The Valkyrie Option

by Markus Reichardt

  The streets were a blur. More than a dozen times he bumped into people, his smaller frame giving him a disadvantage. Twice he lost his balance and crashed into rubble piles, cutting his uniform and his hands. His decoration got him out of two scuffles when the counterpart noticed it. He had never appreciated it that much before. That was the value that killing enemies, enemy humans could be reduced to

  Finally, he reached the house and stopped in happy disbelief. The structure was intact. This part of the street seemed to have sustained little more damage than broken glass. He knocked, almost hammered on the door. A great sense of relief sweeping over him.

  After what seemed like an eternity the door opened. HILDE. She looked older than he remembered and paler. But it was her! A wave of relief and joy swept through Michael.

  ‘Liebchen ! Her arms flew around him. I am sorry, I couldn’t come to the station. But Herr Wedkin and his children need my constant attention when mother is not well… there’s no space in the hospital… Michael just nodded and hugged her . She was alive nothing else mattered. Through teary eyes he recognized her mother and a pale shape lying on the sofa. It was nearly ten minutes before he was interested enough in anything but his wife to comprehend that Herr Wedkin was a neighbour who had been badly burnt by an incendiary bomb and for whom there had been no more space in the hospital.

  Next to Wedkin’s bandaged shape sat two children on the floor, playing with bits of coloured paper. Bruno Wedkin’s wife had been burned alive in the fire started by the American bombs dropped to destroy railway tracks and switchgear. Now his two children, a three-year old girl and a ten month old toddler depended on the kindness of strangers. The children had been saved by their mother’s quick reaction, she had, already on fire, thrown them out of the first floor window into the soft grass of neighbours garden before succumbing to the flames, while her husband had nearly died trying to save his wife from the flames; another of the countless victims of aerial bombing. Michael hugged his wife closely and reached out slowly to the children. ‘We will look after them no matter what happens, Hilde.’ He said and although he knew he would one day, if there was peace, want children of his own, these children would be treated as his own. One look into his wife’s eyes told him that, it also told him that he had made the right choice. These children had seen their parents die in fire, one of the most elemental fears a human could confront. Fire, the most primal fear of a tanker. He would do his best to heal these wounds when this war was over.

  That night and the night that followed they made passionate love and slept very little… and for the first time talked of the future.

  With her mother somewhat better the next day, Michael and Hilde arm in arm walked the narrow, cobbled streets of Bad Tölz, a small town just south of Munich where they had first met. To the south the Alps loomed amongst the clouds. Most of the people on the street this afternoon were civilians, dressed in drab worn clothes but well-fed. Only the field-grey of the soldiers reminded Michael that there was a war on. With the glittering bauble of the diamonds, crossed swords and oak leaves of the Knights Cross hanging at his throat, Michael attracted many favourable stares from passers-by. Only three days ago Rommel had personally decorated him with this. There were only nine other Germans who had received this decoration. But the stocky Panzer commander did not return the interest from the crowd. His wife at his arm meant everything to him. Automatically he acknowledged the salutes of other soldiers, the nods of older veterans. Hilde and he were for the first time making real plans; plans which had gained sudden purpose through the responsibility of looking after the Wedkin children. In doing so he found himself a stranger even to his own wife. The little things he sought, the peace and the stability now seemed less critical. With the passing of the immediate bombing threat, life in small town Germany seemed to be returning to normal very, very quickly.

  On the town square, an orchestra was playing classical music to a small but mesmerized audience. Neither Michael nor Hilde had ever developed a passion for classical music, preferring the hearty folksy tones of traditional German music, but the image was startling to the Panzer commander. Just weeks ago this would have been a military band comprised of fat, middle-aged bandsmen with colourful epaulettes thumping out one stirring Prussian march after another. Back then such music had sent young men flocking to the Wehrmacht recruitment offices. He doubted that in the present climate there would be many volunteering for the next call-up. The patriotism of the new Germany was still awaiting clarification. Maybe that was not such a bad thing, maybe Germans would begin to ask questions of their leaders, the leaders who were asking them to die. Michael had not asked any questions when he had signed up or when he had gone to war.

  Just weeks ago, there would have been boys in HitlerJugend uniforms, eyes filled with tears listening to the martial melodies of the Prussian marches, filled with the urge to enlist and fight for glory at the Front for Germany and Hitler (or was that the other way around). Michael shrugged; few of the HitlerJugend would have been more than sixteen, in 1944 sixteen-year-olds had been drafted. Now these boys roamed the streets in civilian clothes. Hilde had told him that they were still being used for civic duties such as police auxiliaries and cheap labour on farms or in hospitals but the political indoctrination was gone. It had not been replaced by anything. The new regime did not wish to be involved in indoctrination. For the first time in their living memory, the young sons of Germany would have to decide their fate for themselves. Michael was sure that like he himself they would struggle.

  A group of teenagers - three boys and two girls - ran past them in the street, shouting, joking. Hilde gripped his hand. ‘One day we will have children like that and they will have something to laugh and be happy about. That is all we can hope for. ‘

  ‘Yes’ was all he could say. But he meant it with every fibre of existence.

