Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (24 page)

By now, with the majority of British eyebrows shooting upwards with as much cynicism as can possibly be expressed by the human face, Göring’s vitriolic paraphrasing of the only man in Europe who outranked him either politically or militarily reached its antagonistic conclusion: “… in thousands of years of adaptation, the Jew has tried to turn the great nations of Europe into raceless bastards, but knows he cannot in the East with no bridge to the Asiatic… and now, the Jewish world menace seeks a war of annihilation with Japan in the East, as it tried and failed to with the Reich in the West!”

Goebbels, too, pitched in – never one to miss the opportunity to take centre stage and agitate – with a series of truly hysterical articles in the
Völkischer Beobachter,
a televised rant in the Reich, and a radio broadcast that invoked everything from Horst Wessel – a dead Nazi pimp-turned-martyr, it was said – The November Criminals and Walther Rathenau to Downing Street, American politics, the Rothschild banking family and references to ‘millions of Christians brutally butchered in the east.’ He railed over the airwaves for twenty minutes, and it was later translated into English in full by ‘Haw Haw’ Joyce – the
Mahatma Propagandhi
fully upstaging Göring in the process. The little doctor promised a swift and brutal vengeance on the Jewish warmongers, and that Germany and Japan stood allied together against international Jewry, ready to defend their spheres of influence and each willing to assist their great ally in doing so.

Plots thicken on the rumour mill; public remonstrations aside, the frenzy of unofficial rumours on the grapevine suggested things weren’t quite so simple. Germany continued to offer support for Japan; but with the rumours of an Anglo-German alliance with the British Empire, as opposed to outright enforced debellation from a vengeful Hitler, the Japanese were being subtly held in check from the perceived threat to Britain’s eastern colonies. Singapore in particular was a vital port. The British no longer supplied Chinese resistance to the Imperial Japanese Army, and in return, it was said, their assets must be left untouched. Japan’s seizure of East Russia would be perfect for the Axis, for Berlin. Singapore and British Asia was key to trade. Should British Malaya fall, too, along with neighbouring Thailand and the already occupied Indochina, then British-held Burma would surely follow, and a direct route into India would be available for the Japanese. This, it was said, Hitler could not abide. The British territories in the Far East were no longer Japan’s sphere of influence; they were Aryan. London was de facto his; therefore, India belonged to his vassal. Perhaps, some suggested, he intended to march troops in there himself one day, through Russia and the Caucasus and right into Asia. Hitler a modern Alexander; Germany and its allied empires of Britain, Italy and Japan globally triumphant; the massive power of America and Russia cowed into acquiescence or subdued accordingly. The daydreams of
Mein Kampf
made reality; an alliance of ‘Aryan’ empires, a Global Reich, the Führer
Godded
, Hitler; King of the World.

Others argued; these rumours made no sense. Hitler’s next target would be
Russia
; no one was fooled by the Non-Aggression Pact. Sabre-rattling with Japan at the isolated Americans was a ploy. He needed Japan to attack from the east, to keep Soviet armies in Siberia fighting a hopeless two-front war; the dreaded double invasion. Why would he care about saving Singapore and the rest, it was asked? All he needed was America to leave Japan alone. British colonies didn’t matter compared to the two-front war in Russia, and control of continental Europe in whole. What could it mean?

The same argument raged across pubs and living rooms all over the capital, which was by far the biggest source of information and gossip:

“Adolf will let Japan do what they like – draw the Americans west, to the Far East! Let them fight it out and weaken each other while the Jerries watch.”

“No, he wants a double-pronged attack on Stalin! Make Japan invade Russia, away from the Empire and just leave the Americans out of it.”

“He doesn’t want the Empire, they’ll have all of Europe and Russia; what does Hitler want with Malaya? Jerry just wants European civilisation in power.”

“Bollocks! They’re allies –
real
allies, not bloody conquered enemies who have to smile at them. When push comes to shove, Hitler won’t say a word, or Japan will tell him to get lost. Our lot are doomed out there.”

“Rubbish! Didn’t you hear what Churchill said? Fortress Singapore is impregnable!”

“He bloody said Fortress
Britain
was impregnable!”

