by Scott Palter
Now the older woman spoke. “My daughter-in-law is Aryan. I’m the Jewess. We both worship Lutheran. Not every Sunday, but enough not to attract comment.”
Wanda was now in her element. “Military have Lutheran, Evangelical, and Catholic chapels. I’ll get you a guide for your first few trips. It’s a healthy walk from here. A bit over a kilometer.”
The Witt women were starting to relax. They were completely caught off guard by Wanda’s next question. “Your men are in finance. Either of you have any experience in bookkeeping or money handling?”
Kerstin shook her head no, but mother-in-law Helena timidly said, “Yes. Before I was married, and as war work during the Kaiser’s war. I also helped my husband. Before he died, he ran a small accounting business out of our flat. Why?”
“We have multiple businesses we run here. A lot of cash. I’m really needed in management, but I haven’t got enough trustworthy people to do the accounts, the daily deposits and the rest. Your son and grandsons come highly recommended via both the Reichsführer’s office in Berlin, and Brigade headquarters in Africa. Once you are settled in, would you consider a job?”
“You mean with the girls here?”
“Them. The bar. We also make whiskey and have workshops that make other things. Nothing you have to worry about in a legal sense. We are – shall we say – licensed by Berlin. The army administration of the cantonment is aware of this. No hiding, no police raids. Just business. Receipts, expenses, payroll. Same as any city shop.”
The elder Frau smiled for the first time. Said she was sure she could teach her daughter-in-law. Within days, both women, settled into their tiny two-room house, were ensconced in camp life as if they had always been here. They had friends, jobs, and a place in society. They sent messages via pouch to their men. Now their only worry was that war would rob them of their guys.
1100 hours local; 1000 hours CET
9 October 1940
Gunter’s Office, Brigade HQ, to the rear of Italian XXI Corps and the east of Bagush camp
Isaak knew he was in deep trouble as soon as he walked into the office. A midday summons, without a heads-up as to why, was unusual. The office having no one else there, not even a runner, was more so but still not a guarantee of disaster. The bottle of scotch on the desk was the proof, the veritable kiss of death. Gunter disliked this whiskey. He kept a bottle for important occasions only because he’d been told it was high status among real officers and important people in general. This bottle and two glasses was not a good sign.
Isaac liked Gunter … as far as that went. He was a decent boss. For a Nazi, he wasn’t a rabid Jew-hater. He seemed almost indifferent to the ‘Jewish Question’ … or indeed to any of the usual Nazi racial phobias. That said, he was still the Nazi Party’s voice here. Any non-Aryan was only a whim away from death or torture.
Isaak took the shot glass offered him. He sat in the seat the Brigadier indicated. He sipped the whisky after Gunter started drinking. He waited. There was nothing in particular Isaak had to feel guilt about, but … he was content to let the former SA officer start the conversation in his own good time …
“It’s about Greta and Klaus.”
What had the girl done now? She’d already gotten her parents and siblings killed. Was she about to send the rest of the family to their graves? “What has my niece done, or not done?” Isaak didn’t flinch. This was Gunter’s show.
The big man saw that he was not getting through. Isaak was never deliberately obtuse, or even evasive. Part of what made him such a pleasure to deal with. None of the usual bullshit games. “So the story about his propaganda interview hasn’t made the rounds yet?” He watched Isaak’s face very carefully. Gunter could read tells on most people. Isaak was not especially good at blank-face. The man didn’t have a clue. “He told the German nation that when the campaign is over, he will have to ask Greta’s family for her hand. That he thinks they approve of him, but …”
Isaak got very still. He was consciously working on controlling his breathing, the actions of his limbs, everything. “What are Berlin’s wishes on this? What are yours?”
“No response from Berlin yet. Mine are simple. I’m not an idiot.” He again looked at the Jewish professional man before him for any sign that he had a clue. Nothing. “I know your family threw her at him.” Now we could see Isaak getting flustered. It was small things, but it showed. Good. Meant he wasn’t losing his touch. “It’s not a criticism. If I’d wanted to break it up, I would have. I didn’t. Boy was initially a mascot to me, a good luck charm on two legs. Even when the propaganda Dachshunds invented a fight with a fantasy Soviet partisan commissar, it was small change.” He stopped to see if Isaak was following.
