Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (30 page)

They drove back west, the route through the estates of Chapel Allerton, Meanwood and Headingley interspersed with leafy lanes and several quiet public parks and squares. On Woodhouse Lane they passed the road to St. Mary’s, and continued down towards Hyde Park to the north of the city centre where Paul’s flat was.

Entering was a furtive affair. Once inside, they both relaxed.

The flat was converted from one of the newer two-up-two-down terraced houses in the Hyde Park area, many of which had been converted for use as student digs, and were equipped with indoors bathrooms. The house was four floors overall; Paul’s apartment essentially consisted of the intended kitchen and ground storey indoors toilet, and a large basement bedroom underneath. The stairs to the first and second floors, and the ground floor bedroom had been partitioned with a wall that made a loud, resonating sound when knocked, and which gave very little in the way of privacy.

Naomi looked around the kitchen. The small room, with its sofa couch and small dining table, would be her world for much of the time. Down the straight, wide wooden steps, Naomi found a surprisingly roomy basement, whose bathroom subdivision she suspected Paul had himself installed.

“Oh, Paul.”

She turned to him, as his footsteps echoed on the wood behind her.

“It’s not much, I know,” he said quickly. “Just an easy place to live for a single teacher near his school. Somewhere to read at night, and not too far from the pubs.”

He winked, after the rather flat endorsement of his accommodation. Naomi looked around, seeing it anew. Well-leafed old paperbacks, thick tomes and heavy hardback copies of novels, poetry, philosophy, theology, jurisprudence, and every other conceivable subject and field of interest.

Her liking for the place swelled. It was a suitable underground den for Paul, and his strange, studious ways juxtaposed with a slightly Bohemian nature.

She turned to him, beaming, to find him leaning against the wooden beam by the foot of the stairs, a slight smile on his face.

“Come on, you,” he chuckled. “Time we had a drink, lass.”

~

The Hyde Park pub was barely four minutes’ walk away.

Entering into the smoky atmosphere, Naomi winced. It was not so much the cigarette fumes that bothered her, it was the returning memory that drifted up of the Leeds Blitz.

The terrible scream of the ‘Jericho Siren’ – a German Stuka bomber unloading in the centre of town. The fire watchers had called it in, and her Auxiliary Fire Unit had headed for the roaring blaze that engulfed the old Woodpecker Pub.

Curious Leeds folk thronged the street to survey the damage. Some were children. Even now, Naomi had a vivid sense of the surreal atmosphere; her own incredulity at the acrid smoke and the visual horror of a military attack, and the complete absence of fear from the populace. Hours later, with daylight two hours old, the firemen and women had considered it a job well done, and the old publican of the ‘New’ Woodpecker had opened his doors to serve them all a few ales on the house. The camaraderie had been as warm as she’d known it, in those months serving. Even now, she remembered the genuine laughter and happiness following the fire. The spirit of
overcoming
.

Little did Leeds know that the horrors of war would shatter its peace beyond the tiny forewarning of those bombs. A pub here, a house there. Nothing on the terrible scenes of the following months.

They sat down, Paul clinking two glasses down on the round wooden table. Smoke hung in the air above them.

“Do you mind?” Paul asked, pulling out a Woodbine. Naomi responded by leaning forwards coquettishly, and snatching the packet from him, before retrieving two and using Paul’s lighter to spark them both. Maintaining the steady, flirtatious eye contact with him throughout, she silkily extended one of the lit fags to an amused Paul with her right index and middle fingers, which she then twirled theatrically.

“By all means, Clyde.”

He laughed.

“Dangerous girl. You’ll tempt me to more scallywag behaviour before this occupation is through, I’ll wager. Bet the house on it. Perhaps,” he leaned forwards, eyes widening comically, “we could become black marketeers. Have our pick of the cigarettes. Trade playing cards with naked ladies on ’em. Bootlegged moonshine, like the yanks in the ’20s.”

“Careful. Already hoarding illicit goods, remember.”

Her tone was still playful, and he seized on it.

“That’s the point; a stashed Jew will be more dangerous than a few black market smokes and a pistol, eh? More risk, more reward. In for a penny…” he said, winking.

She smiled back, but it was transparently false, and he saw the creeping doubt cloud her eyes.

