Inconsequential Nazi

by Ward Wagher

  “Some good thinking there, Joachim,” suggested Schloss. “Obviously Stalin didn’t want to pay for all of that stuff. It’s a good idea not to leave it sitting there where he can go ahead and steal it.”

  “We have our defensive measures in place,” Goering said. “We are hopeful that the Russian bear will break his teeth when he tries to take a bite of our territory.”

  “Very well,” Schloss replied. “Our generals have spent time planning an effective defense. I trust the Wehrmacht will deliver for us on that count. Let’s discuss the offensive aspects of this war.”

  Goering cleared his throat. “We have ninety of our Flying Fortresses dispersed to forward bases in the Polish territory. As you suggested, Herr Reich Chancellor, they are fueled and armed for a raid on the railroad centers around Moscow. I am suggesting that we launch the bombers just as soon as the Russians come over the border.”

  “Who will make that call?” Schloss asked.

  “Why, I will, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Goering replied, looking surprised.

  “We have Field Marshal Rommel commanding the troops in the East. Why can he not make the call?”

  “He is the theater commander,” Goering replied, his voice beginning to raise slightly. “The bombers are a strategic function.”

  And this fat schweinehund is getting ready to throw away any advantage we might have because he wants to maintain control, Schloss thought. I cannot let that happen.

  “And after that raid what are our plans?”

  “The general staff has suggested that we intensively bomb the rail lines heading east into the Ukraine,” Goering said. “After that, we will look for targets of opportunity.”

  Schloss looked around the table as he thought. “Did the reconnaissance photos identify any railway repair equipment?”

  Guderian opened a notebook and begin paging rapidly through it. Reaching the desired page, he ran his finger down it as he scanned the contents.”

  “Herr Reich Chancellor, it looks as though they have placed their track equipment several miles behind the border.”

  “How difficult is it to destroy that from the air?”

  “No more so than anything else,” Goering grunted.

  Schloss nodded. “Then let me suggest that we task the bombers to fly 300 kilometers or so to the east and destroy as much of the rail line as possible. Then task the tactical air to go after the track repair equipment. If the rail lines are as congested as I think they might be, the Russians would have a hard time getting the repair equipment down the track to where we attacked.”

  Guderian glanced at Goering and then back at Schloss with his trademark smirk. “If that is agreeable with the Reichsmarshall, I believe it to be a good idea.”

  “Meine Herren,” Schloss commented, “I worry about being in a situation where I am making tactical suggestions. I trust you will review these ideas with the high command before executing them.”

  Goering chuckled. “Herr Reich Chancellor, I have learned to pay attention when you offer suggestions. Your track record is much better than mine.”

  Do you realize what you just said, you porcine slob? Schloss thought. You just admitted to everyone at the table that you were incompetent. Gott help us!

  Schloss concealed a sigh. “Very well then. It looks like we are as ready as we’re going to be. Does anyone else have anything for me, this morning?”

  “I have a report on our general industrial readiness, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Ribbentrop said.

  “Thank you, Joachim. If you will leave it with me, I would like to study it later this morning. Thank you for your time. Herr Reichmarshall, if I could have a moment of your time?”

  “Of course, Herr Reich Chancellor,” Goering immediately replied.

  Schloss stepped over to the corner of the room and waited for Goering as the other men filed out. The Reichmarshall looked curious as he moved up to Schloss.

  Schloss folded his arms across his chest and glared at the portly minister. Although, Goering’s suit seemed to be loose and was hanging off of him. “Hermann, I believe you may be making a mistake by centralizing the decision-making in your office. Rommel has proven he makes good decisions on the battlefield. Let him make the calls, and if he fails, we can remove him.”

  Goering turned white. “Herr Reich Chancellor, I really resent what you are implying.”

  Schloss dropped his arms and placed his hands on his hips. “I am not implying anything Hermann. I am simply telling you that you are getting ready to lose this thing for us. And I find that highly unacceptable. Now I did not want to embarrass you in the meeting in front of everyone else, but I want you to go back to your office and tell Guderian that you are releasing theater authority to Rommel. I want you to do that this morning.”

  Goering’s jowls shook as he grumbled. “I assure you Herr Schloss that I know what I am doing. And furthermore, let me be very honest, we have a saying in the Wehrmacht.”

  “And what would that saying be?”

  Goering bit his lip as he debated internally whether to continue the discussion. Considering his ongoing relationship with Schloss, he decided it was better to fold his hand. “Oh, never mind. I will pass the order to Guderian.”

  “You have me curious, now, Hermann. What is the saying?”

  “Oh, it was not important, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “What was the saying?” Schloss roared.

  Goering heaved a big sigh. “When dealing with the government, always remember that everyone is a general.”

  Schloss stared at the corpulent figure for a long moment and then burst into laughter.

  “Get out of my sight, you scoundrel! Send a messenger to me after you have transmitted the new orders to Rommel.”

  Rainer had remained standing along the other side of the room and watched as Goering scurried from the room. He now followed Schloss into his office.

  “What was that all about, Herr Schloss?”