“And then came Luqa.”
“And then came Luqa. He made my career. To an extent, he did the same for Rommel and Ramcke. I’m told Reichsführer Heydrich profited from it. And then your niece by accident makes him a Major.” He saw Isaak start to panic further. “I believe it was an accident. She isn’t a very good liar, and she’s clueless on how the game of promotion and favors works. He gets bumped up to Battalion and he shines. No training, but he seems to be a natural in battle. Some people are. War’s funny that way.” He could see Isaak nodding a bit. The man was a veteran. Four years of real war. “So I’ve got to know now. Is she serious about him? Is your family?”
Isaak took a very deep breath. He was choosing his words quite carefully. Their lives rode on this turn of the dice. “Does she have a choice? Do we?”
“Good question. No easy answers. Berlin may warn us all off of this. The paperwork charade, about you all being Aryans, may be too tricky for them. Or they may be so locked into it by prior propaganda that it’s easier to just keep them both far away from Germany. If tales spread from Iraq … so, they spread. There are always tales of dark, forbidden things happening in faraway places. Most people laugh at such minor gossip, but it has no force. How many laughed at stories that Hitler was part Jew? Heydrich? That Göring was a drug addict who wore women’s clothes? There is always dirt out there. Some true. Some exaggerated. Some pure shit. Way of the world.”
“Yes, we ordered her to be his mistress in Romania. We presumed he would find a woman. Most people in his position would have done so. He seemed to like her. Better our niece than a stranger. You saw a lucky charm. We saw the officer in charge of the airport, which is where we were. And we were wise to make the connection, as the new commander at Ploiesti wanted no Jews. We’d have been back at the mercy of the Iron Guards. No one envisioned the unit or Malta.”
“And then Luqa. So here we are. He just got his diploma. Postwar he has the training to be a clerk, to train as an administrator. You’ll take him into the family business?”
Isaak started to chuckle. It rose to near hysterical laughter. Gunter was looking at him strangely. “Take him?” Isaak drew some deep breaths, getting his laughter under control. “Would we take an Aryan to be our administrative head and deal with German officialdom? A decorated field officer who was a national hero? Think of it from our point of view, and answer your own question.”
Gunter had never considered this from that side of the desk. He played with it in his head. He couldn’t find a drawback from the Schwabe family point of view. “And your niece will go along with this?”
“She has terrible guilt about her family. She’ll do it. It’s not a love match, but she’s fond of the boy, ready to find a husband, and very much enjoys his adoration. Her whole upbringing was geared to wife and mother, not to grand flights of romantic folly. I’ll confirm it for you if you choose, but I already know the answer. We have been warning her that in the end, blood will tell. To not throw an emotional scene when he’s ready to move on. She accepts that, but it distresses her. What about Berlin?”
“I’ll make the decision of when to directly ask Berlin. In the meantime, you have twenty-four hours. If she wants out as soon as the fighting is over, I can keep him from formally asking. But when the break com
es, she lets him down easily. That I insist on. Worth your lives if she doesn’t.” Gunter waited till he was sure the threat registered. “If not, I’ll bring him by tomorrow night for a formal discussion. I’ll expect both uncles and both cousins to be there. I’ll bring a bottle of good French brandy, not this bitter English swill.”
Gunter put out his huge hand and shook Isaak’s vigorously. Damn, but in a way Klaus felt like kin to him right now.
1400 hours local; 1300 hours CET
9 October 1940
A small French coffee shop a bit away from the docks, in a neighborhood where the police patrol in threesomes, Alexandria
The Territorial Army colonel definitely did not feel safe arriving here. It was only three blocks from the somewhat better district, but in the manner of port-cities back to the days of the pharaohs, the back alleys ran downhill fast in terms of public order. The man was a bit past middle age and feeling his years. He’d always been a trifle shady, but since arriving in Egypt he had danced ever further into the darkness. Some bills were now coming due. He was being tailed by four large brutes to a meeting he was terrified to take, and scared spitless to duck.
