Krafft felt a shiver throughout his entire body. The Governor General knew.
The Governor General maintained an artificial smile, looking at Elaine, then at Karl Ernst, then back to Elaine again. “I had a Captain take her home since she felt a bit ill…” Frank turned to Karl Ernst, “…something in her stomach.”
The car stopped in from of the Krafft’s hotel. Hans Frank tightened his grip on Elaine, who struggled to sit up.
“No, I won’t let you go unless both promise me you will accompany me to my kingdom next weekend.”
“Your kingdom…?” Elaine asked sleepily.
“Poland! My dear Elaine, Poland!”
“Lt. Kriederman, Welcome to Berlin!”
The old man didn’t get out of his chair, but put both of his hands on the desk to help him lean forward to shake the lieutenant’s hand.
“Please, have a seat! A drink? Coffee… or some schnapps, perhaps?”
“No thank-you, Herr General.”
Lt. Kriederman was a perfect specimen of the Aryan race; short-cropped blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and powerful muscles proportioned as if copied directly from one of Bruno’s statue modeled in an ancient Greek pose.
“Kriederman, I’ve heard very good things about your work. They tell me you are one of the best at setting traps to catch the kind of rats I am looking for.”
“Do we have rats in Berlin, Herr General?” Kriederman asked somewhat surprised. Although only in the German capital a few times, to Kriederman as like most Germans, Berlin was a sacred city. To imagine an enemy spy could exist in the center of the Third Reich was unbearable. To imagine a German would be against Hitler to help a spy was unthinkable.
“The enemy is everywhere, Herr Kriederman, everywhere. Our good friend Mr. Fleming in London is not only using pretty German-Polish girls working within the Reich, but has very bright Dutch girls who pass for being German in nearly every divisional headquarter in Germany. In fact, I think it is safe to say that there are just as many English spies in Berlin as there are in all of Portugal… if not more.”
Lt. Kriederman was shocked to hear this, but was unaware the general’s assessment was not based on fact, but fear and exaggerated beliefs of those surrounding him.
“Then I will find them all, Herr General!”
“Good, good, I know you will… but for now I only want you to find one.”
A Polish girl with a German last name began singing with the Italians. The other girls joined in while the Count simply smiled.
Herr Stover, Colonel Walls, and Rafelo Guyonanti all had one thing in common despite their extremely different cultural, political, and educational backgrounds: each had a major stake in prostitution for exclusive hotels all over Europe.
“I believe if you translate what Herr Stöver said into American English… (the Count would always distinguish between American and British English whenever the chance arose)… it would basically come out that he feels you have your own ‘untermenchen’ problem in America.”
“What do y’all mean?” The American answered glaring at Stöver.
“With your American Negroes, or nigga’s as you so eloquently put it.” Walls sat erect as the Count continued. “It seems you look down upon Herr Stöver for his people’s approach to the Slavs, yet you seem to take the same approach to the Negroes in your own country”.
Herr Stöver glared back at Walls as if having pulled a trump card in logic, and winning.
“Yeah, we have problems with our nigga’s.” Colonel Walls said, lifting his napkin to his mouth. “But we don’t go around killin’em just ’cause they are negroes.”
Deep down, the Count’s impression of Walls was the Dutch word for ‘hillbilly’ – however, there was something about the man from Texas he genuinely liked. Such comments were a reflection of that quality.
“Point noted.” The Count said while looking at Stöver as if waiting for a rebuttal. Stöver however could see further discussion was useless, as the Count had already taken sides.
Several of the girls began to sense the men’s conversation was becoming serious in a personal way, not just matters of business and the war, which peaked their interest.
“My point is this,” Walls continued. “…we always have someone below us, you and your Jews, me and my nigga’s – the Count over there and all the rest of us.” Everyone listening laughed, even Stöver. “So if we have some on top and some on the bottom, why get fanatic about it? Why kill off all the low life just to prove you’re better? All that needs to be done is set up things so that whoever is below you knows their place.
“And where is their place, Mr. Walls?” Stöver asked, hoping to get the last trump.
“Whose place?”
“Your negroes.”
“Why, anywhere they want to be, except near me when I’m eating, sleeping, or fucking.”
“I see…”
Away from the table, two of the girls from France were listening to the BBC shifted their position as it to be able to hear the radio better. “It’s him!” One of them whispered loudly.
All heads turned to the radio, except for Rafelo, who turned to the Count.
“After the Dunkirk evacuation, everyone is wondering how Churchill would respond to this disaster. The Prime Minister is commenting today.”
The radio crackled on occasion which interfered with some of his words: “…we will fight them on the beaches… we shall never surrender…”
“Wow.” Walls confessed, sensing more destruction was on the way for England, which might lead to America coming in should England appear to topple. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Stöver appeared pleased the American colonel had just conceded to German superiority.
“That’s not Churchill.” The Count said matter of fact.
“What?” Stöver expressed surprised. Several of the girls reacted with almost disbelief. “Is he dead?”
“No.” The Count said calmly. “He gave that speech earlier today in the House of Commons and everyone wanted him to give it on the radio as well. Since, in his own words, he was too busy today, they got a BBC repertory staff member, a young actor named Norman Shelly, to impersonated Churchill’s voice, for this broadcast. I’ve seen Norman on stage, he is quite good at impersonations.”
“That is not Churchill?” Stöver queried, still in disbelief.
“Norman Shelly is the voice you are listening to right now. Churchill I’m sure is working on far more important things at the moment.”
Damn. Walls thought. How does the Count seem to be privy to so such information, and even more so, how does he obtain it so quickly?
The group of men and ladies then buzz into conversation amongst within their own naturally placed group while a servant enters, then stands at attention by the door until recognized by the Count.
“Yes?” The Count finally acknowledges his presence after speaking with one of the girls.
“Telephone call from London, sir.”
Chapter 14 – The Witch
A cork exploded out of the champagne bottle and was followed by the cheers and scattering of applaud from those in the room. This was not a celebration of total victory, but that everything was going as planned – better than planned – at the halfway mark.