  Schloss shook his head as he walked around and collapsed into his chair. “Fat Hermann just reminded me that everyone in the Council thinks he knows better than the generals on how to conduct the war. He’s right, you know.”

  “A little nervy of him to tell you that.”

  “I appreciate his honesty,” Schloss replied, “even if I think he is an incompetent boor.”

  “So, the swine diddler lives to fight another day,” Rainer stated.

  “So far, he has not crossed the line where I would be forced to do something about him. I fervently hope that he does not do so. Regardless of what everyone in the room thinks of him, he provides a lot of legitimacy to our government. We cannot forget that, Karl.”

  Rainer’s constant thought about his prior conversation with Goering He wondered what would happen to the legitimacy of the government when the Reichsmarshall finally succumbed to cancer. Unfortunately, that was not his greatest worry at this moment.

  Rainer remained standing in front of Schloss’s desk, and finally, Schloss was driven to ask, “What is it, Karl?”

  “Misty is still in Moscow,” he said simply.

  “And as far as we know, she is okay. Besides, what can we do? Even Colonel Gehlen cannot reach into the Kremlin to rescue her if she were in trouble.”

  “But, someone else might.”

  “Karl, are you able to keep your mind on the job? I need you now more than ever.”

  Rainer jumped to attention. “I am fully capable of doing my duty, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “Then get that corncob out of your behind, Karl. Listen, if Gisela were in Moscow, I would be terrified. I understand what you’re feeling. But there is little we can do.”

  “What about Frau Marsden?”

  “What about the old lady?”

  “You remember how she helped back during the coup attempt.”

  “I am really trying to forget that,” Schloss said disgustedly and he held up his hands in frustration. “Okay, okay. Go talk to her. Then get yourself back to your office. Our lives w
ill shortly become immeasurably more complicated than they have been. And I don’t know about you, but my life was already quite complicated.”

  “I apologize for bringing this to you, Herr Schloss. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You’re starting to whine, Karl.”

  “With your permission, Herr Reich Chancellor?”

  Schloss laughed again. “Go on. Get out of my office.”

  He worried about the key members of his government. Now was the time when it was critical for them to be at the top of their game. He understood Goering. It was simply the way the Reichsmarshall was. But Rainer could not afford to be distracted right now.

  It grew quiet in the office and Schloss picked up the papers that Ribbentrop had left him. He had just begun to read when he heard someone clear his throat politely. He looked up to see Willem standing in the doorway.

  “What is it, Willem?” he snapped

  “Herr Schreiber is on the telephone for you, Herr Reich Chancellor.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  He picked up the telephone. “Yes, Peter?”

  “Considering what is about to erupt in the East,” he began without preamble, “I thought I might pass along a warning to our American friends. I think they would appreciate it.”

  “I think they would too,” Schloss responded. “By all means give them a call. I’m sure the American government will appreciate a little advance notice.”

  “I am sure they are aware of Stalin’s intentions,” Peter said.

  “I’m not so sure. Otherwise, they might not have sent that delegation to Moscow.”

  “Unless they were attempting to forestall Stalin.”

  “Then they are fools,” Schloss said.

  He heard Peter’s mental shrug. “Not that I don’t appreciate everything the Americans have done for us, but they really haven’t been very smart over the past few years.”

  “I’m not sure I could argue with that thought, Peter. In my opinion, they have repeatedly gotten themselves caught on the wrong side of lady luck.”

  “May I suggest then, Hennie, that in contrast, you have made your own luck.”

  “As I stagger from one disaster to the next.”

  “Right. I suppose I should go ahead and call Ambassador Smoke. Thank you for your time, Hennie.”

  Schloss chuckled. “Always a pleasure, Peter. Always a pleasure.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  April 16, 1943, 9 PM

  The Kremlin

  Moscow, USSR

  It had been a long day. Misty had spent all of it translating for their Russian hosts, none of whom spoke English. Nor did they seem interested in learning English, she thought. The work had continued through lunch and into supper time. With nothing but a couple of dry pieces of toast and a cup of tea that morning, it had been a long time since breakfast, and she was starving.

  As time went on, she felt she was guiding the discussions more and more. Harriman seemed to be satisfied with this. He knew enough Russian to be able to say da or nyet and had come to rely upon Misty’s language skills. But, enough was enough. She explained to the Russian interpreter that it was time to call it a day and when he hesitated, she addressed the men at the table.

  “This lady has had enough for one day, gentlemen. I will return to the embassy and see you all in the morning.”

  She marched over to her purse which rested on a chair with her coat draped around the back and got ready to leave. Even though it was April, it was still chilly in this country. One of the guards followed to make sure she found her way to the entrance of the building. Stepping into the spring gloaming, she saw her car already waiting. She walked quickly across the cobblestones where the driver opened the back door for her.

  As she climbed into the back seat, she considered again how much the car looked like a Packard at a distance. Once one was up close, it was obvious the vehicle was much cruder than anything manufactured in the United States. It was more obvious when the driver stepped on the starter and after a raucous grinding, the rough running engine started. With a crunch, the driver shifted the car into low gear, and the car lurched into motion.

  They wheeled out onto the prospect in front of the Kremlin gates and turned right.

