Walking, no strutting, down the ranks of the new men, Krueger reminded Brasche of nothing so much as a fighting game cock, proud and aggressive. Of course I loathe the son of a bitch, mused Brasche, loathe him for so many reasons. Nazi bastard!
Brasche stood too far off to hear what Krueger said to the new men. He had a good enough idea; he had seen and heard it all before, seen it in some rather strange places, too.
The Israelis hadn’t wanted him at first; they’d made that painfully clear. They believed him when he’d said that he had never taken part in any crime against Jews. They believed he wanted to make amends. They knew he had skills they needed desperately and lacked almost totally. But ex-SS… ?
Hans had countered with the irrefutable argument, “You want me dead, most of you. I cannot blame you for that. So send me where I can die.”
The Israelis were not that generous, and so he found himself not leading — the Israelis had been very clear he was never to lead Jews in battle — but training the scraps of diverse and wretched humanity passing through a small camp for a brief course in battle before being shipped off for butchery somewhere along the frontier.
So too he found himself teaching by pointing, slowly and painfully learning Hebrew, eating Kosher food — unaccustomedly bland. He had never felt more alone. Uncomfortable, too, for while others could strip to the waist in the fierce Middle Eastern heat, he could never remove his T-shirt, the covering for the tattoo that marked him for what he had been. Even to shower Hans had to wait until all else were done, that, or arise at an obscene hour.
There were a couple of bright spots. One was Sol, an ex Camp KAPO, one of the imprisoned Jews who actually had done, had been forced to do, most of the hands-on dirty work in the concentration camps. Sol, a Bavarian from Munich, spoke native German of course — despite that distressing south German accent. Better, he had his own sins in plenty and was disinclined to judge. They could speak sometimes, share a beer, remember better days… even hope for better days. They never talked about the war or the camps; each sensed in the other a horror not to be raised or erased.
The other bright spot was Anna, a dark blond Berliner girl who even spoke in a somewhat more upper crust version of Hans’ own native dialect. Hans didn’t know much of Anna’s history, only that she had been in the camps at some time during the war.
Of her history he knew little; and he was loathe to conjecture about more. But in the here and now he also knew she was beautiful — breathtaking, really, with sculpted features and body coupled to bright and kind shining green eyes. Her mien and manner showed a spirit even the camps could not crush. Though most of the Israeli girls scorned makeup, Hans noted that Anna seemed to actively despise it. No matter, she was more than beautiful enough without artificial adornment.
Lastly he knew he was unworthy… so that whenever Anna made to get closer he withdrew. Withdrew? Rather it was more like he fled in barely concealed terror whenever the girl approached on any but professional matters. Hans could not bring himself, ever, to look into those green eyes. He avoided the north side of the camp, the women’s area, like the very plague.
“You are a fool, Hans,” said Sol one day as the two sat on barracks steps over an evening’s friendly beer.
At Hans’ quizzical look the Israeli laughed. “The girl follows you like a puppy. Why do you always run the other way?”
Heaving a deep sigh was Hans’ only answer.
“Don’t lie to me, old son,” said Sol, taking a quick sip of warm and insipid beer, “not even by refusing to answer. I see your face when you look in her direction. I can practically hear your heart race when she walks by upwind.”
“I know,” Hans whispered, softly. “But I just can’t.”
“In the name of God, why not?”
“Because I am unworthy,” Hans answered, simply.
“You little shits think you are worthy to become SS?” demanded Krueger, still strutting. “I’ve ass-fucked quivering little Yid whores at Ravensbrück who were more worthy than you, you filth.
“They, at least, had staying power. It remains to be seen if you turds do.”
At which, much self-satisfied, statement Krueger commanded, “Right, face… Forward, march… Double-time…”
Interlude
Ro’moloristen hesitated, doubting whether it was his place to criticize his lord of that lord’s own hesitation. With all eyes upon him, feeling his own weak position in the fiber of his being, he summoned his courage and said, “My lord, we might be losing the race.”
“Race? What race, puppy?” Athenalras demanded, crest rising.
“The race to finish the conquest of this peninsula, this Europe.”
“How so? We sit on everything useful to us except the central area, Deutschland it is called, yes?… that, and the mountains to the south of it. They will fall soon enough… except perhaps for the mountains.”
“I am thinking of orna’adar, my lord, and our clan’s position when this world finally descends into it. The longer we take here, now, the worse our position then. Also…” The young God King hesitated.
“Also, what?”
“My lord, the gray thresh are preparing for us with everything they have. We had advantages earlier that are fast disappearing. Information made available to us through the Net, dissension and confusion in the gray thresh’s ruling bodies, unwillingness or inability to really martial their strength, lack of fortification… all these are no longer true, no longer there to work for us.
“Their forces are expanding radically. New fortifications are being built and old ones restored. Every fiber of their society is being twisted and knitted for the needs of defense it seems. Perhaps worst of all, my lord, they have scrapped hundreds upon hundreds of landers for their on-board weapons. My lord… it is no longer safe to travel over this ‘Germany’ except in orbit so far out as to be useless.”
Athenalras allowed his crest to go flaccid as he contemplated. “You think then the original plan must be scrapped, that those of our clan coming in the next wave should not be landed directly into the central area, that we should attack overland?”
Ro’moloristen shook his head in negation. “No lord, we must continue to follow the original plan… but the cost makes me shudder.”
Chapter 11
Headquarters, Army Group Reserve,
Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia, 17 December 2007
Hans shuddered with the cold. Though snow lay all around, covering castle, land and ice in the moat, the sky was, for the nonce, clear. Christmas carols — sung by a local group of schoolchildren for the benefit of the headquarters staff — carried far in the dense, icy air, ringing off castle stone and leafless tree.
Standing on an arched stone bridge over the moat, leaning on its stone wall guardrail, Hans stared into the sky at the twinkling stars. He willed his mind to blankness, seeking rest in temporary oblivion.
In this Hans was successful, so much so that he never noticed the tapping of boots on the stones of the bridge.