Himmler's War-ARC (31 page)

Sergeant Major Rolfe emerged from the headquarters building. “All gone, Captain, but you’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“We’re the 74th Armored, right. Well, this is work camp number seventy-four. Quite a coincidence, huh, sir?”

“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “But it does make me wonder how the hell many of these snake pits there are.”

CHAPTER 15

FDR WAS LIVID. The photographs on his desk were damning beyond belief. One showed emaciated dead bodies stacked like cordwood, while another displayed the decomposing bodies of inmates hung on barbed wire, shot while trying to escape. Others were equally horrible. He glanced at them all, overwhelmed by the agony and inhumanity they showed.

As the camps near the French border were overrun, the depth of the accumulated horror was becoming apparent, and no one had yet gotten near the most terrible places of all, a series of camps near the city of Auschwitz.

“First, I want these pictures released to the troops and the American public. We must show them what we’re fighting for and what’ll happen if we lose. Above all, show these to our so-called allies, Great Britain and France. They most definitely need their spines stiffened.”

Churchill had lost a vote in Parliament, which would almost certainly require a new election. Winston might be a hero to much of the British public, but he was not well loved even by his own party. The English people were exhausted by the long and bloody war and wanted it to end. They had been fighting since 1939 and had endured bombings and catastrophic battles. As long as victory was achievable, they were on board, but the increasing German resistance was demoralizing them. It reminded so many of the stalemate of World War I. All that was needed to cause England’s collapse was the sight of trench lines snaking along the Rhine.

A growing number of people in England were clamoring for a negotiated peace, and the same clamoring was beginning to be heard from America’s citizens. So what if a Nazi stayed in power was the increasingly strident cry? Hitler was the monster responsible for the war, and Hitler was dead. Wouldn’t his successors be more reasonable? After all, wasn’t the little dictator insane? They couldn’t all be crazy, could they?

Yet how could he negotiate with the authors of these atrocities? But so many wanted him to, and they included congressional members of his own party. Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter and Treasury Secretary Rosenthal as well as a number of Jewish-Americans had screamed their anguish at what was happening to their fellow Jews. Frankfurter, a man who at first disbelieved the atrocities, now wondered if many of his faith remained alive in Europe. It was a good question.

FDR and Churchill had had a number of disagreements and Churchill was fighting the fact that Great Britain was now a bit player in the global conflict. Still, Churchill was a cut above whoever would replace him, in particular the colorless and, in FDR’s opinion spineless, socialist, Clement Atlee.

Ultra intercepts said that the Nazis were slowing or stopping the shipment of Jews to death camps, but would that truly save the remaining Jews and other concentration and death camp inmates? Or did it make sense to negotiate an end to the war that included getting the Jews and others out of the clutches of the likes of Himmler. FDR rubbed his forehead. He had a miserable headache. He had won his fourth term, and, God willing, another four years in office. But at what price? Christ, his head hurt and it felt like his heart was racing to get out of his chest. He needed a rest, but had no idea when he would get one.

* * *

Heinrich Himmler mentally worked on his list of people to be eliminated once he consolidated power and a working peace had been achieved. It was a pleasant diversion. Once he’d seen a Shakespeare play in which characters dressed as Romans decided who would live and who would die. He appreciated it now that he was in a position to do something.

Von Rundstedt headed the list. The arrogant field marshal was choice number one. He and a number of others in the military hierarchy were proclaiming themselves saviors of Germany for their efforts in slowing down the Americans and knocking Russia out of the war. For all intents and purposes, England was also no longer a factor, while France was on the verge of tearing herself in two.

Ribbentrop would go as well, although Himmler thought the fool might be allowed to retire. The same held with the aging von Papen. The navy’s Admiral Doenitz seemed loyal, but the Kriegsmarine had always followed an independent line. His case would be reviewed. Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr and the font of all military intelligence, was also considered a candidate for purging. As yet unverifiable rumors had him supporting those who would have murdered Hitler. The Gestapo was working hard to confirm those rumors. While Himmler now firmly believed the bombing that killed the Fuhrer was a tragic coincidence, he did wonder just when the plotters would have made their move. Canaris would be carefully watched.

