by Ward Wagher
Several hours later he had a caller. Desmond Morton walked into his studio.
“Hello, Desmond, how are you today?” Churchill asked.
The normally natty little man seemed a bit disheveled. “I came out on the night train, Prime Minister. I was dismissed from the government yesterday afternoon.”
“Have you slept?”
“That is not important. I have some information you must receive. It is urgent.”
Churchill twisted his head slightly as he looked at his former personal assistant.
Morton continued. “The Gauleiter of Alsace has revolted against Schloss. Goering has the army out of the barracks.”
“Whatever brought that on?” Churchill asked. “Wagner is a butcher, but I have never heard of him being stupid.”
“As far as Six could discover, apparently Schloss tried to have him arrested. I suppose he had nothing to lose.”
“Not good news for Herr Schloss,” Churchill murmured.
He wrapped his brushes in a rag and stood up. Morton glanced at the partially completed landscape Churchill had been working on. He had seen numerous works by the now unemployed prime minister. Most were decent, some of the art was very good.
“Come, let us return to my study. We must consider these matters.”
“Then there is also the matter of my dismissal.”
“How are your finances, Desmond?” Churchill asked.
“Not good. I am afraid that my position is similar to yours, Prime Minister. After being dismissed from the government, I think no one will hire me. I am not even sure I will retain my home here in Westerham, considering my finances.”
“And you no longer need to call me Prime Minister. That phase of my life is completely over. But understand, there are Tories in the house who still support us. Not everyone is overjoyed at our kowtowing to Schloss. I cannot gainsay our current efforts in the Far East, but for myself, I plan to keep a close watch on Germany. I must find someone who can sound the alarm if Schloss is getting ready to betray us.”
“I thought I might be of some help to you here, Sir,” Morton said, changing the subject.
“I cannot afford to hire you,” Churchill quickly replied. “My own finances are somewhat in disarray. But I do have an idea. If I can get you an appointment with RUSI, would you be willing to work for them?”
“The Royal United Services Institute?”
“Yes, yes, that’s the one. We really need someone traveling in Europe to get a feel for the postwar culture. I am sure Six is working hard to get people inside Schloss’s war machine, but in the long term we need to know what the Germans are thinking.”
“If you think I could manage that, Sir, I would certainly be willing to try.”
“Fine, let me make some calls. Hie yourself back to London and get your affairs in order. You may be out of the country for an extended bit.”
“Thank you, Sir. I am happy to serve. And, this is quite a relief.”
Churchill raised an index finger. “Don’t count your hatchlings yet, Desmond. But I can call in some markers. I expect you to cross-deck copies of your reports to me.”
“Of course. Of course. Thank you, Prime Minister.”
One must start somewhere, Churchill mused after Morton left. Since the unity government was still staggering along under Atlee, he felt he could best invest his time in setting up a shadow cabinet. He needed an information flow, and Desmond Morton was a good start. He was more confident, now, that he would find the necessary resources to begin rebuilding his power base.
He was not sure of his ultimate aims, but it was important to be in a position to influence events. The upcoming battles in the Far East would serve to take Britain’s eyes off of the continent. Trouble there could quickly fester before Her Majesty’s government noticed.
§ § §
December 5, 1942, 10 PM
Wehrmacht Western Headquarters
Saint-Germain-en-Laye
Near Paris, France
Field Marshall Gerd Von Rundstedt sat at his desk and plowed through the interminable reports that were the bane of any general officer. The cut-down artillery casing on the desk served as an ashtray and its condition reflected his chain-smoking through most of the day and evening. He took a sip of the cognac in the glass on the right side of his desk. The liquor was anodyne against his arthritic sixty-seven-year-old joints.
The old general had tried to retire on several occasions. He freely admitted to himself that the repeated calls back to duty were a consequence of his general competence. He hoped that with the end of the European war, he could gracefully return to his home in Kassel and enjoy his few remaining years with Bila, his wife.
But, tonight, he was focused on the sudden explosion of conflict in the Alsace. While he had never personally objected to harsh measures used to control the subject countries, Robert Wagner had been completely out of control. If anything, Herr Schloss had waited too long to yank the carpet from under the Gauleiter. The Reich Chancellor was sometimes too timid in his opinion. The German people required a firm hand at the top of the government. Von Rundstedt had no desire for a return to the chaos of the Weimar Republic.
Fortunately, the Field Marshall had resources at hand to deal with the present emergency. General Walter Model had four divisions on the road towards the east. They would be at the border at almost any time. No one knew what to expect, but Model was a master at improvisation. Goering had told Von Rundstedt in no uncertain terms to do whatever was necessary to bring the leadership of the Alsace to heel. And the Field Marshall had given the same instructions to Model.
Von Rundstedt rose from his chair and stretched. It had been a long day. He walked over and opened the door to find his adjutant still working.
“A bit of a late one, eh, Helmuth?”
“A lot is happening, Herr Field Marshall. I am trying to avoid having surprises delivered to you in the morning.”