  After using the presence of his uniform and his decoration to ‘assist’ Hilde in her shopping expedition, Michael realised that life on Germany’s streets had changed. The bombs were still there, daytime bombing runs against Germany’s transport infrastructure from the 8 USAAF still left lots of collateral damage, but for the first time in more than two years there seemed to be hope, genuine hope for an alternative in the air.

  ‘Maybe it’s just the absence of all those red swastika flags’ Hilde grinned as they carried two loafs of bread and a small bucket of onions and potatoes home. She had not meant it as a political statement, she had not taken an active interest in politics. But Michael knew it was more, and that deep down she felt it too. Neither of them would ever be political thinkers but both recognized that Germans now had a choice. It was not a choice between two evils, nor even a choice between victory or defeat. No, for the first time there was a choice to decide what being German would be all about in a new world. Germany would not be one of the great nations in that new world but with luck she would be part of it. And that prospect felt good.

  When Michael waved goodbye to his wife the next day from the departing train, he knew that he was leaving with something to live for. The sky overhead was clear and free of allied bombers. He knew then he would survive the war.

  August 29th

  Foreign Ministry

  Berlin

  While Michael’s train chugged towards the east, Adam stared in surprise at the papers on his desk. There in black and white was the proof that class still counted for something in this world. Helmut James von Molkte had written from Stockholm where he and some friends from the Kreisau Circle had been knocking on every door they knew. Two days ago Helmuth had received a visit from two members of the British aristocracy. The young Molkte was circumspect, not mentioning names only titles. An earl and a baron; one of them held senior military rank. Adam was interested; this was either a complete fluke or a very informal approach. If it was then the Germans had underestimated the importance of the defeat they had inflicted on the American column. Militarily it had been a victory, one which von Witzleben had enjoyed
briefing the cabinet on in excessive detail. There had been decorations for about a dozen of the men who blocked Patton’s escape, one of them was for the Tiger ace Wittman. Adam remembered the name only because von Witzleben had managed to stress for some reason that he was Waffen-SS. The defeat had cost the Americans dearly and Adam was sure that making a spectacle of handing back the severely injured prisoner George Patton had done little for American morale. But, that was it. It had only been an American attack. No other units had been involved. The French were quarrelling among themselves in Paris over who should be the new Government and they were doing it so loudly that even the censors could not blot it out. The Polish forces were holding back, consigned to rear guard duty. And here now were some pillars of the British establishment talking to Helmuth James von Molkte about Europe’s future. He had no doubt that Helmuth would have waved his little letter under their noses very quickly. Intellectual he might be but von Molkte was no diplomat; he would talk to his fellow aristocrats in a language they would understand. More significantly Helmuth James von Molkte would do so in English.

  The letter went on to say that they had discussed ideas concerning the future of Europe and found much common ground. His visitors had not dismissed the proposal of more discussions out of hand. They had also discussed a date on which to discuss the possibility of another meeting.

  Adam felt the excitement rising. If the British were indeed diverging from the Americans then there was hope that Germany could survive. He needed a gesture, something the British would understand without it getting splashed all over the newspapers. A day later when he raised the issue with the cabinet, Leber who seemed to have inherited many of the war criminal, refugees and forced labour issues came up with an idea.

  Three days later fifty-six very surprised men were led across a bridge in northern France towards a confused British major. Two hours before a German officer under white flag had asked for a local truce in order for the Germans to hand over some persons they believed to be of interest to her Majesty’s Government. The men whom the German guards led across the small wooden bridge had been handcuffed and chained to prevent escape. The British major returned the salute of his German counterpart who handed him two fat folders of what turned out to be personnel files. ‘These are the SS files of these men’ was all the German officer had said, although he did so in impeccable English. ‘Good day to you sir.’ The other man could only salute.

  The major had leafed through the files without recognizing any of the names until he came to the last one, William Joyce, also known as Lord Haw-Haw. The others turned out to be the entire remaining St George Legion, a ragtag group of British renegades pulled from German PoW camps who had at their peak numbered no more than sixty-six and who for reasons best known to themselves had succumbed to the temptations of Himmler’s recruiters and donned the uniform of the SS.

  ‘Subtle but real’ was all the Prime Minister said when he received the news. Helmuth James von Molkte received another visit from British ‘acquaintances’ a few days later. They set a date, as only diplomats could, at which to discuss the possibility setting a further dates for meetings.

  Poland was different. As the end of the war drew near, Poland became the test for those who would become cold warriors on both sides of the Iron Curtain. It became Stalin’s gauge for western intentions. It became the touchstone for the West of the Soviet Union’s willingness to co-operate in the post-war world.

  Warren Kimball [73]

  Poland has lost her frontier. Is she now to lose her freedom? …. I do not wish to reveal a divergence between the British and American Governments, but it would certainly be necessary for me to make clear that we are in the presence of a great failure and an utter breakdown of what was settled at Yalta.

  Churchill in a telegram to Roosevelt,3 March 1945.

