Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (44 page)

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Like a baby,” she admitted. “I’ve had, what, sixteen hours of shuteye in the last calendar day. Not ’alf out of synch.”

He laughed. “Think I’m rubbing off on you, you’re sounding more and more Leeds every day. A right little Leodensian.”

Not Yorkshire, she thought to herself, smiling inwardly. Paul had harangued her about it before, over a drink. He loved his city. Leeds, I’m a
loiner
.
Or tyke
. Or
Leodensian
.

It’s a Leodensian accent
, he always insisted, not bog standard farmer’s Yorkshire. A Leodensian family stretching back generations made his appreciation of the place manifest more militantly than her own family.
Do I sound like I’m from bloody Barnsley
, he’d protested.
Or Ilkley? I’ve never
seen
a bloody farm
!

He watched her as she sipped the tea gratefully, admiring her beauty despite being wrapped up in a night gown and pyjamas, puffy-eyed and in bed, having just awoken in a basement room. Her pale skin was perfect; the dark eyes, lashes and cascades of thickly-flowing hair seemed Mediterranean; of western variety, as opposed to its coasts to the east from whence her roots came. The exotic quality only made her more conspicuous; other women seemed drab and colourless compared to her aura. She looked more like a Spanish princess than a Semite. Paul wondered what kind of idiotic master race would exclude this woman from its exclusive ranks. Was this the face of a Jew? The eyes, ears, nose, the perfect profile of a parasite, a destroyer of nations? She was heavenly. He watched her,
drinking her in
, every fibre of her being.

Naomi swelled with affection for Paul. She felt at a loss, embarrassed by his kindness, and sat clenched with inner combat. Then, as though in weary trepidation, she suddenly decided. Her course of action was clear. She was laying low from potential persecution. Stripped of her normal life, Naomi had no dignity left with which to worry about losing if she asked. What was the worst that could happen? There had been enough time wasted on shyness, yielding to conventions, her passions repressed. How long could her unbearable tension go on for?

“I felt terrible knowing you were on the settee, Paul,” she began. “It’s hardly big enough for a child.”

“I don’t mind, silly. To be honest, I was knackered, lass. Really couldn’t face driving to yours.”

“There’s no need,” she said, blushing.
Hold it together
, she told herself.

He waved a hand dismissively. “Wouldn’t hear of it. And there’s a lot of ugly rumours, not to mention ’em cracking down on the teaching syllabus with that old forged rag of Zion. If they care about that, they really
do
care. Hang tight, Naomi. You’re a mile better off ’ere.”

“No Paul, there’s
no need
…” Naomi’s voice caught, and she cleared her throat to speak clearly. “Because I want you to stay with me.”

Again, she half-expected a joke, and self-consciously ruffled in bed with her puffy eyes and tousled hair, she stared at him unwaveringly, in defiance of any rejection he could make. The young lady had never tried to live by her passion before, and was poised, fragile, hoping against hope. Passion in lust was a socially stigmatised form of verve for the female, emancipated or not; Emmeline Pankhurst was not so far removed from the public eye. But Naomi was outside the realm of what was considered normal. When Paul failed to respond, pokerfaced, a sense of flat dejection came over her until his mouth opened and closed and she registered his profound, palpable shock. Relief flooded through her.

“Oh… uh… well…”

“There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion,” she offered quietly, and in his confusion, again, the quoted words dusted the surface of his recognition.

His questioning eyes searched hers; two shining pinpricks of brown flame, yet still he could not believe her, and she threw off the bed cover, diving forwards to seize him by the face and kiss the stunned young man hard on his mouth.

PART II

The buzzing roar of the Focke-Wolf whirred down to the airstrip, touching down at the heavily defended makeshift air base established on the Thames southwest of central London’s boundaries. With the perimeter lined with Feldgendarmerie ‘chain dogs’ drafted from the Wehrmacht, and an honour guard of their own SS forces, the leader of the Schutzstaffel and his chief of Security Police and intelligence, the new Reichsprotektor of Great Britain, marched smartly down the base. A ship awaited; Hitler’s promised entrance as conquerors and a clear message to the people, and no doubt, Heydrich thought, a knowing smirk at Admiral Raeder’s expense, having a former dismissed Navy lieutenant in the Reich Security Chief be allocated the finest ship of the force as his vessel to carry him into the heart of the land he was now ‘Protector’ of.

~

“When are these buggers going to show up?” Alan muttered restlessly to William, who merely shook his head. The Geordie and Mary were finding it hard to stand still, and were not helping the tensions William and Jack shared equally. The Catalonian in particular was murmuring obscenities under her breath, despite William’s constant whispered entreaties for her to shut up. Being overheard speaking ‘foreign’ was hardly going to be of help, and was a problem quite easily avoided.

