Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  By and by, with every called out name, the row of graduates grew smaller until only Hermann was left standing in the snow, looking expectantly at the representative from Berlin.

  Flipping through the documents on his clipboard twice without success, he gave Hermann a questionable look through his round rimless glasses.

  “Your name!” the representative bellowed.

  Hermann kicked his heels. “SS-Unterscharfuehrer Hermann Heinrich!”

  The man in the grey suit checked his lists again, shrugged his shoulders and gave out a courtly “I don’t have you on the list!” before getting into his car and driving back to Berlin.

  Hermann remained at attention. But behind his disciplined outer appearance his confused mind summersaulted. What was happening? Had they just forgotten him? No, impossible, the High Command never forgot anything. Had he not been good enough? Equally impossible.

  Rosselmann had personally told him that he had been one of this year’s best. What was going on? And where were his superiors? Was he supposed to stay here at attention, or what? For months now he had not done anything without an order and now...? With nobody telling him what to do, Hermann was at a total loss.

  His last orders had been: “Roll call in the courtyard!” and so Hermann decided to stay put until he received new orders.

  The icy wind blew fresh snow through the air, creeping under his uniform. The cold seeped through his nailed and freshly polished army boots, his lips slowly turned bluely violet.

  Gradually, thick white snowflakes covered him completely but Hermann remained standing still. He had not been trained and disciplined for months, to just let it go with the first bit of cold. A leaden fatigue began spreading through his body, and he lost all sense of time.

  Suddenly he saw himself standing in a summer meadow, golden rays of sunshine warming his face...

  It was at that moment he had been pulled back into icy reality by Rosselmann and sent back to barracks where he now lay alone in the sleeping quarters, painfully contemplating his total cluelessness, and his immediate future.

  With a bang, the door flew open jolting him from these sombre thoughts. An officer strode into the room and began to yell at him.

  “Unterscharfuehrer Hermann Heinrich?”

  Hermann jumped to his feet, immediately at attention.

  “Here!”

  The officer put his face directly under the tip of Hermann’s nose.

  “Gala uniform and follow me!”

  “Gala uniform?” Hermann asked.

  “Do you suppose you can present yourself in front of SS-Reichsfuehrer in your pyjamas?”

  Hermann felt dizzy for a moment. “Him.... Himmler? Heinrich Himmler is here?”

  As Hermann and the higher-ranking officer entered the mess hall, he could barely hide his excitement.

  Nervously, he remained close to the door as the officer yelled,

  “SS-Unterscharfuehrer Hermann Heinrich!!!”

  Himmler, Rosselmann and an assorted staff of senior army personnel turned and gazed at him with inscrutable faces. Hermann took a deep breath, raised his arm and saluted as snappily as possible, given his mounting nervousness.

  “Unterscharfuehrer Heinrich, at your service, sir!”

  Rosselmann, without giving him a second look, took a sip from his cognac and turned to Himmler. “He’s the one I told you about, Herr SS-Reichsfuehrer! Absolutely reliable, this man, maybe not the brightest but he’ll follow any order cost what it may. Like a bulldog, sir, getting its teeth into it!”

  Himmler approached Hermann with a thoughtful look on his face before shooting one of his infamous stares right into his pupils.

  Nobody said a word. For Hermann, seconds seemed to stretch into infinity.

  “The chemical element of water, Unterscharfuehrer Heinrich?” he asked suddenly with a nasal twang.

  “I... I don’t know, Herr Reichsfuehrer!”

  “Aha! And who wrote: ‘The eternal-feminine draws us ever upward?’”

  Hermann almost lost his regulation posture, wanting to scratch his head, utterly baffled.

  “Ah, ‘ever upward,’ Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  “Upward—downward... antiquated speech. Well, who said it?”

  “I am momentarily stumped for an answer!”

  “Goethe, you genius. Last question: what is 20 times 14?”

  Hermann had been freezing before now sweat was dripping from his forehead.

  “I... I... I don’t know!” he burst out, desperately.

