by Behn, Noel;
Germany was to be geographically divided into seven regions. Each region would be the specific domain of one Minister who would represent that region in all matters. In addition to his geographic function each Minister would hold an executive office, such as Interior, Labor, State, Finance, and so on. These would be assigned later.
At present the German Provisional Government had only one mission: to expedite the fall of the Third Reich. This would be accomplished in a series of phases.
Phase One would be the mounting of a massive newspaper, radio and leaflet propaganda offensive aimed directly at Germany itself. The campaign had four primary and simultaneous intents: to pit the top Nazi leaders against one another, to create violent anti-Nazi opinion among the German people, to stimulate pro-American sentiment among Germans, and to condition the masses for a representative government in the form of G.P.G.
Phase Two would be more overt and would depend in part on the success of the propaganda efforts. As the first signs of disquiet were detected within the Reich’s population, G.P.G. agents, many already waiting in Germany, would move in to organize and equip resistance movements. These would be handled on a regional basis, with each Minister advising on subversive activities within his zone of influence. Restlessness among Nazi politicians or Wehrmacht officers would be handled directly by a joint council comprised of the G.P.G. Ministers and United States G.P.G. liaison personnel. When the Third Reich finally collapsed, the German Provisional Government must be ready to move into any part of Germany—including Berlin.
When Julian finished speaking, the meeting was thrown open for ten minutes of questions.
“Major Julian,” Vetter said without rising, “is either Russia or England involved in this operation?”
“You know they are not.”
“Do you expect them to be?”
“Not at present.”
“Are you aware that I am a Communist?”
“Aha, so he finally admits it for one and all to hear,” Oswald Nebel jeered. “He finally comes out in the open and says what he is.”
“I am not as lucky as you, Herr Nebel,” Vetter replied. “The world already knows what you are.”
“Of course they do—the rightful winner of a mayoral election.”
“If honest votes were counted you wouldn’t have been elected to an outhouse.”
“If by honest votes you mean the twenty thousand duplicate ballots you and your Red traitors had printed, I quite agree.”
“Herr Nebel, go find yourself another little boy to molest.”
“I object,” Nebel blustered. “I demand a formal apology. I demand—”
“Not on your whore mother’s life.”
“What did you say?”
“I called your mother a whore, but you must excuse me. I was hasty. We all know she wasn’t a whore. She was a professional Lesbian.”
Nebel dove across the table, seized the startled Vetter by the goatee and began pulling. Vetter struggled to free himself. His chair tipped over backward and both men crashed to the floor. Still Nebel held his grip. By the time the others reached them Nebel was banging Vetter’s head against the table leg.
Nebel was dragged back to his place and held down. Vetter was lifted into his chair and revived with water.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” Thomas Hutch admonished as he rose, “this is neither the time nor the place to reenact our ancient German political rituals. We have much more pressing matters to confront. Individually we can solve nothing, since our fate lies in the hands of our new masters. United we may be able to sue for more propitious treatment.
“Sir,” Hutch said, grasping his lapels and turning to Julian, “let us all face reality, the reality of the people you have assembled in this room. Only sheer desperation could have brought together such a pathetic group.
“If you were looking for politicians, what a sorry course you have run! Only three of the persons at this table ever ran for elected office; the other four held only minor political appointments. Two of the three who did run for office were involved in one of the most scandalous electoral contests ever held in Germany. The loser was jailed for fraud, and the winner was subsequently impeached on so many counts that no one can remember them all. The one remaining elected officeholder, myself, won a minor post when his heavily favored opponent dropped dead the day before balloting. Our combined electoral strength—legal and illegal—could hardly elect a respectable zoo keeper.
“If you are thinking of us as exiles, then the picture is slightly more optimistic. Five of us had to flee Germany, but not necessarily for political reasons. If you hope that we are anti-Nazi exiles, then the picture is bleaker still. Three of us here have served happily under the Nazis. Two were fired for simple incompetence, and the third, Hilka Tolan, was jailed because of her father’s personal enemies, not political enemies.
“But you knew most of this before you went to such trouble to bring us here. So then I must ask: Why bother in the first place? The answer is self-evident: There was no one else left.
“Good Major, why waste time with questions and answers? Most of us are so politically inept we really don’t know what to ask you. Tell us, and we will do what we must. We will sign what you want, say what you want, endorse what you want, legislate what you want, do everything and anything you want—with one exception: we will not submit to hypocrisy.
“We admit to our ineptitude—and it is our strength. Kind Major, if you had to come to us, how utterly desperate your situation must be. And since it is so desperate, we must be more valuable to you than you care to admit.
“I therefore submit the following recommendations on behalf of myself and my colleagues. First, that our yearly salaries be doubled, and extended to the natural lifetime of each one of us. Secondly, I submit that should the Provisional Government in fact become the governing body of postwar Germany, our positions as Ministers should not be subject to election. The Ministry can simply be an appointed body—something like your own Supreme Court, for example? And, as with your Supreme Court, our appointments should also be for a lifetime. Next, I believe it only equitable that when a Chancellor is subsequently appointed, he should be selected from the six men here. After that I feel—”
Julian left the room.