  1 September

  London

  The first of September saw the Prime Minister back on British soil grumpy but safe. Winston Churchill hated travelling and his mood was not improved by another fruitless meeting with the Polish Premier who followed up on what the Polish commander in Italy, General Anders had put to him. Anders, a soldier whom Churchill truly respected, had politely but firmly made it clear that the manner in which the allies were approaching the issue of the Warsaw Uprising was beginning to force Poles, even those fighting actively on the allied side, to make a choice. The Translator had conveyed the seriousness of Andres tone well enough for Churchill to take note. Premier Mick had expounded for nearly two hours without quite the same tact and respect. It produced an inconclusive argument with Churchill finding himself torn between his romantic notions of chivalry and the needs of balancing Roosevelt and Stalin. In the end, he agreed to the Pole’s proposal that he would go and see Stalin. Privately he resolved to cut all contact with Premier Mick until then. He hated travelling. He also disliked the melodrama that seemed to mingle so effortlessly with legal argument in the Pole’s rhetoric. Perhaps he disliked admitting that he was prone to it himself.

  It was only later when lying in a hot tub reading cabinet briefing papers and smoking one of his cigars that he admitted even privately that what he had hated most was that he, the Prime Minister of the British Government had not been able to deal with the Poles on his own. What they were asking he could no longer decide on his own, he would need either Roosevelt or Stalin for that. Roosevelt was not someone who had the depth to understand historical realities concerning that part of the world; no it would have to be Stalin. An agreement with the Soviet leader whose troops were on the ground in Poland would be binding and even Roosevelt would not challenge damn ‘Uncle Joe.’ ‘Uncle Joe’ the Premier snorted to himself; the mere term betrayed the President’s naivety towards European politics. Love or hate him de Gaulle at least understood that game and its traditions. The problem with him was that he was just too proud, too quick to take offence. Churchill remembered with sadness the cabinet decision taken early in the war when all advance notification of any action, even that on French soil had to be withheld from De Gaulle’s men because the Germans were reading De Gaulle’s codes. Despite warnings from the British, the French refused to concede the possibility until in early 1944 a British officer had broken their code before their very eyes. Although they had then switched to one-time pads there had never been as much as an acknowledgement of their mistake[74].

  “The Führer says be it right or wrong, we must win.

  … for when we win, who is to question our method?

  We already have so much on our conscience as it is

  that we just have to win.”

  Joseph Goebbels, 1944

  For most of it I have no words. When you gaze upon the human body distorted beyond recognition, and come to the point where there is literally no difference between the living and the dead, you are beyond shocking because you are beyond normal standards.

  R.W. Thompson Sunday Times reporter

  describing Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp

  2 September

  Reichskanzlei

  Berlin

  The entire cabinet was there, all the aides and some other key decision-makers who had been asked to join for this special briefing. One of the first acts of the new government had been to appoint two religious leaders – a catholic and a protestant – to oversee a commission that would quickly ascertain an overview of the political prison system the Nazis and in particular the SS had created. Today would be the day they reported back.

  Their message was simple and brutal: There were two systems – one set of camps known as KZ or Konzentrationslager had been scattered all over Germany, Austria and some of the occupied areas to house a range of inmates such as political prisoners from across the political spectrum, religious opponents of the regime, homosexuals, prisoners of war, gypsies, and even disgraced SS personnel. In these camps death had generally occurred due to individual maltreatment or sadistic punishments meted out by the guards. There were crematoria to deal with the bodies but the killi
ngs had numbered in the hundreds except when disease swept through the ranks of the abused and malnourished prisoners. Then there was another set of lager – the Vernichtungslager created by Aktion Reinhard, one of the regime’s greatest secrets.

  Once the massacres of the SS-Einsatzkommandos in Poland and Russia had spilt their first blood, some bureaucrat in the SS hierarchy had begun thinking about how to make their murderous task more efficient. From that line of thought came the Vernichtungslager, the extermination camps, and in them the Bishop recounted with a breaking voice more than six million people had been murdered by methods that could only be described as industrial.

  Aktion Reinhard grew out of the SS plan to depopulate Poland to make way for German settlers and in the process destroy the largest Jewish community in Europe. Headed by an SS thug with the polish-sounding name of Odilo Globocnic, Aktion Reinhard had begun by recruiting about 100 SS men from the ranks of those that had overseen Hitler’s euthanasia programme in whose course more than 60 000 mentally and physically handicapped Germans and Austrians had been killed by doctors administering lethal injections in the late 1930s. To support these men, nearly 4000 ethnic German, Ukrainian and Baltic auxiliaries had been recruited from the horrors of the Russian prisoner of war camps and sent for schooling in extermination and guard duties to the SS training camp at Trawniki in Poland.

  In December 1941 the first camp was started in a little Polish hamlet called Chelm. This however was merely the rehearsal. This was where amoral sociopaths turned the nightmare vision of their masters into reality by way of bloody experiment. A few failed ‘experiments’ and over 100 000 corpses later, Chelm was closed down and the real Vernichtungslager were built.