Armageddon (23 page)

“I am aware of that,” Sean said. Then he turned to Hoffman, the deputy with the broken back who now arranged the rendezvous with the informers. “Herr Hoffman. You are not from Rombaden. What does the legend mean to you?”

“Why,” he wheezed with enthusiasm at being singled out for a testimony, “every German schoolboy knows the legend. It stands with the masterpieces of Schiller, Goethe, and ...Heine.” Although a concentration-camp inmate, Hoffman stumbled on the last name ... a Jew.

“And you, Herr Maas. Why do you suppose the Nazis allowed the legend to be read?”

“Why not, Major? It is not a political poem and it is highly Germanic in nature.”

Ulrich Falkenstein listened with utter fascination as one by one they committed themselves without the slightest idea of what O’Sullivan was driving at. Sean opened his marked copy of the
Legend of Rombaden.

“Frau Meissner. Would you care to venture what Hinterseer had in mind with the following passage ... ‘citizens of Rombaden, Aryans, shall we allow the sperm of Ernald to mongrelize our race?’”

Frau Meissner was puzzled.

“Well, Frau Meissner ... do you in Rombaden feel yourself Aryans?”

“I ... don’t ... understand ...”

Sean thumbed through a few more pages. “Would any of you ladies or gentlemen care to make an interpretation of the following passage ... ‘You of Rombaden are the chosen children of Wolfram, King of the Gods.’”

Herr Maas began to understand. He dismissed Sean’s question with a wave of his hand. “It is merely a way of saying that Rombaden is a fine city. All cities think of themselves as the best. Even in the United States there is that competition between cities.”

“Fine, Herr Maas ... then, how about this. ‘I promise you a death, a moment of divine exaltation ... this is the warrior’s death ... this is the moment of fulfillment ... the instant your life passes from his body for the fatherland he will know ecstasy beyond ecstasy.’”

Brows wrinkled.

Sean read on. “Or this one, Herr Maas ... ‘I bathe myself in the blood of a wild pig, I castrate him, I become a superman among the peoples of the world with his strength and his virility ... forgive me wild pig for I have a mission to rule the sub-humans which infest us.’”

Sean closed the book. He flipped it contemptuously on the table. Everyone had been frightened into silence except for Professor Moltke. He picked up their flagging banner. “But, Major, you find the same type of writing in Greek mythology ... in Norse mythology.”

“I challenge you. The Greek Gods were subtle and had delightful senses of humor and mocked their mortal failings.”

“And the Norwegians and Danes. We base the Ring on their mythology.”

“Yes, but neither the Norwegians nor the Danes take their gods seriously ... you Germans do. In fact, you live out your mythology.”

“I do not bend to your point, Major O’Sullivan. You can write in any meaning you wish to write in ... any meaning you seek.”

“And that is my point, Professor Moltke. The Nazis gave meaning to these legends. This poem was Nazi in conception. Adolf Hitler found it and others like it and said ... this is what we are and the German people believed it.”

“But ...” Hoffman protested weakly. “Hinterseer has been dead for nearly two centuries.”

“However, Hoffman, Nazi ideas have been alive in the German people for twenty centuries.”

It was as though they had all been doused with cold water. For many moments a stunned silence prevailed until Herr Bach, the most innocuous member of the council, spoke up mousily. “I always thought there was something wrong with that poem,” he said.

“Then why in the hell didn’t you speak up?” Sean demanded.

“But, Major, one does not speak up against tradition.”

“That is precisely the point. Your tradition demands blind obedience. So long as you are willing to be led like sheep your minds will be captured by another madman. Perhaps in a year or five or twenty some priest will deliver a sermon from the pulpit denouncing the legend or some teacher lead a group of students to protest it ... only then will it be safe to read Hinterseer.”

Falkenstein, who had remained completely out of it now spoke. “You do have tradition in America, do you not, Major?”

“If the President of the United States were to read the Declaration of Independence before the Lincoln Memorial on the Fourth of July there would be someone in America to protest and to question.”