“We got stabbed in the back!”

“Anyway, if China ever officially surrenders, Hitler doesn’t want Japan spreading and overthrowing the white man. No, as long as they all turn against Russia, the Empire will be intact.”

Still, the people of Britain referred to ‘The Empire’. Then would come a sad lull, as those speculating realised that at the heart of that imperial swathe of British conquest in every sphere of the globe, German soldiers patrolled the streets, and German officials dictated police policy. The Friendship Bunds might be springing up, here and there, but Parliament no longer had final say over the Empire and its subjects. Ultimately, the last word came from Hitler.

~

It had not been a good day for Maisie. She looked out at the famous street on which she worked; unusually quiet, for what had been a thronging hub of humanity.

Tottenham Court Road in London connected southwest Bloomsbury and the southeast of Regent’s Park down to the northern stretches of Soho and Covent Garden, its base connecting with the great New Oxford Street. The narrower road stretching north had its own fair share of shops and eateries, a great hub of life in the thronging heart of life in the capital. Theatre goers would use its public houses, resulting in a bizarre medley of cross-class mixing in certain establishments that would be unthinkable elsewhere; petite bourgeois engaging ‘toffs’ from Mayfair and further west in discussions on Wagnerian opera and which adaptation of
The Merchant of Venice
was best. Now, though, conversations with the upper classes were best avoided.
Shylock, see; even Shakespeare himself knew what these Jews were all about, let alone the great Spanish Catholic dynasty
.
Mosley and these fellows had the right idea all along. From Martin Luther to Shakespeare; Marlowe, Wagner, Bakunin, left wing, right wing, and every monarchy going; there is no place for the Jew
!

In the higher reaches of society, such views were being met with cheers and the clinking of glasses. Former Jewish business partners, merchants and traders became pariahs overnight. Those of mixed race who were in prominence became vocal defenders of western culture and blood, often having had no strong views in the years before 1940.

And those Jews rich enough merely smiled at all the subjective idiocy of the little people.

The middle classes and petit bourgeois were not immune to the grief-stricken torpor of the proletariat; the upper classes, most of whom had supported Franco in his authoritarian fascist/Catholic defence of the ‘old Spain’, were much more adaptable to the changing spectrum – being mostly above and untouched by its consequences – and ideologically more aligned to the centralism and stability that the extreme right imposed. Nationalising much of the industry and attacking unemployment was one thing; ensuring big business flourished and ‘old money’ prevailed was another. The toffs, all in all, seemed quite grudgingly accepting of the new order.

~

The tobacconists’ bell tinkled, and Maisie looked up from her copy of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
to see the young German soldier smiling at her that had bought a packet of cigarettes three days prior.

His friendly expression faltered in the face of her cool indifference; like a wave breaking against a cliff, before rolling back. The young man paused, discomfited, before quickly doffing his cap to the impassive girl and her steady gaze. He was certain that his failure to have done so
immediately
upon entering was obviously a cultural breach in the land of English gentlemen – hence her disapproval – and his face betrayed disappointment when she snorted quite openly at his attempt to win favour. Finally deigning to put the book down she approached the counter, her face an impenetrable mask.

The young German’s mouth opened and closed, briefly, and she reacted to his noiseless greeting with a firm, thin-lipped smile, tinged with a tiny trace of contempt.

“Hello again,” he smiled pleasantly, pulling himself together, having mentally abandoned the idea of flirtation and deciding to just replenish his smokes.

“Oh hello… still alive then?” she asked without interest.

He grinned, unused to such front from a woman. Particularly one so young, and vital. Girls close to his age had grown up under the Nazi yoke; the only real confidence and zeal any of them seemed to show was during suitable ‘Germanic’ activities or statements. Fear and caution stifled spirited girls elsewhere. Just like the boys. And their parents, and grandparents. Fear was insidious.

“Yes, still alive…” he smiled, “and I have decided to take a chance on
one
more packet.”

“It’s your funeral,” she deadpanned.

By now his awkwardness had disappeared, and the soldier was more than a little amused by the spunky English shopgirl, and his own previous inability to communicate.

“May I have a packet of Woodbines, please?”