“There were plenty of surprises today, I think,” the general said dryly.
“I cannot believe something like this happened,” the adjutant said. “I know the gauleiter abused his power, but I would have thought he was loyal to the Fatherland.”
Von Rundstedt sighed. “And we are left to clean up the mess.”
“Is there any doubt in our ability to do so, Herr General?”
“Not really. I really would like to get to Strasbourg and stop this nonsense without pulling the town down around everyone. I don’t think the people there like us very much, anyway. We need to give them some peace.”
“I think Model will do what he needs,” the adjutant said.
Von Rundstedt pondered that for a few moments before visibly making up his mind.
“Very well. I believe I shall visit the toilet, and then return to my quarters. And I appreciate your efforts to limit the surprises. The news tomorrow will be bad enough, I expect.”
“Good night, Herr Field Marshall.”
“Good night, Helmuth.”
CHAPTER FOUR
December 6, 1942, 7 AM
Reich Chancellor’s Apartments
Reich Chancellery
Berlin, Germany
“Will you be taking the children out today, Herr Schloss?”
Schloss looked up from his breakfast at the monolith that was Frau Marsden. She had an imposing presence like the Rock of Gibraltar. And she was nearly as unmovable.
“I think not, Frau Marsden,” he replied. “I must be close to the office in case news comes from the Alsace. Besides, the weather is not conducive for a trip to the zoo.”
He glanced over at Gisela and winked slightly. Frau Marsden’s efforts to manage his weekends usually devolved into a test of wills. Schloss had concluded that either Frau Marsden enjoyed these little games, or she was just something of a bully. He wasn’t sure which, but he intended not to be pushed around.
“You have not seen the children all week, Herr Schloss,” she persisted. “You have left before they were out of bed and returned
late in the evening. They will forget they have a father.”
Gisela grinned and touched the side of her lips with her tongue. “She has you there, Hennie.”
“Fine,” he snapped as he stood up. “I will go down to the office and read the overnights. I will be back midmorning and then spend some time with the children. Is this satisfactory, Frau Marsden?”
The old lady rumbled around the table and stepped up close to him. “I suppose it will have to do, Herr Schloss.”
He involuntarily moved back a step. “And I suppose you have things to do, Frau Marsden.”
“Of course, Herr Schloss.”
He bent over to kiss Gisela. “I will see you in a couple of hours, Schatzi.”
He then fled the apartment. Gisela smiled at the old lady.
“I believe you may have won that one on points,” she said.
“I, of course, have no idea what you are talking about,” Frau Marsden said. “And I should get busy.”
Gisela leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee, enjoying the quiet Saturday morning. Her life had been exciting by turns and satisfying, she reflected. Her world had crashed down upon her after the death of her husband Willem, who had been shot down by the English. She had taken up with Heinrich Schloss as he was dealing with the terminal illness of his wife. Both had been seeking comfort and closeness. But, since the death of the Fuhrer, their relationship had become something much more. This culminated in their marriage the previous spring.
Although she would always miss Willem, she had truly grown to love the man who was now the unquestioned master of the German Reich. And he was likewise was totally besotted with her. She would be delighted to spend the rest of her life with him. And he had often confessed the same.
She got up from her chair and walked over to the sideboard to refill her coffee cup. She sat down again. It was pleasant to relax. A little while later Anna-Lisa ghosted into the room. The daughter of Heinrich and Hannelore Schloss, she had quickly earned a place in Gisela’s heart, as did Hans-Friedrich – who apparently was still sleeping.
“Mutti Gisela, it is snowing outside,” the little girl said as she crawled into Gisela’s lap.
“I saw it, too, little one,” Gisela murmured as she held the girl close. “Papa promised to come home before lunch. Perhaps he can take you out to play in the snow.”
“Oh, I would like that.”
Anna-Lisa loved to snuggle when she had just awakened. As usual, Frau Marsden came back into the room at about the same time Hans-Peter stumbled in.
“Good morning, Hans,” Gisela called to him.
He mumbled something and then climbed into his chair. Frau Marsden set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him, along with a side dish with mixed fruit.
“Here you go, Hans-Peter,” she said. “I have your breakfast ready. And yours will be ready in a few minutes, Anna-Lisa.”
The little girl tried to burrow deeper into her step-mother. “Frau Marsden will have your breakfast in a minute, Liebchen,” Gisela said.
After a moment the girl spoke. “Frau Marsden takes good care of us.”
“Indeed, she does.”
Schloss settled into his chair in the palatial Reich Chancellor’s office and began paging through the overnight reports. He was still amazed at the amount of paper required to manage eighty-million Germans, not to mention those in the conquered provinces. And, far too many of the decisions still seemed to land in his office. No matter how many of the decisions he delegated to the governing council, the pile on his desk continued to grow. He had long since concluded that Sisyphus had an easier time of it.