  Himmler took a step back and looked at him thoughtfully. Then all of a sudden, a bright smile flashed across his face. He took Hermann’s hand and shook it enthusiastically.

  “Congratulations, young man. If only we had more men of your calibre in our troops. You are just the man for a very special mission. We—I mean myself and, of course, the Fuehrer—are relying on you!”

  “Th... thank you, Herr Reichsfuehrer!” Hermann managed to gasp as he was slapped on the shoulder and congratulated by the other officers. Somehow, he thought, he must have done something right but he had absolutely no idea what that might have been.

  The Reichsfuehrer pinched Hermann’s cheek jovially, then pulled out a little brochure and handed it to him. “This is a list of grave sites of famous German heroes. Only very special comrades are getting this—comrades whose gene pool will enhance our ranks into the future!”

  “Thank you, Herr Reichsfuehrer!”

  “Are you planning to copulate in the near future?”

  “Come again... Herr, ah, Reichsfuehrer?”

  “Should you have any plans to copulate in the near future, I hereby order you to do it on top of one of the listed grave sites of our heroes. May some of the dead hero’s spirit of virtue pass into your procreation”.

  “Ja-Jawohl! Herr Reichsfuehrer!”

  Confused, Hermann looked around the room but none of the attending officers seemed to find anything odd or obscene about the order.

  Obviously, Hermann thought, they must all be familiar with the list and were quite naturally doing it on top of the graves of great Germans.

  Himmler and his aide bade the room a curt goodbye, leaving Hermann to mingle amongst the high-ranking officers, drinking French cognac and smoking cigars. Rosselmann, now quite tipsy and in a chummy mood, put his arm around Hermann and repeatedly congratulated him on ‘the special mission’ that lay ahead.

  Soon the evening was dying away in a constant succession of toasts and congratulations.

  Hermann felt quite chuffed... and helplessly drunk.

  “Lisssen, Obersturmbannfuehrer” he slurred at his equally intoxicated superior. “What’s it all about then, this, this impoooortant mission...?”

  Rosselmann, by now having abandoned the use of a glass for his cognac, put the bottle down.

  “Right,... important it isss, absluutely correct, spanking exceptional it is!” A slight giggle from the Obersturmbannfuehrer faded into melodic snoring as Rosselmann’s head sank onto his chest.

  Hermann shook him awake.

  “Chief, don’t fall asleep now! The mission, where am I ssss... supposed to go?”

  With difficulty, Rosselmann opened one eye and gave his subordinate a glassy look. “Hmm?

  Yes, right, the important mission. You’ll take a train to France and from there you will go by summarine! Wanna drink?”

  With a sweeping gesture he refilled Hermann’s glass, saying cheers with the bottle.

  “To the submarines!”

  “To the submarines!” Hermann emptied his glass in one gulp, while Rosselmann took another swig from the bottle

  “An´ where´m I goinìn the submarine?”

  Putting the bottle down, his superior sat up straight. In an instant Rosselmann appeared to
be dead sober. He threw a meaningful glance over his shoulder and winked at Hermann to come closer.

  “To India!” he whispered.

  3. France—Himalayas / Spring 1944

  The day before he departed on his mission, Hermann Heinrich, newly-fledged ‘Officer with Special Orders’ was bestowed the highest accolade the National Socialistic Deutsche Reich could bestow upon anybody (apart from heroically dying for the Fatherland of course)—a private audience with HIM: The Fuehrer.

  Well, truth be told, it wasn’t an audience in the classical sense. It turned out to be... a telephone conversation. And not a private one either, since everybody in High Command was eagerly listening in. None of them had ever before been graced with such an honour. Little wonder then that they all looked grudgingly at Hermann as he picked up the receiver. There was a buzz from a loudspeaker that had been installed in the room to enable everybody to follow the words of BEFAT (High Command’s shorthand for ‘Best Fuehrer of All Times’).

  “My... beloved Fuehrer!” Hermann stuttered nervously.