He saw the man he was supposed to meet in the back. Lieutenant Commander James Money-Penny was a strikingly handsome young man, beginning a slow approach to middle age but still youthful. Money-Penny and the colonel served different nasty pashas in the Alexandria demimonde … until now.
Now the naval officer was beckoning the colonel towards his table. Was it towards a new future or towards his doom?
“I didn’t tell you to kill her!”
“You also didn’t tell me not to. You seem to think the Raj has much more time here than I do. We are gone by New Year’s. Maybe sooner. I see you have the telegram.” It lay on the table before them, even though the colonel hadn’t mentioned what it said. “She’s dead, and you are conveniently a continent away. Means you can marry at once. Which I suggest you do.”
This was not the colonel’s first dance into the shadows. He had parlayed his Great War service and medals into a match far over his head. He’d used the connections of his highborn wild-child slut of a wife to establish himself on the fringes of the City. Huge pots of liquid funds attract expediters of things where it is best not to leave a paper trail. He hadn’t been the dirtiest, but ‘clean’ was so far in the past as to be memories of another lifetime.
He’d kept up his service connection via the Territorial Army. When the noose started tightening on one set of transactions the Inland Revenue Board was chasing, he’d fled to active service. He’d hoped for someplace further away, but in 1938 his choices were Cairo and Jerusalem. He’d had his fill of Sheenies in the City, and chose Cairo.
The investigation had died before it scooped him up. His estranged wife made sure she reminded him that this was due to her family’s influence. She hadn’t followed him to Cairo. She was content to continue her affairs and escapades without him. However, her debts did manage the journey to Egypt. Her family sopped up most but felt he could shoulder part of the load. On a colonel’s salary quite impossible. So he had acquired other sources of income. One of those patrons had interests in conflict with Money-Penny’s.
“You thought you were selling your guy out for proof for a divorce. Wouldn’t have worked. Her family had too much on you. They didn’t want any more of a scandal than her life had already been for them, back to seducing the chauffeur when she was ten.”
“And the police will accept this as not being murder?”
“Of course not. She was killed in bed with another woman and a Colored rent boy. Very messy. The place was ransacked. Jewels and furs were stolen. Her family has arranged things. All three died from an unexploded bomb from that last German raid. So sad. You have your connections. I have mine.” Money-Penny pulled a sheaf of documents out. The colonel started signing without reading. Arrest warrants. Search warrants. Orders for administrative confiscation of goods. If either the colonel’s patron or the colonel were to fall … well, a man had to look out for himself. Way of the world.
“About that new posting you hinted at … ”
Money-Penny showed him the papers but refused to hand them over. “Your posting to Malaya. Aide to a Sultan whose resident officer is an old associate of mine. Travel orders for yourself, your new bride, new family and retainers.”
“How the deuce am I supposed to arrange travel in – ”
“Here’s the name of your ship. You and the in-laws get cabins. They are basic, but needs must. The rest get hammocks in crew space. You want better than crew slops, you pay off the captain to let your in-laws’ cook staff do the honors for the trip, then pay out of your own pocket to stock the larder. Oh, and as a bit of an extra sweet, the customs people are going to be a tad sleepy and negligent if you come aboard on the overnight. Shift supervisor is a mate of mine. His family sailed for Ceylon two weeks back. You get the transfer and transit orders after we raid Yasir Pasha’s villa – ”
“About that, old boy.” The colonel passed across the combination for the wall safe. Money-Penny looked expectantly. “Yes, I do expect to get paid extra for this, and more for what follows. You want to be at the villa yourself, and only with men you trust. You’ll want big fellows like the four you had trail me here. The Big Guy’s got this huge desk. Battleship steel, he claims. Not hardened like that, but big and heavy. There’s a rug under it. Move the desk and roll up the carpet. Floor safe. A big one. Extends down into the floor below. There’s a broom closet with a false back.” The colonel slid across another combination. “This one your pasha doesn’t know about.” The colonel put up a hand. “Let’s not squabble. You’ll see what’s there and pay me a just amount. Wedding is tomorrow evening. Just send a man by with a gift envelope. One gentleman to another. And thanks about Malaya. My little bride is a tad dusky for Singapore, but at a Rajah’s court in Malaya, she’s Christian enough for a man who will never go home to England. My ex-in-laws aren’t stupid. They may have hated the bitch, but she was blood. Once home, I am sure some frightful but unfortunate accident would befall me. I’m for the Empire, especially its backwaters.”