Falkenstein nodded his head, as if to say
“touché.”
A slight smile crossed his lips as he saw the utter confusion among the council. Here they had believed themselves to be the “good” Germans. The failing then was partly theirs too; there was an iota of Nazi in them all.

“There being no further business before this council I am advising you that I will be at Supreme Headquarters in Frankfurt for the next several days. Captain Duquesne will be in command during my absence. You are dismissed,” he said, eyeing Falkenstein to remain.

Sean stuffed his notes and papers into his briefcase. The two men were alone in the great hall. The legend blared down at them from the faded tapestry. Sean snapped his case shut. The coldness between him and Falkenstein was like that of the stone fireplace. “They hate me, don’t they, Falkenstein?” Sean found himself saying.

“On the contrary, Major O’Sullivan. You have earned the position as their father and their leader. Those are two things a German understands. You see for yourself how well they obey you. Once the German is defeated he is quite manageable.”

“But they don’t even know what the hell I was talking about.”

“I think you are far too impatient, Major. We may be ancient in our traditions but we are infants in the democratic experience. Our first venture with a republic, the Weimar, ended in disaster. The subtleties of democratic process are beyond their comprehension.”

“But they do understand father and obedience. So we’re in for another cycle of it when another father leads them to destruction.”

Falkenstein straightened up a bit. “You conveniently forget the great things the German people have given the world. These are the Germans I love and believe in. This is the Germany I fight for.”

Sean was tempted to argue the point. Yes, there were great contributions in literature and music and science. However, there had never been a lasting German ideal of freedom and damned few of the dignity of man. Even their greatest reformer, Martin Luther, was a dogmatic tyrant. And here, Ulrich Falkenstein, who had suffered untold brutality at the hands of this society, stubbornly refused to give up his identity or his faith. It was admirable nonsense to Sean. To believe so strongly was good; but it was beyond any man’s vision to feel the German people would change. They both sensed the conversation had hit an impasse.

“We all fear,” Falkenstein broke the ice, “that you have committed your last official act in Rombaden?”

“That may be so,” Sean said.

“That would be a shame. You have been hard but you have never been unfair. You see, Major O’Sullivan, there are subtleties of democracy that even I cannot comprehend. For example, why does a man of your stature throw away a brilliant career in the protection of an Emma Stoll?”

“It seems to me, Heir Falkenstein, that is a strangely put question from one who was convicted by a Hitler court.”

“Surely you do not intend to compare me to Emma Stoll.”

“Of course not. But I do challenge a Hitler court to exist in the name of my country.”

“It is a pity you won’t be going to Berlin with me when I am able to. Frankly, we both have a lot to learn. On the other hand, I have a feeling that you don’t really want to know that there are good Germans.”

Sean shot him an angry glance, then stifled his anger. “You said yourself, I have been fair.”

“Fair, yes. Like a dog trainer. But even an animal can smell when he is hated.”

“Herr Falkenstein,” he said, “I have written a full report for the incoming commander in case someone other than Captain Duquesne is selected. I have strongly recommended that he place full trust in you in all matters.”

They shook hands with great reservation and completely without affection. Yet, an undeniable mutual admiration existed between the two men.

“Good luck, Major,” Falkenstein said, and left the great hall.

And then, Sean was alone.

Sean found himself wandering through a maze of narrow streets. He had arranged that there would be no farewells, no sentimentality. In the morning he would leave, supposedly on a routine trip to Supreme Headquarters ... no more, no less.

A battalion of laborers, prisoners of war, with Polish guards hacked into the endless rubble piles at one of the intersections. As they saw the commander the Germans stopped their work for an instant, stared, doffed their caps, and bowed as he passed. The Poles greeted him with formal salutes and smiles, but Sean was oblivious to them.

Now was the time to make one’s balance sheet. There could be a balance sheet for Liam and Timothy O’Sullivan. There was one for Nan Milford ... losses, gains, happiness, sadness. But there would be no balance for either Rombaden or Sean O’Sullivan.

A few dim, hopeful signs rose curiously in the sunlight in the sea of ruin. The people of Rombaden were working with amazing energy. They had used great ingenuity in the creation of jobs and in using rubble for raw material for a dozen enterprises.