Hutch looked up at Kittermaster. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re doing just fine, my friend, fine!”
“Then may I continue the negotiations with you, Colonel?”
“The negotiations just ended.”
“Sir, in the best interest of our future—”
“Tom, in the best interest of your good health, I’ve got a little suggestion: Do what you’re told.”
“Or what, Colonel?”
“Or you get your head blown off, that’s what.”
Kittermaster stepped to the ornate door and waved his hand. The lights dimmed and the guards reappeared. Within a minute the chamber was empty and still, the only light a bright projection lamp shining on the unused Throne.
26
It was a curious raid.
Thick February storm clouds had crept down the Continent, enveloping northern Europe. From the upper end of the Latium plains to the Aller the blizzards raged. The Luftwaffe knew the American bombers were on their way as soon as they passed over Umbria, seventy-five planes in all—and this is where the confusion began.
The Americans generally preferred to attack during daylight. Now they were coming three hours before dawn. The Americans had always preferred clear weather for their strikes. Now they were buffeting through a storm. Only northern Germany was clear. The Luftwaffe would have expected the attack there to come from the long-range bombers, the B-24s. But the Americans were sending over their B-26s. Only one B-24 had been spotted.
The fighter escorts turned back near the Adriatic coast. The Messerschmitts attacked minutes later. Twelve B-26s spiraled down in smoke. Still the medium-bomber wing droned northward.
At 0400 hours the storm was
easing in the west. Friedrichshafen, Ulm and Freiburg were visible. This, the Germans concluded, was where the strike would come now. Preparations were made. It was 0430 hours and sleeting in Munich when the first bombs exploded. Two passes were made. The aircraft circled and headed back to Italy with one exception: a solitary B-26 in the armada dropped altitude and continued north into the storm.
It was dawn when the pilot alerted the crew. The aircraft descended under the thinning clouds and leveled off. The bomb-bay doors opened and the aerial cameras were readied. A moment later they began photographing the terrain along the Sola River in which a railroad siding known as Auschwitz should appear.
27
Hilka stood beside the portable bar. She took a cigarette and lit it. “Would you care for a drink?” she asked.
“I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I,” Hilka said, pouring half a glass of vodka. “Or, more correctly, neither should I.” She took a deep swallow. “Well, what do you think of my apartment? You haven’t told me.”
Spangler glanced around. He saw Hilka’s reflection in the wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She was loosening the bodice of her brocade dressing gown. “Is that why you asked me here, to get my opinion of your apartment?”
“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t what I meant to say at all. There are other things. Important things.”
“I told you before, I’m not interested, lady.”
“Hilka! My name is Hilka!” she shouted. “And you have to be interested. You must be interested. You are responsible for me!”
“My responsibility ended when I brought you out.”
“No it didn’t. It began then. I didn’t ask to be freed. I didn’t want to be freed. When the camp underground offered me an escape I refused. I was better off inside and I knew it. But you changed all that without thinking twice, without even asking me. Well, here I am, and you are responsible, so where shall we begin?”
Hilka began to drink, then thought the better of it. “Do you like my hair braided like this?”
“It looks all right.”
“Is that all? Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Yes.”
“How pretty?”
“Very pretty.”
“As pretty as a motion-picture star? In fact, I’ve played in a picture or two myself, but I don’t imagine you have seen them. I used to remind people of Jean Arthur. Do you think I’m as pretty as she is?”
“I have no way of knowing. I don’t go to movies.”
Hilka laid aside her drink and leaned back against the bar. “What do you intend to do about my situation?”
“What situation?”
“My rehabilitation. You brought me back to the conventional world. Now you must teach me to adjust to it. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”
“More or less.”
“How nice,” Hilka replied, smoothing her gown. “How flattering to be understood. But that’s one of your virtues, isn’t it—understanding? You knew immediately when I lied to you about Belsen and Mauthausen. And you were quite correct—I’ve never been at either. I was somewhere else. Have you ever heard of Salon Kitty?”
“The place in Berlin?”
“The bordello in Berlin. The unofficial Gestapo listening point. Every room had hidden microphones so that they could learn more about the distinguished clientele, especially the foreign diplomats.
“Yes, Salon Kitty,” she said in a musing tone. “It was the creation of Reinhard Heydrich, and Uncle Reini had no more enthusiastic admirer than my father. So when it became the patriotic and fashionable thing for young and beautiful Berlin girls to volunteer to take the places of the common prostitutes who originally staffed the establishment, my father felt it expedient for me to be included. That I was barely seventeen and still a virgin mattered little. I was taken from private school and sent to the establishment as a ‘personal ward’ of Uncle Reini. I ran away twice, but not because I disliked it. I was beginning to like it too much. You know how impressionable schoolchildren can be.