And what to do about Rommel? The former golden boy from North Africa was still recovering from his wounds. Rommel had served as commander of Hitler’s bodyguard and had appeared to worship him. However, there were rumors that his devotion had soured as defeats mounted. Rommel was a popular war hero and would not be touched as long as he behaved himself. Himmler thought it was strange that Rundstedt hadn’t actually said that he would give a command to Rommel once he was better. Perhaps their personal animosity could be put to good use.

Josepf Goebbels still served a purpose. The club-footed propaganda minister had once been very ambitious, perhaps even coveting ultimate leadership as Hitler’s heir, but the Fuhrer’s unexpected death had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he would make Goebbels an ambassador to an irrelevant country.

Himmler was greatly concerned about what was happening to his SS army. Once it had consisted of thirty-nine divisions, but now it had been mauled to less than half its strength by the Russians. It would have to be rebuilt, which should not be a difficulty. Only finding the time to do it would be a problem. He had held back two divisions from being sent to the Eastern Front and they now constituted a personal security force in Berlin.

It occurred to him that the entire regular army, the Heer, should become part of the SS instead of the arrogant and far too independent force it was now. He thought that the same should happen with the Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe. Yes, make them all swear allegiance to the Nazi Party and Germany, but in that order.

But first he had to win the damn war. Or at least not lose it.

* * *

The intensity and fury of the rioting caught Jessica by surprise. There had been many disturbances in the previous few days as the French communists fought the police and some of the French troops who had been brought into Paris to maintain order, but nothing like this day’s fighting. Other demonstrations had been fairly restrained while this one had quickly turned savage.

Several thousand communists had suddenly emerged from the side streets and taken over the area around the Arc de Triomphe, the sacred monument whose arches rose over the First World War’s tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier. Their banners and shouts proclaimed their goal to make Paris a communist-run soviet, and further said that de Gaulle was a fascist dictator. So far this was nothing new, except for the size of the crowd and the quickness with which they’d shown up. Jessica concluded that they’d been waiting in nearby buildings and alleys for a signal.

Noncommunist demonstrators showed up only a few minutes later, which led Jessica to conclude that much of this had been choreographed. These held signs that said that the communists were Moscow inspired traitors deserving of death. Within seconds, the two groups were at each other’s throats. Clubs and blackjacks cracked heads and men and women fell, screaming or unconscious, or even dead, Jessica thought grimly. She realized that she was getting used to sights like these. What had happened to the sheltered college girl, she wondered.

Whistles and sirens screamed as the police made a belated entry. Again, more brawling and more people were lying injured on the pavement. A horrified Jessica saw knives flashing and tear at flesh. A young man ran past where she’d taken shelter in a store doorway. The skin of his cheek hung down like a piece of bloody meat. He howled in pain as the flesh of his cheek flapped.

Jessica had merely thought to take some time off and see the Arc and the tomb. She’d seen them before, but their quiet dignity always gave her a sense of purpose. But now her goal was to stay out of the fighting. Regular army troops began arriving by truck and forming into battle lines. They had rifles and bayonets. The communist rioters were badly outnumbered and outgunned. It would all end in a few minutes.

The communists fired first. They had pistols or small submachine guns hidden in their coats and they shot into the advancing soldiers and police or the de Gaulle supporters. More scores of people fell to the ground, lifeless or writhing. Blood poured from hundreds of wounds.

Jessica had thrown herself on her belly and was watching the slaughter. It was ghoulishly fascinating, horrifying. She couldn’t turn away. The soldiers, enraged, opened fire and dropped a large number of the communists into bloody heaps. The communists broke and ran in a score of different directions while the police and soldiers chased them. A young French army private ran up to her and pointed his rifle at her. His face was contorted with anger. Some of his friends had just been killed or wounded and he wanted revenge. He saw her Red Cross uniform and nodded grimly, then he laughed and trotted away.