  At the other end—dead silence. Just some rustling in the background, the sound of breathing, the ticking of a grandfather clock.

  Hermann tried for a second time. “At your command, my Fuehrer!”

  Coughing. A faint female voice in the background:

  “How do you like your tea, Adi?”

  SS—Lieutenant Colonel Rosselmann went pale, whispering in awe, “It is Eva, Eva Braun. I recognize her voice. She is talking to him!”

  “Brrrown! With milk, as always, my little honey bun.”

  Rosselmann had to support himself. He was delirious with happiness. “We are allowed to share a private moment with HIM!” he muttered, entranced. “He is drinking tea! With milk!

  This is fantastic!”

  “My Fuehrer! Sergeant of the SS, Hermann Heinrich reporting for duty!” Hermann bellowed down the phone in a desperate attempt to catch the Fuehrer’s attention.

  Vague slurping sounds, someone nibbling on pastries, the bonging of the grandfather clock.

  “Eva!” Suddenly the famous voice came muttering through the speaker, “just pass me the...

  um...”

  The whole High Command no,—seemingly the whole universe—waited, holding its breath.

  Rosselmann, who had grabbed a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his forehead, froze. Ash from a forgotten cigarette fell to the floor. One officer chewed at a fingernail. The air seemed charged with electricity, none of the men in the room dared take a breath and soon flickering lights began to appear in front of their eyes. Waiting, waiting, all they could hear from the loudspeaker was an indistinct rasping and the sound of a turning page. Then, after what inadequately could be described as ‘infinity’:

  “... the sugar.”

  Collective exhaling. Rosselmann, a beatific look on his face, wandered about the room, exclaiming, “‘Sugar!’ What genius!”

  It began to come rather clear that the Fuehrer had quite forgotten he wanted to talk to Hermann—but he had evidently intended to, which in itself was quite something. Eventually Hermann quietly replaced the receiver. He consoled himself that HE had thought of Hermann—even if HE hadn’t quite got round to actually speaking to him. Which of course, was quite natural, what with HIM being the Fuehrer and being really quite busy.

  At last Hermann’s mission began. After an uneventful train journey, Hermann arrived at the harbour of La Rochelle in occupied France. He was introduced to the other members of the expedition corps including four other soldiers. But he was surprised to find a few scientists amongst them, ‘eggheads’ as he had disdainfully called them in the past. There was one botanist with an ascetic air, one chain-smoking zoologist and two famous race researchers, one of who dressed entirely in pastel and whose private life was not to be discussed.

  Standing at the foot of the gangway leading up to a submarine, Hermann could contain himself no longer.

  “Permission to ask a question, SS-Lieutenant Colonel!”

  Rosselmann, who had accompanied Hermann just to wave goodbye, tossed his cigarette into the grey waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Hermann, my dear chap. You are about to embark on your mission, so amongst us comrades, let’s relax a bit. At ease good man. What’s on your mind?”

  But Hermann kept an iron stiff posture.

  “Permission to ask mission objectives, SS-Lieutenant Colonel!”

  “Man alive! Tomorrow before sunrise your submarine puts to sea and only now you ask what it’s all about? You’re quite a soldier, aren’t you?”

  Hermann stared at him steady as a rock. Rosselmann gave an audible sigh.

  “Look, your mission is more than top secret, you understand? Your destination is the Himalayas, border country between Tibet and India. You’ll be getting more detailed instructions on your way. Sorry, but right now I am not authorised to tell you more.”

  He gave Hermann a long, almost wistful look, then pulled himself together and said, “Wait a second—I almost forgot. There’s something I’m supposed to give you.”

  Hermann looked down. Rosselmann handed him a colour postcard showing HIS photograph, and signed by HIM. Hermann’s heart skipped a beat: An autograph by the Fuehrer! With a personal dedication!

  ‘For...’ and on the dotted line—Hermann’s name! ‘... with thanks for distinguished services.’