The council made heroic efforts to absorb some of the load. He leaned heavily on Karl Rainer, the Reichsprotektor, and on his brother-in-law, Peter Schreiber, who was the Foreign Minister as well as the Minister of Information. To a lesser extent, he replied on Joachim von Ribbentrop, who seemed to have landed on his feet as the Minister of Commerce. Colonel Rinehard Gehlen, the head of the Abwehr, was loyal, although only marginally competent. He required a certain level of oversight. Hermann Goering, the Reichsmarshall, was an ongoing question mark. He had amply proven his loyalty and courage. And, after being hospitalized for his morphine addiction, he settled down. However, he was somewhat unimaginative, and Schloss had to set the direction for him.
Unfortunately, the Nazis had discouraged independent thinking. The council relied upon the bureaucratic managers to run the government and they were terrified of making mistakes. As a result, they kicked all the decisions up to the council. Schloss often despaired of developing a truly functional government.
The first item on his desk was a report from Field Marshall von Rundstedt on the progress of the drive towards the Alsace. So far, he had encountered little resistance. Schloss hoped to effect the arrest of Wagner without heavy bloodshed. He was confident, though, that Wagner and his minions would fight to the death. They knew a rope awaited them anyway.
Willem brought in another stack of papers and placed them carefully on Schloss’s desk.
He sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come into the office, today, Willem.”
“If you are working, Herr Reich Chancellor, then I should be as well.”
“You are a cruel taskmaster, Willem.”
“We try, Sir.”
“Very well. Do not let me work past ten o’clock. I promised Frau Marsden I would spend some time with the children this morning.”
“It is 10:15 already, Herr Reich Chancellor.”
“That is not good,” he said. “Is there anything that demands my immediate attention?”
“No, Herr Reich Chancellor. I think you can leave now. I will re-order your desk for you.”
“Thank you, Willem. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Willem Kirche smiled as Schloss strode quickly from the room. He knew no one who worked as hard and as effectively as Heinrich Schloss. His brilliance probably lay in the fact that he did not consider himself to be anyone special. Leaders like him came along seldom, and Kirche was honored to work for him.
§ § §
December 6, 1942, 12:15 PM
Office of the General Secretary
The Kremlin
Moscow, USSR
Josef Stalin glared across the desk at Lavrentiy Beria. Beria was Deputy Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars and reported directly to Stalin, who held the title of Premier.
“Surely the economy is not that bad,” Stalin stated. “You are not becoming an old woman on me, are you, Lavrentiy?”
“No, Comrade Stalin. We were perhaps too successful in our most recent purge. Unfortunately, the people who pose the most danger to International Socialism are typically the most creative or productive. The Kulaks are no danger to us. But, the management of the collectives is collapsing.”
“You are telling me that if we move to preserve the Soviet State, we will kill our economy. But, if we don’t move against the recidivists, we will have a revolution on our hands.”
“That may be a bit simplistic, Comrade,” Beria said carefully. “We have learned from some of our previous programs that the economy is far more complex than we imagined. The world still is in the thrall of Adam Smith, and there are too many people in this land who refuse to abandon that particular religion.”
The two men sat in Stalin’s office in the Kremlin in Moscow. Stalin appointed Beria as the Deputy Premier in the spring of 1941 following an extended series of purges. Although Stalin rarely praised the man who was his assistant in all but name, he clearly recognized the talent the man brought. Between them, they were responsible for the deaths of probably millions of people as a result of the famines of the 1930s and the purges later in the decade.
“No matter,” Stalin replied. “The state is secure. We have kept it that way.”
He watched as Beria struggled to express his current thought.
“What is it?” Stalin asked.
“At the moment, we have the populace cowed. There is no q
uestion that terror works. But I am concerned that if we have another famine, we may have enough people in the streets that we would lose control.”
“Are you suggesting that you are not capable of controlling the people?” Stalin’s voice exuded a subtle menace.
Beria turned pale but maintained his demeanor. “I can control the people just fine, Comrade. But, when the people turn into a mob, we are looking at something completely different. The NKVD would rapidly find itself on the wrong end of the force multiplier. We would need to call the Red Army out of the barracks, and I am not confident that would obey orders to fire upon the people.”
“Assuming I accept your explanation, Lavrentiy, how would you propose to halt something like that?”
“It is more a matter of motivation and attitude than anything else” the balding little man replied as he adjusted the pince-nez spectacles on his nose. “We must find an ideal that the people can identify with and get them excited to be a part of it.”
“Mmmm,” Stalin grunted. “I see what you are saying. We have probably carried the major purges about as far as is practical. If a whole class of people decides they have nothing to lose, then I would agree with you. We would be in trouble.”
“At a personal level, you have a large swell of affection and respect from the people. They tend to blame me for the problems.”
Stalin snorted. “Does that bother you?”
“Not in the least. We have a job to do, Comrade, and that is to set up fraternal socialist movements around the globe. As time goes on, they will look to you for their guidance. Through that unity, we will take over the entire planet. As Marx ordained, it is simply a matter of time.”
“I worry about our enemies. I fear we are too weak, and the Japanese or Germans could molest our lands with impunity. If they break our morale, we might collapse like a rotten tree.”