The colonel arose from the table and strolled out. Money-Penny gave a sign and the four large thugs fell in behind him, his escort back to officer’s country. The colonel was humming “Land of Hope and Glory”, as befit a Tory squire.
2300 hours local; 2200 hours CET
9 October 1940
Tents of the Schwabe family, Brigade bivouac, rear of Italian XXI corps lines
Greta was puzzled at the late-night summons. Her cousin Peter had fetched her for a ‘family meeting’. When Greta’s girls tried to follow her, Peter had shook his head no. Several would have contested the matter. Peter was too big for a physical confrontation, but an MP-38 is a respecter of neither size nor muscular strength. Greta waved them off. Peter was her cousin … sort of, but close enough that she simply ruled out putting a bullet through him. Besides, as ‘Frau Steiner’ she was untouchable to her family. Klaus was out on night maneuvers but … but he'd be back, and no one was going to harm his princess. His possessiveness gave her a feeling of safety.
Uncles Isaac and Ivan were waiting for her, along with Cousin Paul. The Schwabes had three adjacent tents, made into one big canvas structure. One small tent each for the two older and two younger men to sleep, and then a large tent as sort of living room. Greta was ushered into the big tent. There were two kerosene lamps, five mismatched chairs and a small table.
She seated herself at the indicated chair. Her Uncle Isaac as patriarch took charge. He offered her a glass of brandy. She waved it off. “Sorry, Uncle. I don’t like drinking and Klaus doesn’t like me drunk. We tried that once and swore off it. A little wine, sure. Maybe beer when we are someplace civilized, but the hard stuff isn’t for us. We are simple people that way.”
Isaac and Ivan looked at her carefully. The four men poured themselves double shots of the brandy. Paul found a semi-sweet Italian wine for her. They kept stu
dying her, with Greta getting more and more uncomfortable. “What did I do now?”
Uncle Ivan did the talking this time. “Might you have forgotten to tell us something? A propaganda interview? Klaus telling the world he’s going to ask us for your hand?”
“Oh. That.”
Isaac cut in. “Yes. That! Anything about your man goes to me. Our lives ride on this.”
Greta got offended. “You told me multiple times not to take his romantic gushing seriously, that in the end blood would tell.”
“Gunter came to me. It’s serious. Are you?”
Greta tried for petulant. What she managed was teen confusion. “You tell me I have no choice. I do what I am told. How do I have a choice now?”
“You may not. Berlin still hasn’t given its opinion. If they don’t interfere, what would you choose?”
Greta looked around the four male faces, trying to gauge the mood. “What do you want from me? You said ‘give him what he wants’. I have. You said I’d be mistreated and I was to bear it. A woman’s fate and all that. He’s not that way. He sees it as love. It’s probably infatuation and teen lust. I just enjoy his company. It’s fun to be the Greta he thinks I am. Who wouldn’t want to be thought beautiful and captivating?” She saw the four faces start to cloud. “Don’t worry. My Betar girls keep my head from swelling. But he and I talk about after. That would be Iraq. He jokes that he’ll ask you for a clerk’s job as my dowry. Now that he has his diploma, he might actually be of use to you that way.” She tossed her hair, awaiting them all calling her a stupid child or even a whore.