  A sweeping signature: ‘A.H.’

  The enormity of the gift made Hermann dizzy. Delirious with happiness, he almost threw himself on Rosselmann. What an honour! HE had thought of Hermann, HE cared about him, wishing him all the best for his mission! Hermann decided there and then never to be parted from this precious treasure until the day he died.

  Once on board and under way, the journey seemed endless. The incessant blathering of his adjutant, Sauermann, got on his nerves and the claustrophobic tightness of the submarine left Hermann no room to avoid him. Sauermann displayed an obsessive enthusiasm about various methods of food preparation. And there was no escape from the enthusiasm of the botanists who, it seemed, could bang on about botany for days on end. Only the zoologist was mercifully quiet. He did, however, show a lively interest in the lice population of the crew, and spent his time sitting on a small stool with a stern expression on his face, taking stock of the vermin infestation of the sailors’ pubic regions. It was this sight—the whole crew standing in front of the zoologist with their pants down—that seemed to be the only thing that could excite the two race researchers. Apart from this, they would lie around listlessly, whispering and sniggering to each other whilst pointing at Hermann, which of course drove him even more crazy.

  His ‘task force’ consisted of four soldiers, young recruits, but with plenty of mountain experience. Something, which could come in useful in the Himalayas but was pretty useless in a submarine. All four of them suffered severe seasickness and they lay all day in their bunks moaning. Every once in a while one would get up to heave noisily over the railing. Somehow only Hermann seemed to notice that there are no railings inside a submarine.

  Pretty soon Hermann lost all track of time. To avoid enemy contact, the captain kept the submarine submerged for the whole journey. Although they pumped in some fresh air through the snorkel, it was never enough. The air stank and the submarine became intolerably hot. Missing daylight was the worst though, and after a week or so, Hermann began to fall into a dark depression.

  One evening he lay down on his bunk and looked for solace in the Fuehrer’s autograph, which he had pinned to his bunk wall. HE is counting on me, Hermann told himself sternly, depending upon me. Hermann clenched his fist. Never would he disappoint HIM. No, Hermann vowed, he would complete his mission successfully—whatever the mission was.

  After rounding the southern tip of Africa, the expedition corps was picked up by a submarine from their Japanese allies
. A short and happy moment breathing fresh air as they changed vessels was soon tarnished by the fact that Japanese submarines were even smaller than German ones. The burning of joss sticks at the on-board Shinto shrine didn’t exactly help to improve air quality either.

  Just before the transfer, Hermann had been given a sealed envelope by the captain of the German submarine. Finally—the secret mission directives!

  Now as he boarded the second submarine, Hermann wanted desperately to open the envelope, but the Japanese captain insisted on personally welcoming everyone before instructing them about on-board practices.

  Slippers were handed out to be worn everywhere on board—except the toilets, which had extra toilet-slippers, and the bridge, for which bridge-slippers were to be issued.

  But that evening the moment finally arrived. Wedged into a bunk built for someone half his size, Hermann carefully slit open the envelope. Inside he found two official-looking typewritten pages, plus maps.

  In prehistoric times, Hermann read, a white master race of people who called themselves

  ‘Aryans’, dominated the Indian subcontinent. They introduced the caste system, a system designed to prevent the mixing of the dark indigenous tribes with their fair skinned neighbours. We believe these primeval Aryans to be our forefathers, some of whom emigrated to the north. A previous expedition in 1938, under Ernst Schaefer, gathered evidence from Tibetan monasteries that some of these primeval Aryans had survived in a few valleys in the Himalayas, and that their unadulterated blood had made them into a master race, comparable to our own. We further believe that they are in possession of powerful super-weapons. Find these primeval Aryans, get them to enter the war as German allies and bring back some exceptionally well-developed male specimens, their genetic material to be used in our ‘Lebensborn—Program’.

  Strictly avoid enemy contact during your mission.

  Signed. Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuehrer-SS

  P.S. If possible, copulate on top of the graves of your forefathers.