“Then one evening when several other girls and I were performing the ‘spectacular,’ I was discovered by a certain Obergruppenfuehrer von Schleiben. Even Heydrich feared this man, so I was given to him. He became a most ingenious mentor. Like all great artists he eventually tired of me, but at least my life was spared. I was sent to Oranienburg, where I could cause no future embarrassment. When the SS guards reviewed my exceptional qualifications I was immediately assigned to their private bordello—where my figure was not jeopardized by the ordinary camp fare.
“I was content in the bordello, because that’s all I really knew. But you have taken me from it.” Hilka moved around the couch and leaned against the chair next to Spangler. “Now what am I expected to do? I am accustomed to having six to ten men or women a day. Will that be supplied among the expensive clothes and furnishings here? My own pleasure is derived from more extreme activity. Will that be provided, too?”
“I’m sorry,” Spangler mumbled.
“Don’t be sorry, be useful,” Hilka said, letting her gown fall open. “Did you bring me back to be the whore or to portray a presentable woman? I have always lived under masters—so be my master! By your thoughtless action you have said, ‘Forget the past, live in the polite world.’ Well, then, show me how. Take me into the bedroom and show me how one man can effect the transition.”
“When it’s time for the bedroom, I’ll make the decision, not you.”
“No, no,” she cried desperately. “We mustn’t wait. There isn’t time. Don’t you see, nothing will be left if we wait.”
She moved forward and stood before him. Her gown fell to the floor. “Well, is it in the bedroom or here? I really don’t know where proper people perform the ritual. Forgive my abruptness, but it’s all I am accustomed to. How do we begin? How do nice people begin? Would you like to whip me? Or do you prefer it the other way around?
“Don’t look away, damn you. Show me! I am twisted. I am a freak. Cleanse me of all of that. Change me,” she pleaded, dropping to her knees and clasping Spangler’s hand.
Spangler reached down and touched her head. He raised her chin, wiped away a tear and gently pulled her to him. He stroked her forehead. Suddenly he pushed her away and jumped up. He shuddered involuntarily, raising his hand as if in a blessing, his lips moving as if in prayer. Tears came to his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked in bewilderment. “What have I done?”
Spangler turned and walked quickly to the door.
Kittermaster sat alone among the movie cameras and the recording equipment in the red-lighted secret observation corridor between Suites Seven and Eight. He watched Hilka stare after Spangler as he left the room. She went to the bar, nervously lit a cigarette and put it out after one puff. She picked up another and struck a match. She moved the flame close to her face and studied it hypnotically. She blew it out and entered the bathroom.
Kittermaster moved down to sit in front of a floor-to-ceiling, oneway bathroom mirror. Hilka stood facing him as she examined the reflection of her angular body. He could see the small round scars on the firm breasts and around her lower stomach.
She turned both taps on full blast, climbed into the tub and swung her legs up around the faucet. Water jetted down into her open thighs as her body arched and began to tremble. Her teeth clenched and her neck strained back in tension. Her body continued to struggle. Nothing was resolved.
Hilka rose from the tub and stood dripping in front of the mirror. Water and tears streamed down her face.
Her fingers clawed tentatively at the mount at the base of the abdomen. She reached for a cigarette and lit it. The first two puffs seemed to bring relaxation. She began to tremble again. Her arms dropped limply to her sides. Her head shook slowly and helplessly. She stared down at the cigarette. In one rapid motion she spread her legs and plunged the burning tip up between her thighs. Her scream was low and guttural; her body shook uncontrollably. The explosion came. Hilka fell for
ward against the mirror. Her arms moved slowly down the surface as she slipped to the floor. She curled up into a tight ball on the bath mat. Relaxation had arrived. So had hysteria.
Kittermaster silently made his way to the end of the observation room, opened the floor hatch and descended the circular metal staircase. He unlocked the door leading out into the fourth-floor corridor. He pulled back the knob. Two helmeted security guards sprawled motionless on the floor. He was starting to bend down over them when a hand clamped on his throat and lifted him from his feet. He gasped for breath and tried to break the grip. The single hand was too powerful. His head jerked forward and he stared down into Spangler’s face.
“Never, never let me catch you watching me again,” Spangler told Kittermaster, and released his hold.
28
The photographic montage of the Auschwitz area covered three walls of the Strategy Room. The military and Air Force analysts on exclusive assignment to G.P.G. studied it most of the morning. Agreement was reached before lunch.
Kittermaster was the first to arrive. A bright-blue ascot concealed the bandages on his neck. Julian arrived a few minutes later.
“Been on those fancy phones of yours, Julie boy?”
“Yes.”
“Your big-shot buddy in Washington have anything new to say, or just the routine back-alley plotting?”
“You’ve won.”
“Won what?”
“Everything. The Committee has ordered my operation transferred to your direct command. I’ll stay on to brief your new intelligence chief, then leave.”
“How long do you think that briefing will take?”
“It depends on whom you select as my replacement.”
“Spangler.”
“He’s new to organizational work. I can probably show him everything within three weeks.”
