In The Presence of mine Enemies

by Harry Turtledove

  "This is nothing but treason!" The SS man had got his nerve back. He sounded angry now, not frightened. "We will not surrender him!"

  "Then you're going to be mighty sorry," one of the Wehrmacht panzer commanders said. The crowd bayed agreement.

  "So will you, if you try to take him," the SS man answered.

  He was used to making people afraid. He was good at it, too. After all, fear was his stock in trade. The German people had had almost eighty years in which to learn to fear the SS. But today, as Heinrich had seen in front of Rolf Stolle's residence, fear was failing. And intimidating men in panzers that carried big guns was a lot harder than scaring civilians who couldn't fight back.

  Jeers and curses rained down on the SS man's head. More rained down on Odilo Globocnik's head. Was he listening, there inside the Fuhrer 's palace? With a strange, snarling joy Heinrich had never known before, he hoped so. The SS man, in his own coldblooded way, had style. He clicked his heels. His arm shot out toward the crowd in a Party salute. He spun on his heel, executed an about-face of parade-ground perfection to turn his back on the Wehrmacht soldiers and the people, and marched away to his comrades.

  And, to a certain extent, his intimidation worked even against his formidable foes. He might have been-Heinrich thought he was-bluffing when he warned that the SS could make the Wehrmacht sorry. But the panzers' cannons and machine guns waited tensely-waited for they knew not what. A nightjar swooped out of the darkness to snatch one of the moths dancing in the air around the palace lights. The sudden, unexpected streak of motion made men from the SS and the Wehrmacht turn their heads towards it. If it had startled one of them into tightening his finger on a trigger…

  Heinrich never knew exactly how long the impasse lasted. Somewhere between half an hour and an hour was his best guess. What broke it was a high, clear sound that pierced both the yells from the crowd and the diesel rumble of the armored fighting vehicles: the sound of one man laughing.

  The man was a Wehrmacht panzer commander. Like his fellows, he wore radio headphones. He laughed again, louder this time, and raised a bullhorn to his mouth. "Give it up, you sorry bastards!" he blared. "Prutzmann's blown his brains out. The Putsch is falling down around your ears."

  "Liar!" one of the SS men shouted, an odd desperation in his voice-it wasn't I don't believe you but I don't dare believe you.

  "You've got your own radios," the Wehrmacht panzer commander answered through the bullhorn. "You can find out for yourselves. Go ahead. I'll wait." He theatrically folded his arms across his chest.

  There in the glare of the panzers' lights, an SS radioman did call…whom? Somebody at Prutzmann's headquarters, Heinrich supposed. He could tell when the radioman got his question answered. The fellow suddenly sagged, as if his skeleton had turned to rubber. He spoke to the officer who'd parleyed with the Wehrmacht soldiers. The officer clapped a hand to his forehead in an altogether human gesture of despair: the kind of gesture Heinrich had never imagined seeing from an SS man.

  Little by little, the officer pulled himself together. He stepped forward again. "You seem to be right," he called bleakly to the Wehrmacht panzer commander. "What do you want from us?"

  "Give us Globocnik," the Wehrmacht man said. "The rest of you lousy sons of bitches can go back to your barracks. We'll deal with you later if we decide you're worth the trouble."

  The SS officer drew back to hash things out with his comrades. Heinrich couldn't hear a word they said through the growl of the armored fighting vehicles' engines and the shouting and oaths from the crowd. Those soon coalesced into a chant of, "Globocnik! Globocnik! Give us Globocnik!" Heinrich happily howled it along with everybody else.

  When a squad of blackshirts with assault rifles turned and went purposefully into the Fuhrer 's palace, he stopped chanting and thumped Willi on the shoulder. "They're going to get him!" he exclaimed. "They really are!"

  "Either that or they're going to try to sneak him out of here," Willi said. "This place has got to have more secret escape routes than Brazil's got coffee beans."

  "Their buddies will pay for it if they do that," Heinrich reminded him. "And besides, who'd want to rally behind Odilo Globocnik? Prutzmann, maybe. Whatever else he was, he was sly. But Globocnik? He was never anything but a false front for other people to work behind."

  Willi thought that over, then nodded. "Well, when you're right, you're right." He grinned at Heinrich. "You should try it more often." Heinrich snorted.