  “Why are we turning right? The embassy is to the left.”

  The guard sitting next to the driver turned around with a smile. It was Lavrentiy Beria.

  “Relax, Miss Simpson,” he said in an oily voice. “I thought we might find ourselves something to eat before you return to the embassy. It has been a long day and I am hungry as well.”

  She leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath. She considered bailing out of the car but decided it would be difficult to go to ground in Moscow. All the police forces in the city reported to this man, and he obviously had other ideas about the evening. She felt her training kick in and assumed she would have an opportunity to make her escape. For the moment it seemed best to play the naif.

  “Well, Sir, since you have issued the invitation, I suppose I should accept. I hope you have a less well-known restaurant in mind. I am not quite dressed for anything fancy.”

  “Oh, no. That should be no problem. I shall enjoy dining with you.”

  She studied him as he turned around to face the front and decided once again that he really was a snake. The car wound through the streets of the city and finally came to a halt in front of a large mansion. The driver opened her door and she stepped out as Beria came around to her side.

  “I asked my housekeeper to prepare a nice meal,” he said. “It should be ready by now. There is little point in keeping you later than necessary.”

  “That sounds fine to me,” she giggled.

  He smiled at her and held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  She took his arm and they walked towards the house. The front door was opened by a functionary in a uniform. Beria ignored him as he stepped into the foyer of the house, he helped her remove her coat and handed it to the doorman who gave them a deep nod.

  “Shall we proceed into the dining room, Miss Simpson?”

  The glittering crystal and silver reflected the candelabras in the dim room. The table had been set for two and Beria led her to a chair, the first one along one side of the table. He eased into the chair at the head of the table and smiled at her gently. She felt like a mouse with the rattlesnake examining her for his next meal.

  A door on one side of the dining room opened and a steward rolled in a hot table with a large silver cover on it. The steward whipped the cover off and set it to the side. He lifted two plates out, already prepared and set them in front of Beria and Misty. The steward then pulled a bottle of wine out of the cooler and poured a healthy measure into the glasses in front of them.

  “And now,” Beria suggested, “we may eat.”

  As he smiled at Misty the side door opened again and the functionary or majordomo or whatever leaned in and looked at Beria. Beria glared at the man for a few moments and then smiled again at Misty.

  “Please excuse me for a few moments, Miss Simpson. It seems I cannot escape business even here.”

  “That is quite all right, sir.”

  He eased out of his chair with a serpent’s grace and left the room. She sat for a moment looking at the door and then quickly stood up and switched the two plates.

  “If you thought to disable me with something in the food you old monster,” she muttered under her breath, “you are about to get a big surprise.”

  Five minutes later he returned to the dining room. “I am very sorry for that, Miss Simpson,” he explained. “We will not be bothered again this evening.”

  She almost shivered involuntarily. Beria was perhaps the evilest man she had ever met, and his vile persona soaked through the visage of someone who would otherwise look like a mild-mannered bureaucrat. Her intent was to escape before things got interesting, although she was becoming concerned.

  He picked up his wine glass and took a small sip. He then picked
up the knife and fork. Misty followed his example. The wine was delightful. She sliced off a piece of the beef Wellington and took a bite. She wasn’t sure what the average Russian would be eating this evening, but the meal matched anything in New York.

  “And how do you like our city?” he asked.

  “It is most impressive. The architecture around Red Square is amazing. We have nothing like that in the United States.”

  He laughed. “And people think that we are Nekulturny. We had a court and a ballet here while the Prussians were still herding their pigs.”

  “The Germans like their pork,” she commented.

  “Oh indeed. Indeed.”

  As the meal continued, she discovered that Beria was actually a charming conversationalist. It did nothing to revise her opinion of the man, but she thought the contrast was interesting. It seemed but a few moments and she looked down to see that she had completely cleaned her plate.

  “You really were hungry,” Beria chuckled. “We have a lovely dessert.”

  “I don’t think I could eat another thing,” she said, “and I am getting tired. Perhaps we should end the evening, Sir.”

  He nodded and smiled and slipped out of his chair again. He walked around behind her chair and slid it out.

  “Before you go, I would like to show you something that is a special legacy of the Russian people. I like to collect artifacts and I think you will find this one fascinating.”

  They walked through to the front of the house and started up the staircase. She pondered whether she could throw him down the stairs, but he maintained a firm hold on her arm. Moving along the upstairs hall he opened the door and guided her into a bedroom.

  “Oh, I did not come for that, Gospodin Beria.”

  He kicked the door closed behind them and shoved her across the room.

  “There are two ways you can experience this evening, Miss Simpson. You can choose to enjoy it, or not. It matters not to me. I will enjoy it either way.”

  His smile turned utterly evil and she recognized she had some choices to make. She lashed out with her foot between his legs and he doubled over with a grunt. She tried to turn to leave the room, but he had a vice-like grip on her arm. He slowly straightened with a hissing intake of breath and quick as a striking cobra he cuffed her on the side of her face. She saw stars as she fell across the bed and he reached out and hit her again. She struggled to remain conscious, but things faded out.