She turned and collected them, at a leisurely pace. The light struck her hair and sent a blonde glow out, reflecting against the brown of polished wood. Maisie’s poise was loose; she almost sauntered back to the soldier with his cigarettes, before dropping them carelessly onto his outstretched hand. The packet bounced off his fingers and hit the floor; he quickly ducked to retrieve them, straightening back up to see an utterly unapologetic Maisie lighting a smoke of her own.

“Are you sure it is the right job for you, working at a Tobacconists?” he asked her, some incredulity breaking through his amusement.

“You have to take whatever is available in these times,” she replied, brushing a tuft of hair out of her eyes. “Are you sure being a soldier is the right job for you?”

He stopped his in tracks, letting out a half-laugh.

“Sadly, no.” She held his gaze, and he decided to trust her. “But I had no choice.”

To his surprise, she smiled at him in what looked like genuine sympathy.

“Never mind, eh.”

The tone was much softer than before, and the corners of her mouth twisted wistfully. She was sympathetic. Not so tough after all. Not such a cold fish.

Maisie passed the young soldier his packet of cigarettes.

“Danke,” the German said, gently.

She looked at him curiously. “Perhaps I shouldn’t tease you for cigarettes. There are more dangerous things happening out there, after all.”

He nodded, slowly, scrambling to find the right response in English.

“That is true. Anyway, who wants to live forever? I am sure that old people who cannot fight or make new children are probably considered unGerman in some way. There are laws against them.”

Maisie could not bring herself to reply.

“Do not worry,” he smiled again, the expression slowly splitting his boyish face. “English, German, it is the same to them. As long as we are young and it is possible to fight or produce children… we are in no trouble…”

He blushed, furious at himself for the clumsy attempt to backtrack, but determinedly maintaining eye contact. Blue on blue, his steady and strong; hers equally blue, but flecked with the slight gold of hazel specks. Freckles dotted either side of her perfect, narrow nose.

“Well,” Maisie replied quietly, clearing her throat. “That is a good one. I’ll have a smoke myself, today.”

“Danke,” he repeated quietly, tilting the paper packet slightly.

Beats of silence, then he plunged: “You don’t seem like the kind of girl I knew in Germany?”

“Oh?” she replied, eyebrows raised. But he could sense her interest.

Leaning in to the counter, he gave her the full beam of his smile. “Yes,” he purred, softly. “You are different. German girls my age grew up under Hitler. They are all the same; scared of being different, Aryan, talk about the same boring Germanic things, they all hate Jews…”

She stared at him, her eyes flickering fast from side-to-side in small movements, weighing him up. For his part, he did not blink; there was a twinkle in his eye.

“
You
are different. Anyway… I am needed. Auf Wiedersehen, fraulein…”

He held her gaze, searching for a semblance of warmth or compassion, or humour or dread in her eyes. He saw none; just curiosity, as she considered him keenly, judging his demeanour after the unexpected remarks. Despite himself, he could not help staring, maintaining the eye contact for several seconds after his goodbye. But she did not buckle under the pressure, with her composure regained, and when her right eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly in bemusement, he knew he had pressed it as far as he should, if not, indeed, a little further.

Replacing his enlisted soldier’s field cap, he dropped his gaze, only briefly discomposed, before doffing the grey wool to the English girl. Turning on his heel, the young soldier quickly exited out into the rare sunlight, moving away from the shopfront before sliding a cigarette into the waiting crevice of his lips.

For the first time in three days, Simon was calm.

Sat at his desk; attaching the Woodbine to his little gold holder, flicking open the heavy lighter and sucking down the smoke. Blowing swirls around him, letting it absorb into his flesh. Breathing deeply. It was his routine, the routine that calmed him. The routine that soothed him in the darkest hours of his life. His time alone, at the desk, expunging.

Placing the holder between his teeth where it pointed outwards, away from his eyes, Simon picked up his pen to write.

Diary,

I feel like I’m trapped in a dream from which it is impossible to awaken.

Walking through my own streets, the busy roads, the garden squares and riverside embankment and Fleet Street and Whitehall and every other monument and sacred place of London there is… and seeing the German soldier.