  A shot rang out inside the Fuhrer 's palace. Hearing it over the engine, Heinrich jerked and almost fell off the armored personnel carrier. "Is that Globocnik taking Prutzmann's way out?" he said. "Or was he 'shot while attempting to escape'?" The familiar SS euphemism for an execution had a fine ironic flavor here.

  "We'll find out," Willi said. "What a man-the twenty-four-hour Fuhrer!" He made as if to spit to show his contempt, but held back when he realized he was all too likely to spit on someone.

  A few minutes later, the squad of SS men came out again. They half led, half dragged a lurching figure in their midst. Blood ran from their captive's head, but he seemed no worse than stunned. "Here's Globocnik!" one of the blackshirts shouted. "He tried to shoot himself, but he didn't have the balls to do it right. His hand twitched when he pulled the trigger, so all he did was crease his scalp. You want him, you're welcome to him."

  They shoved Odilo Globocnik down the steps toward the waiting Wehrmacht men. He staggered as if drunk, his arms flailing wildly. But the soldiers never got him. Instead, the baying mob surged forward.

  Globocnik wailed once as they swarmed over him. The Wehrmacht men might have been able to stop it. They stayed in their panzers and APCs and did not a thing.

  And when the people were through, they hanged the twenty-four-hour Fuhrer by the heels from a lamppost. Heinrich looked once, then turned away, glad he hadn't eaten much since breakfast. What was left of Odilo Globocnik hardly looked like a human being at all.

  Here was one morning where Esther Stutzman was glad she didn't have to go to work. She poured herself a second cup of coffee, turned on the televisor, and sat down in front of it. Horst Witzleben stared out at her. Behind him were the tarmac and buildings of Tempelhof Airport.

  She'd caught him in the middle of a sentence: "-by Me-662 fighters,Luftwaffe Alfa is expected to land in about five minutes. The return of Heinz Buckliger from his confinement on the island of Hvar will, hoffentlich, bring to an end this bizarre episode in the history of the Reich. AFuhrer overthrown by Putsch, a man named Fuhrer overthrown by the outraged Volk, the powerful Reichsfuhrer — SS dead by his own hand…" Horst shook his head, as if to say the events of the past couple of days left him as baffled and bemused as anyone else.

  Two of the escorting Luftwaffe fighters touched down side by side, smoke spurting from their tires as they hit the runway. Then the Fuhrer 's personal jetliner landed. Two more sleek, deadly-looking Me-662s came in just behind it.Wehrmacht panzers rumbled forward to help form a protective cordon around Luftwaffe Alfa. If any diehard SS men tried to take out the Fuhrer, they'd have their work cut out for them.

  As soon as Luftwaffe Alfa had taxied to a stop near a terminal, airport workers wheeled a stairway to the plane's front door. In their wake strode Rolf Stolle, his shaved head gleaming in the summer sun. Bodyguards in Berlin police gray surrounded the Gauleiter. Seeing them reminded Esther how much things had changed. How many Nazi bigwigs had she seen on the televisor over the years? More than she wanted-she knew that. How many of them had had SS bodyguards in black? Every damned one. But no more. No more.

  The door opened. A couple of alert-looking Wehrmacht men with assault rifles emerged first, making sure the coast was clear. Only after one of them nodded did Heinz Buckliger come out, Erna behind him. He waved awkwardly toward the televisor cameras broadcasting the scene across the Germanic Empire.

  In a low voice, Horst said, "The signs of the Fuhrer 's ordeal remain on his face."

  Esther found herself nodding. Buck
liger's features were pale and ravaged. He blinked against the sunshine as if he hadn't seen it in weeks, not days. Esther wondered what the SS had done to him while it had him in its clutches. He might have aged ten years in this small space of time.

  Rolf Stolle, by contrast, fairly burst with youthful energy even though he was older than the Fuhrer. He shook off his guards and bounded up the stairway toward Buckliger. The Wehrmacht men with the rifles looked uncertainly at each other for a moment. Then they both grinned and stepped aside to let him pass.

  Still quietly, Horst Witzleben said, "Here is a meeting the world will long remember."

  At the top of the stairs, Stolle stuck out his hand. Buckliger took it in a tentative way. One of them must have been wearing a microphone-maybe both of them were-for their words came clearly from the televisor set. "Welcome home,mein Fuhrer," the Gauleiter of Berlin boomed. "We had a little bit of a mess here, but we cleaned it up for you just fine."