Bloody hell, Paul
.
What’s the bleedin’ matter with you lad
?

“On a serious note,” he said quickly, seeking to limit the damage. “Whatever is best for you, I will do it. This week we’ll get your name off the other place, and I’ll stop there and all that. Put your Mam and Dad in with mine… whatever it takes.”

He took a mighty swig of the pint to cover for his painful awareness of the clumsy approach, and was immensely gratified when she laid a hand gently on his.

“You’re not going anywhere. And I won’t forget what you’re doing for me.”

They drank three pints of mild each, complete with the extravagance of smoking three cigarettes each, and then returned to the flat. Given the larger space, they went straight down to the basement.

Paul strolled in, trying to act as naturally as he could, and deposited himself on one of the small chintzy sofa’s he’d placed next to each other along one wall of the room. Naomi stood awkwardly by the stairs, ill at ease. He looked at her confused.

“This is your room. Don’t worry. I’m sleeping upstairs.”

Beats of silence passed, and she drifted over and laid down on the bed, flopping out as though suddenly drained of energy. Paul grabbed a book, and a spare blanket from the sideboard, and decided it was time to leave her to it.

“Hey. I’m going to head up. You relax, settle in and unwind. Remember I’m just upstairs.”

“Paul, I can’t take your room.”

But he was firm. He’d decided that the hesitation and idiotic throwaway comments had to be ruthlessly eradicated. These were times that called for decisiveness.

“I’m sleeping upstairs. Tomorrow I’ll go settle in your apartment if you like, make you as comfortable as possible. We’ll get through this.”

He successfully resisted the almost instinctive urge to make a facetious remark, something along the lines of being quite glad she was a Jew, as her apartment was far the superior to his. Moving up the first steps, he half-turned back.

“Good night, lass. Sleep tight and try not to worry about all this, eh? Could all come to nothing. This isn’t Germany.”

Wasn’t it
, Naomi thought. Ten years ago, Jewish teachers, doctors and lawyers practised and worked in Germany. German Jews contributed to science, philosophy and literature in a Germany not ruled by fascist militarists and Nazi racial theory. Who knows what’s going on anymore?
Anywhere
. Or what Germany, and France and England,
are
, or
are not
.

“Hey, Paul?”

She called him back, softly, just as he reached the top step where the threshold back into his makeshift kitchen and living room was. He came down four steps, and ducked beneath the beam, craning his neck to see her.

“Yeah?”

“Bonnie and Clyde, I referenced earlier. But what happened to them in the end? Did they get away? Go underground? Or get caught?”

He chuckled; a little sadly, she thought.

“They were shot and killed by the police.”

She looked at him, framed in the half-light.
The police
. In this country; operating under German laws, ruled from Berlin, manned by SS.

“And they died?” she asked, her voice steady.

Paul began walking back up the stairs. “Yeah. They died. Sad story, eh?”

“Drink up Jerry!” Tommy screamed, his young face flushed a violent crimson. Hoffman roared at him.

“Insolent private! I am a Lieutenant of the Führer’s personal army! You’ll be whipped for this!”

There was an immediate chorus of gibberish from the mouths of twenty drunken Englishmen. “
Unteroberschlieffenhofferzollerbeckerführer Hoffman! Heil!
”

Hoffman tried repeating it, failing miserably, and laughingly downed his portion of the Scotch. The sharp taste almost made him retch, and there was a cheer from the men.

“OK, again!”

They played the same stupid hand-slapping game, whereby both would, in turn, try to slap the other’s hands, which were held together fingertip to fingertip as though clasped in prayer. Tommy won again, and Hoffman downed yet another short of whiskey, his face bunching up afterwards. He looked around the hut, seeing James Wilkinson sat stoically at the back, on his own, reading. Several others had opted out of the alcohol-fuelled merriments, but James’ closest friends had enthusiastically joined in. He was aloof.

“Private Wilkinson!”

At once, with a mocking air, the Yorkshireman leapt to his feet and said in monotone, “Ja, mein SS-Lieutenantführer Hoffman.”

Hoffman snorted. “Don’t be silly. Come join us.”

At once Tommy began entreating him, as did several others:

“Come on, old boy! Whiskey is whiskey.”

“Hoffman don’t bite, son!”