But the digging out would continue for months, perhaps years. A single classroom had been opened without Nazi teachers or Nazi textbooks. A single four-page newspaper and a twenty-five-watt hand-generated radio station represented the press. Half the population had filled out the dreaded Fragebogen. Many of the Nazis were reduced to common labor. Now there was an application to form several trade unions and even a request to begin a political party ... these were signs, however small.

On the other side, the scales weighed heavily. Sean knew now that de-Nazification, in reality, would never work. One does not kill two hundred thousand forming the heart of the Nazi cancer and punish sixteen million others without oneself becoming a Nazi. In the British Zone it was becoming apparent that only the top Nazis would be tried, these trials for showcasing. The French, who realistically had to continue to live next to the Germans, could only pay later for vengeance now.

Nonfraternization was starting to break down. The new troops who had not seen combat were not so hostile toward the Germans, and the good old generous Yankee hearts began to show. American soldiers could not resist giving chocolate to children. And why not, Sean wondered? Were we ever taught to let children starve? Is it our way?

Also, soldiers are men and men needed women—and they would find them, nonfraternization notwithstanding. Certainly, as commander, Sean could make it dangerous, but never dangerous enough to stop it.

Only yesterday he saw something at his own residence that set him thinking. Two of his guards were helping his old servants, Alfred and Heidi Oberdorfer, repair their shattered cottage.

“Goddamn,” Sean whispered aloud, “we are lousy conquerors.”

The scales had dropped even lower—another cut in food ration had been ordered. How long would the energy of the people last? And when winter comes their bodies will demand hundreds more calories for heat. Sean had a foreboding that God would make this winter a severe one.

The food crisis was hastening the black market and bringing on massive prostitution. Crime and venereal disease would follow in natural course.

Sean turned into Princess Allee. Behind the half-smashed facades there were sounds of laughing men and women. It was a strange sound in Rombaden—at least the Poles and the whores had full bellies and bootleg rotgut. The competition to become an “official” Princess Allee whore was intense.

As they saw Sean O’Sullivan walking down the middle of their street they ducked into doorways. The incongruous sound of a woman singing reached his ears; it came from a makeshift cabaret in a cellar. Sean leaned against the doorframe, looked down into the rancid-smelling den. Her husky voice sang:

Du, Du liegst mir im Herzen,

Du, Du liegst mir im Sinn;

 Du, Du machst mir viel Schmerzen,
Weisst nicht, wie gut ich dir bin.

A bit of sentimental tripe from another age:

You, you live in my heart,

You, you live in my soul,

You, you cause me great sorrow,

You don’t know how good I am for you.

A resounding chorus of men and women’s voices picked up the song and they thumped mugs on the heavy oaken tables and sang Ja! Ja! Ja! Ja! Everything came to a terrified halt as they saw Sean. He shook his head and walked out quickly.

Sean stood musing in the great square ... from the Romans to the jackboots. He glanced up to his office and to the statue of Berwin and Helga, and across the square to the cathedral. The statue of Mary had been repaired. Tomorrow the cathedral would be returned to the people as a place of worship as the last of the Schwabenwald inmates had been moved to the field hospital in Castle Romstein.

The bell tolled the hour. Berwin and Helga ... Christ and Mary. Would Christ, the Son of God, ever emerge over Berwin, Son of the King of the Gods, in the souls of the people?

Chapter Thirty-three

A
NDREW
J
ACKSON
H
ANSEN TOSSED
and turned. Sean’s words pounded through his drowsy brain. He snapped the night lamp on. “Goddamned stubborn Irish son of a bitch!”

He fished for his specs, focused on the clock. Three in the morning. Sean’s time was up. He would be reporting in by noon. No sir, that hardheaded Irish son of a bitch wouldn’t change his mind. He’d march in, walk the thirteen steps, lay his neck on the chopping block, and wham!

Hansen turned off the lamp and tried to settle down, grumbling at the overheated discomfort caused by the heavy German down comforter. He made a mental note to get a couple of army blankets issued.