  "Good. That's good." Heinz Buckliger sounded as worn and weary as he looked. He was the Fuhrer, Stolle only the Gauleiter. Yet Rolf Stolle, by some mysterious reversal, was the one who seemed possessed of the greater authority. Or maybe the reversal was not so mysterious after all. Buckliger had had things done to him during the Putsch. Stolle had gone out and done things himself. How much of a difference that made Esther could see for herself as the two men confronted each other.

  Stolle said, "Everything will proceed as you have ordered,mein Fuhrer." He sounded deferential. No matter how he sounded, he wasn't. He promptly proved as much, too, for he went on, "After the elections, the Reichstag will be a different place, and we'll really be able to get something done. About time, too."

  "Ja,"Buckliger said. But his expression was that of a man who'd bitten into something sour. Stolle hadn't said,You'll really be able to get something done. He'd assumed power would lie with the Reichstag, not the Fuhrer. And Heinz Buckliger, who'd been far away and under guard while Stolle led resistance against the SSPutsch, couldn't contradict him.

  The Gauleiter of Berlin drove that home: "The Volk saved your regime,mein Fuhrer." He was most subversive when he sounded most modest. "If they'd sat on their hams, you'd be a dead man, and so would I. But they liked the way the wind was blowing, and I maybe pointed them in the right direction once they got riled up. The first edition was right. Trust the Volk and they'll never let you down."

  Adolf Hitler hadn't said any such thing, in the first edition of Mein Kampf or anywhere else. But Buckliger, again, was in no position to tell Stolle he was wrong. the Fuhrer said, "Revitalization will continue." It was his first effort to get in a word for the program he'd pushed so hard.

  And Rolf Stolle graciously granted him a nod. "Oh,ja, ja, revitalization." He might have been humoring a child. "But that's only the beginning. We've got to do something good and final about the SS, too, make goddamn sure the lousy blackshirts can't make trouble again. And we've got to give democratic rights back to some other Aryan peoples, too, not just to the Volk of the Reich."

  Buckliger's eyes widened. He coughed in astonishment. "I am sure that this is not the place for such discussions," he said.

  Stolle thumped him on the back-again, or so it seemed to Esther, indulgently. "Well, maybe you're right. You ought to get rested up, get ready to deal with the new Reichstag that'll be coming in after the elections."

  The camera cut away from the scene at the top of the airplane steps. A few months before, it never would have lingered so long. During the time of the previous Fuhrer, it never would have gone there at all. In tones full of wonder, Horst Witzleben said, "This is an extraordinary day in the history of the Reich. Let me repeat that: an extraordinary day. Heinz Buckliger returns to a state far different from the one he left when he went on holiday. Not all the differences are obvious yet. Some that seem obvious may not last. But surely some changes will be deep and far-reaching. Where the Volk once comes out into the streets against those who have proclaimed themselves to be the government…well, how can things possibly remain the same after that?"

  Esther didn't know if things could stay the same after that. She also didn't know if their being different for the Reich as a whole would make them different for her. Buckliger and Stolle remained Nazis. She didn't expect any Nazi to have much use for Jews. But there were Nazis…and then there were Nazis. With a choice between this pair and the overthrown duo of Prutzmann and Globocnik, she knew where she stood. And the German people stood with her. If that wasn't a miracle, what was?

  Susanna Weiss got out of bed early on Sunday morning. If that didn't prove it was an unusual Sunday, she couldn't imagine what would; sleep, on weekends, was a pleasure she took seriously. So was coffee, any morning of the week. She said something unfortunate but memorable when she found she was out of cream. Then, discovering whipped cream in the refrigerator, she brightened. That would do. It would more than do, in fact. On reflection, she added a shot of brandy to the coffee. She had a sweet roll with it, which made her feel thoroughly Viennese.

  But she left her apartment with Berlin briskness. This wasn't just any Sunday. This was the election day the late, unlamented Lothar Prutzmann and his stooge of a Globocnik hadn't been able to hijack. She wanted to vote early. She really wanted to vote early and often, an American phrase that had been making the rounds in the Reich the last few days, but she didn't think she could get away with it.

