“The federal government endures, no matter which party is in power,” the Ambassador said, curtly. “The Nazis may just need a few new figureheads.”
When, Reichsführer-SS Karl Holliston asked himself, had the Reich ever actually surrendered?
It hadn’t, as far as he could recall, certainly not to feckless civilians. The west had truly gone soft, if it was prepared to coddle strikers rather than punish them… and, for that matter, allow married women to march onto the streets as if they were men. Didn’t they know their duty was to remain at home, having babies and raising them while the men took care of the hard work? How dare they have political opinions of their own? How dare anyone have political opinions of their own?
Should have set the dogs on them, he thought. There were canine units in the east, deployed against work gangs of Untermenschen that rioted against their rightful superiors. And then have them publicly stripped and flogged to teach them a lesson.
But the Reich Council had surrendered. The Reich Council had made concessions. The Reich Council… had betrayed the Reich.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it had to be faced. Karl had thought he could count on Voss, as a matter of course, and several of the other ministers, yet they’d seen the protesters on the streets and turned against their sworn duty. Who cared how many students were arrested or killed on the streets when the Reich was in danger? The strikers… if they refused to work, they could be shot! And yet, the Reich Council – even the military – had betrayed its own people.
Two days, he thought, savagely. Two days and the world turns upside down.
He gritted his teeth in frustration. The reports had flowed in faster than the RSHA could handle them, long lists of new political committees all over the Reich. Thankfully, the rot hadn’t spread past Old Warsaw – Germany East wouldn’t tolerate dissent when the easterners had to fight constantly to defend their settlements – but it was everywhere else. Even a handful of warship crews had been caught holding political meetings, in defiance of naval regulations. The Kriegsmarine, which had failed in its duty once before, was now failing again by not stringing the crewmen from the nearest yardarm. And the French were growing bolder in their resistance to authority. It wouldn’t be long before strikes started to spread through the occupied territories.
And no matter what they say about the economy, he thought, the real threat is political.
Karl had never been to America, but he’d read the reports from German spies and political agents within the United States. America was a tottering country, permanently on the verge of collapse. The act of allowing the races to mingle alone had crippled the United States; allowing women the right to vote, to steer the course of global politics, had been worse. It was horrific to contemplate the destruction of all that was good, of all that was German, by a tidal wave of Untermenschen under the delusion that the state owed them something. One day, he was sure, the Americans would beg the Reich to save them from themselves, but until that day…
I have to make sure the madness doesn’t spread into the Reich, he told himself. And if the Reich Council cannot be relied upon, I have to handle it myself.
It was a bitter thought. He’d never liked or trusted the civilians, particularly the Finance Minister, but he’d thought he could count on the regular military as a fellow defender of German values. Young German lads might go reluctantly into the army – the Heer took conscripts, unlike any of the other services – yet when they left, they were imbued with the fighting spirit of Germany and a willingness to die in defence of the Reich. He’d expected better from the Field Marshals, the supreme commanders of the military, but they’d refused to do their duty and stand up to the whining civilians. They’d even allowed the rot to spread through their soldiers! It was worse than 1918-19!
“Herr Reichsführer,” Marie said. “Sturmbannfuehrer Harden is here to see you.”
“Good,” Karl said. “Send him in, then inform all callers that I am busy.”
He rose to his feet as Sturmbannfuehrer Viktor Harden entered the room and snapped off a perfect salute. He was a tall man, wearing a black uniform with a single death’s head pin on his shoulders. Harden lacked imagination, Kurt recalled, but he made up for it with bloody-minded ferocity that made him perfectly suited to one of the police battalions that supervised concentration camps, rounded up Untermenschen for work gangs, hunted down insurgents and policed Untermenschen townships in Germany East. There had been a whole string of complaints against the man, Karl reminded himself, mainly from senior military officers with weak stomachs, but Karl didn’t care. Harden got the job done and that was all that mattered to the SS.
“Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said. He sounded vaguely surprised. It was rare, vanishingly rare, for an SS police battalion to be ordered to Berlin. “You wanted to see me?”
“I did,” Karl said. He sat back down at his desk and studied Harden for a long moment before continuing. “You’ve heard the reports from Berlin?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said.
“The civilians” – it was hard not to spit in disgust – “believe that making concessions to the protesters will be enough to prevent another set of strikes,” he said. “Those concessions, however, will only whet their appetite for more concessions, for more political surrenders, for – eventually – the end of the Reich itself. It cannot be allowed.”
“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said.
“The Berlin Guard cannot be relied upon,” Karl hissed. It was unthinkable, but it had to be tolerated, for the moment. The guard would be purged later or sent to South Africa. “Nor can the police. They will both be there, as a sign of strength, when the next protest begins, but they will do nothing to stop it. Their men have already been contaminated by the protesters, by the fear of injuring their women and children.”
He saw a smile of anticipation flicker across Harden’s face. The man was a monster, even by the SS’s standards, and his subordinates were, if anything, even worse. They had no qualms over slaughtering male prisoners and raping female prisoners before throwing any survivors into the army brothels – or worse. The unit existed purely to spread terror, purely to remind the Untermenschen that their lives belonged to the Reich. Bringing them to Berlin and turning them loose on Germans was a gamble, but it was one he had to take. There were times when even good Germans needed to be reminded that their sole duty was to the state.
“Yes, Herr Reichsführer,” Harden said. “My men will be happy to crush them for you.”
“Billet your men in the garrison,” Karl ordered. He’d been careful to ensure that only a handful of SS officers, let alone soldiers or civilians, knew he’d moved Harden’s unit to Berlin. “And stand ready to intervene when I call you.”
He watched Harden go with a cold smile. The man was thoroughly unpleasant – even a couple of SS officers had filed complaints – but he did good work. It didn’t matter to him just who his unit was told to attack; they’d slaughter helpless women and children, even German women and children, with the same enthusiasm they’d slaughter Slavic terrorists. The streets of Berlin would run red with blood. And, if something did go wrong, he would take the blame for the whole affair.