how to fight.”

  Horst flushed. “I’m going to have to give that some thought,” he said. He knew there were SS tutors who specialised in teaching the handful of female SS operatives, yet he’d never met any of them, let alone watched them in action. He’d been pounded mercilessly by his teacher, but the thought of hammering Gudrun like that was intolerable. “How did you do with your exercises in the BDM?”

  “Well enough,” Gudrun said. “They never taught us to fight, though.”

  “I doubt you have time to learn,” Horst said, reluctantly. There were sparring chambers they could use, on the lower levels, but they weren't truly private. Taking Gudrun back to the apartment he shared with the other SS operatives would be far too revealing. “Let me sort out where and when we can get together, then we can arrange something.”

  “Very well,” Gudrun said. “And now... what’s been happening in my absence?”

  “An uneasy peace,” Horst said. “I don’t expect it to last for long.”

  ***

  Gudrun had never really expected to be grateful to her mother, not after she’d realised she didn't want to be a housewife, a nurse, or any of the handful of other socially acceptable female professions, but she had to admit that her mother had stood up for her, even when her father had been in a foul mood. The smouldering ache in her backside, the droll reminder that her parents were displeased with her, was nothing compared to the knowledge of just how close she’d come to being locked away in her room until her father found a suitable man. And yet...

  She cursed under her breath as she met up with the others and listened. Hilde’s mother was arranging more female groups, trying to set up a hierarchy of women demanding the same rights and freedoms as men, while Leopold’s father was still working with the growing network of strike committees. Clearly, Konrad’s father didn't believe the government had been beaten either, even though it had conceded the first round. New committees were being set up all time, while experienced workers were sorting out what demands to present to the Reich Council.

  “Volker Schulze is planning to run for the Reichstag,” Sven commented. “He’s organising thousands of men to support him.”

  Horst looked unimpressed. “How does one even get elected to the Reichstag?”

  “Good question,” Sven said. “I looked it up. One can win a seat through being selected by the local party committee. It’s just that most party committees rarely put forward candidates.”

  “Because the Reichstag is nothing more than a glorified rubber stamp,” Horst commented, after a moment. “Finding a way to change that will be the next step, I think.”

  Gudrun shifted, uncomfortably. “Can’t the elections be opened to everyone?”

  “The voters have to be members of the Nazi Party in good standing,” Sven explained. “I don’t think they’ll let us change that in a hurry.”

  “But most of the population are members of the Nazi Party,” Horst pointed out. “The trick would be getting them into the beer halls to vote. Have any of you seen your parents vote?”

  Gudrun shook her head. Her father had never voted, as far as she knew; she hadn't even known people could, technically, vote until she’d started the whole movement. But then, Horst was right; the Reichstag was nothing more than a rubber stamp. True power came from climbing up the ladder in the civil bureaucracy, the military or the SS. And yet, if that were true, what would happen when Volker Schulze started trying to change things?

  She was still mulling over the problem as they went for lunch - another of their classes was cancelled without explanation - and walked down into the cafeteria. Someone had hung a black-edged photograph of Hartwig and a couple of other students, one of them a young woman, from the wall, a chilling reminder that their new freedom of speech had come with a price. Gudrun had never been sure what to make of Hartwig - he’d seemed more interested in chasing girls than actually doing his studies - but he hadn't deserved to die on the streets of Berlin. The handful of testimonials written below the pictures suggested that Hartwig had died on his feet, fighting the police. She had no idea if that were actually true.

  “I didn't see him fall,” she said, when one of his friends saw her and asked. Everyone knew she’d been arrested by now, thanks to Sven and Horst. It was embarrassing, but perhaps she could use it. “It was a nightmare.”

  “Tell us what happened,” someone shouted.

  Gudrun braced herself as all eyes turned to her. She’d never been particularly shy, but being in prison, if only for a night, had left her with scars. She wondered, suddenly, if Horst had watched as she’d stripped naked for the policemen, then decided he probably hadn't been able to go to the police station without an excuse. Gritting her teeth, knowing that she was committing herself, she climbed onto a chair. Thankfully, she had been taught how to recite sections of Mein Kampf at school.

  “The strikers wanted to be paid for their work,” she said. Most of the students surrounding her wouldn't have had a proper job. “But the corporations were demanding more work for less money.”

  She ran through the whole story, somewhat awkwardly, then c
hanged the tone. “My boyfriend went to South Africa,” she said. “And then I lost contact with him. It wasn't until his father demanded answers that I found out the truth. My boyfriend was badly wounded, so badly wounded that he hangs on the border between life and death. He will probably never recover, but they won’t even let him die.

  “They lied to us,” she added. She wished she’d had a chance to write a proper speech, instead of speaking from the heart. “They told us that the war in South Africa would never be anything more than a police action, that only a handful of soldiers would have to die. But they were lying! What else are they lying about?

  “I went to prison, but we are all in prison, a prison camp called the Reich. We went to school, where we were taught our lessons by rote and punished for asking questions, and then to the Hitler Youth, where we were made to march in unison. How many lies were we told in school? How many times were we told never to question our superiors? How much has been buried beneath a wave of lies?”