  Her polling place was around the corner, in a veterans' hall. She couldn't remember the last time she'd voted. What was the point, when the results were going to be reported as 99.64 percentja regardless of what they really were-and when votingnein was liable to win you a visit from the Security Police?

  As soon as she came out of her building, she stopped in surprise. However brisk she'd been, she hadn't been brisk enough. The line for the polling place already stretched around the block and came back toward her. Normally, she hated queuing up. Now she joined the line without a qualm.Why is this night different from all other nights? went through her head. The Passover question, the Jewish question, almost seemed to fit the Reich today. Germany really might be different after this election. It might. Or it might not. Life came with no guarantees. A Jew surviving in the Nazis' Berlin knew, had to know, as much.

  A man in a battered fedora, a windbreaker, and a pair of faded dungarees got into line behind her. "Guten Morgen," he said, scratching his chin. He needed a shave. "Now we get to tell the bastards where to head in."

  He might be a provocateur. Susanna knew that, too. On this morning of all mornings, she couldn't make herself care. "You bet we do," she answered. "I've been waiting a long time."

  "Who hasn't?" the whiskery man said. "They never wanted to listen before. Now, by God, they're gonna have to." He cursed the SS and the Party Bonzen without great imagination but with considerable gusto.

  Up and down the line-which rapidly got longer behind Susanna-people were doing the same thing. They couldn't all be provocateurs…could they? Susanna didn't think so. The SS couldn't arrest everybody in the city. If they did, nothing would get done. And the blackshirts had their own worries at the moment. The Wehrmacht was gleefully cutting them down to size, with Heinz Buckliger and Rolf Stolle cheering the soldiers on.

  Had Buckliger understood the animosity ordinary people felt toward the state when he ordered these elections? If he had, would he have ordered them? Susanna had trouble believing that. But order them he had, and now he'd be stuck with the results. Prutzmann's failed Putsch might have been the best thing that could have happened to reform. It reminded people what they could be in for if they voted to keep the status quo.

  The queue snaked forward. The closer to the polling place people got, the nastier the things they had to say about that status quo. Men and women who came out of the veterans' hall strutted and swaggered, proud grins on their faces. Nobody needed to ask how they'd voted.

  The hall smelled of old cigars and spilled beer. Helmets were mounted on the wall: big, cumbersome ones with flaring brims fro
m the First World War and the lighter and sleeker models German soldiers had worn during the Second and Third. The uniformed precinct leader stood around looking important. Clerks in mufti did the real work.

  "Your name?" one of them said when Susanna came up to him. She gave it. He made sure she was on a list in front of him, then went on, "Your identity papers." She displayed the card; she would no more leave home without it than she would without a top. Once the clerk was satisfied, he used a ruler to line through her name and address in red. Then he handed her a ballot. "Choose any vacant booth… Next!"

  There were no vacant booths, not with the way people had swarmed to the polls. Susanna waited till a woman came out of one. She ducked into it herself, pulling the curtain closed behind her. She wasn't in Rolf Stolle's district, but she knew which candidate here supported reform and which was a Party hack. She knew which candidate for the Berlin city council was which, too. Voting for candidates had never mattered to her. Voting against them-being able to vote against them-carried a kick stronger than Glenfiddich straight up.

  She put the ballot in its envelope, emerged from the booth (a tall man immediately took her place), and handed the envelope to the clerk. He put it in the ballot box, intoning, "Frau Weiss has voted."

  "Fraulein Doktor Professor Weiss has voted," she corrected crisply. Every so often, the formidable academic title came in very handy. Half a dozen people in the veterans' hall looked her way. The clerk stared at her as she walked out.

  She wanted to know right away how the election turned out. She couldn't, of course, because the polls were still open. Talking about results till they closed might have influenced those who hadn't voted yet, and so wasverboten. That made most of Sunday pass in what felt like anticlimax.

  She turned on the televisor a few minutes before eight that evening. Watching the end of an idiotic game show seemed a small price to pay for what would follow. At eight o'clock precisely, Horst Witzleben came on the screen in place of the Sunday night film that normally would have run. "Today is a watershed day for the Greater German Reich, " the newscaster declared. "In Germany's first contested elections since 1933, candidates favoring the reform policies of Heinz Buckliger and Rolf Stolle appear to be sweeping to victory all across the country."