What was so funny, she thought? Then she realized that her skirt was up at her waist and she’d just given the soldier a look at her long legs and her panties. She got up, dusted herself off and looked around. Ambulances were already carting away the injured, while trucks took away the dead, and there were many of both, perhaps hundreds.

Women had come out from the alleys and were screaming at the soldiers, calling them murderers. It didn’t matter that the rioters had opened fire first, the soldiers were the killers. Jessica realized that the whole massacre had indeed been staged. It didn’t matter who’d fired first or who was right or wrong. The dead and injured communists had just become martyrs. France, she decided, was going to hell.

She also decided she would begin wearing slacks.

* * *

The sight of long columns of refugees coming east from the Rhineland delighted Victor Mastny and his two fellow slaves. It was good to see the supermen and women from Germany looking so bedraggled and forlorn. Even better, their presence was an opportunity for Victor to advance himself financially and have some measure of revenge on the people who’d caused him so much misery.

The two Latvians were a little slow to agree with him, but he bullied and threatened them into following his orders. He didn’t think they’d protested overlong. The idea of striking back at their tormentors was just too pleasant.

The first couple of raids had been quite simple. Rush in during the middle of the night, take something they’d spotted as valuable, and rush out under the cover of darkness before either resistance or a chase could get organized. They’d gotten some loot, but nothing of real value. Mastny didn’t care that little money, jewelry, or watches had made it into their pockets. As far as he was concerned, these were practice runs. He was convinced that something major would turn up and he wanted to be ready.

Mastny had the feeling that many of the refugees were so confused and bewildered by the turn of events that had destroyed their nice little German lives, that they were psychologically incapable of defending themselves. Also, most of the refugees were women, children, and older men. The army had taken all the young men and even many of the older ones. The long and bedraggled columns of pathetic people were indeed quite helpless.

It was the middle of the night and the three slave laborers were a couple of miles from the Mullers’ farm, and there were several score refugees sleeping alongside the road. Many were huddled together for warmth as the nights got progressively colder. Mastny wondered just where they intended to go and how they would be housed once they got to their destinations. He concluded that he didn’t care. Some of them, he noted, had moved a ways off the road. Perhaps losing your home, your status, and your possessions makes you antisocial, he thought.

One particular little group of neat little Germans had moved well into a stand of trees and had set up blankets for privacy. An older woman had actually dug a trench for a latrine, and a small fire burned. Victor didn’t think burning a fire in a forest was a bright idea and concluded that these Germans must be city dwellers. The group consisted of two older men along with three women. One of the women was also old, but there was a younger one in her mid-twenties and a girl about twelve. Now Mastny thought he would really take revenge as well as initiating his companions into his world.

They reached the sleeping refugees at three in the morning. There would be plenty of time for them to do what they wanted and return to the barn before dawn. The ground was hard and no snow had fallen, which meant they would leave no tracks. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for others to follow them. The three men carried clubs and homemade knives made from scrap metal. They hadn’t yet gotten their hands on any guns. They wore caps and their faces were blackened with soot.

The Germans slept soundly. At least two of them were snoring. Mastny gave the signal and they rushed in, clubs flailing. The two men and the older woman were hit and clubbed unconscious before they could even move. Victor jumped on the young woman and held a cloth to her mouth and a knife to her throat while the others grabbed the girl. The two were bound and gagged before they were even fully awake. So too were the three others, although Mastny wasn’t certain they were still alive.

“Don’t make a noise and you won’t get hurt,” he hissed at both of the women. “The others are only stunned. Cooperate and they’ll be all right. Don’t and we’ll slice their throats and then yours. Understand?” The woman and the girl nodded, their eyes wide and frantic with terror.