“Don’t worry about Jerry he’s all right, it’s his gift!”

Ultimately, the whiskey proved too alluring, and the disgruntled private finally stormed down the aisle, as the cheers grew louder. Perching himself on the end bunk, James downed a prodigious gulp of Scotch, and grudgingly smiled as Tommy clapped him on the back.

“Good job, northern monkey!”

Hoffman fixed his gaze on the Yorkshireman, and the smile melted from James’ face. The German wasn’t hostile, he seemed curious. James was as inexpressive as ever.

“You’ve avoided drinking with me for weeks and weeks,” Hoffman asked, quietly. “A drink here or there, but you never stay to talk. Every time I bring beer or whiskey, you prefer to remain separate.” The gaiety died down. Some men looked at the floor.

“I know it’s me that you have the problem with,” he continued. Not the Scotch.
No
real man has a problem with Scotch.”

There was some titters, but mostly nervous anticipation.

Hoffman affected mock-sadness. “Well, private?”

“I just don’t think it’s right to declare you lot enemies, go to war, then t’next thing we’re all bloody pals drinking Scotch. It’s either a bit daft, or it’s just not right at all.”

There were some muttered agreements; guiltily from a couple sat drinking the booze brought by the lieutenant, and more vigorously by the handful that had abstained. Tommy looked down at the floor. Brian and the Sarge shared a worried glance, and did likewise. Hoffman noted the reactions quietly, and raised his hands up, facing James.

“Again, I am not your enemy. Just a
Jerry
who got transferred here due to speaking good English, and given the role to liaise. Of course, I was eager to take it. It involved no real work, simply an effort to interact with other people, like a human. To share drinks,” he said, raising his glass. “Like there is no war. Senior officers think it is not only acceptable, but a
good
idea. I take advantage. Thus, we sit here, happy, drinking fine Scotch and smoking better cigarettes than the public in Berlin or London do. We wear different uniforms, and I don’t know, Private Wilkinson, perhaps you and I have different views. I would hope you’re not a communist. But I know you’re not a freemason, or Jew. So under the uniform, we’re the same. We can drink.”

James looked back at him, thoughtfully. He let it all sink in.
I know you’re not a freemason or a Jew.
That was interesting. From the sound of it, they had all been checked. And if Hoffman was lying in his ingratiating approach, he was an uncommonly good actor. Impossibly good. Potentially a psychopath the likes of which had never before even been imaginable.

“All right. So you want to be best pals with me and the boys, do you?”

There was a hint of a sneer that Hoffman did not pick up on. Tommy tried catching his eye to warn him off. James ignored him.

“Friends don’t lie.”

Silence. Hoffman nodded, urging him to elaborate. He did, but like a truculent Yorkshireman, refusing to be rushed, in his own time.

“I want you to tell us honestly… judging by the fact you’re not an army man, with those little ‘S’ lightning bolt things on your collar… why do you love Hitler so bloody much?”

For a split second, you could cut the silence with a knife, and then Tommy let out a roar.

“
Ohhh
!!! That’s a money question right there!”

The others regained their semi-drunken merriment, and heckled along. Even Hoffman was forced to grin.

Tommy interjected again, grinning. He’d made the bond with Hoffman, and knew that he could force home the advantage with less chance of finding himself in bother, unlike James.

“Right, Lieutenant. That’s a good question. Why are you in the SS? You’ve got to tell us.”

Hoffman’s own smile faded again, and the room waited with baited breath. All were unashamedly curious, as though they were about to have an alien descended from Mars explain itself and its species. The excitement at the booze, and Hoffman’s easy manner and language skills had helped greatly obscure the conflict of interests and beliefs. But, as James had never lost sight of, he wore the SS runes.

“Very well. You feel you must know?” Hoffman asked. James nodded, and a murmur of assent rumbled through the men.

With the silent room listening intently, SS-Obersturmführer Hoffman quietly began.

“I am 26. I cannot explain to you what that means as a German. Twenty-six years ago, the Fatherland was embroiled in a Great War on two fronts, against Britain and France to our west, and Russia to the east. Facing the world’s largest empire, the world’s largest army and the world’s largest country, all at once. That was how strong, how great Germany was. My father sired me just before signing up to the army. He told my mother he would either return victorious, or in a box. I never even saw him.”