“For shite’s sake, man,” Alan hissed.

“Well all this lot aren’t here for jollies, are they?” Jack pointed out, reasonably, keeping his tone calm.

He was referring to the greatcoat-clad military figures in what looked like SS regalia who were lining the Embankment. Either side of the river, they could see the same
feldgrau
figures, and Wehrmacht armoured cars were patrolling the Strand, through Covent Garden and all the way down Whitehall, which was more heavily guarded than had been seen since the invasion. There were even four Panzers in the middle of the Waterloo Bridge.

It was the first time in months that the exhaust fumes of motorised traffic could be detected. After the quiet lull, the hullabaloo was a strange change of tempo, and not an entirely welcome one. Familiar though it was, the return to noise and pollution for central London did little to change the swastika flags that flew at random intervals from flagpoles, nor the sight of Wehrmacht troops manning oddly scattered checkpoints, nor the knowledge that odious men of the SS, and the unspoken word – Gestapo – were operating in plain clothes through the city.

Jack, Alan, William and Mary absorbed the scene, carefully surveying the area and its concentration of German personnel.

They were part of the gathering crowds near the Savoy. The hotel that had been commandeered by the SS.

“Right,” Jack breathed, wary of being overheard as the Strand became too densely packed to be safely out of earshot of others. “When they dock, we split up and get absolute confirmation they are staying here, take note of their security and how easy it will be to get a clear shot at them.”

William rolled his eyes. “Take a look around.”

“Do you think the inside of the hotel will be any different,” Mary erupted loudly, and they all hissed at her in unison, with varying degrees of profanity.

“We should have done it here on arrival… at least had a pop,” William murmured into Jack’s ear.

But he shook his head firmly.

“For all we know it would be impossible. And look
how many
of the buggers there are. At least we know Heydrich is blasé about security.”

“Ironic, eh?” William grinned back with enforced coolness.

After that, they waited in silence for the coming of two men whose careers had already marked them as two of the century’s notable villains.

~

Kriegsmarine
Kondor
sailed around the corner as the Thames curved up to Whitehall, gliding evilly through the dark water like a black, amphibious pterodactyl.

An ostentatious honour guard of planes flew overheard. One of the black-clad men standing on the prow grinned. Heydrich knew that Göring was certainly not responsible for the gesture, Air Force chief or not. His file at Prinz Albrecht-Strasse was filled with juicy titbits of the Reichsmarschall’s choice words for Himmler; ‘mentally deranged schoolmaster’ and ‘stupid, talentless chicken farmer’ were his personal favourites, along with the more widely known ‘Himmler’s Brain is Called Heydrich’.

That man had never looked so in his element.

Heinrich Himmler had always avoided the flamboyance of Göring, preferring to live frugally, scorning the vulgar demonstrations of National Socialist favour from the fat man and various Party big shots. But now, the Führer’s own self-professed Ignatius Loyola stood resplendent in his all-black classic SS attire; black trench coat, black pirate’s cap, black jackboots. Heydrich, himself clad in the same uniform but with the old formal black great coat, was impressed, despite himself. The weak-chinned, schoolmasterly Reichsführer-SS had never looked so imposing.
Fitting
, he thought.
Good boy, Heini
.

Heydrich had of course upstaged him; service medals prominent.

The ship sliced through the water, and onwards to the Embankment.

“Makes one feel like Napoleon, Heydrich does it not?” Himmler smiled.

Heydrich glanced at him. The SS chief’s face was fixed staring ahead; only his eyes moved as he glanced at either bank. His motionless poise was curious. Like a still cat, observing with wary, shifty eyes.

“Indeed, Herr Reichsführer,” he intoned smoothly. “We enter London as conquerors. That goes beyond Napoleon. We were undaunted by the bitter weeds of England he mentioned…”

“Indeed, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Himmler replied haughtily.

Heydrich held back his pleasure. His SS chief was hiding his discomfort at the new promotion, and vast power bestowed to him by the old man; Himmler was steadfastly refusing to use the Reichsprotektor title, continuing to state SS rank which was, of course, subordinate to his own. At least, Heydrich mused, Himmler had seen fit to promote him to
SS-Obergruppenführer
and
General der Polizei
… though to all intents and purposes, he had,
de facto
, effectively been that anyway. Accumulating titles meant little to him, now; only tangible power mattered.

“There are
many bitter weeds in England
,” Heydrich pronounced, imitating Winston Churchill. “And the Reich trimmed them. And now, millions of Jews and freemasons are trembling – I can hear them.”

The wind that had threatened to remove the SS leaders’ caps suddenly died down, and patches of cloud which sullied the sky dispersed somewhat. The sun, while weak, bore down on them, which Heydrich knew the superstitious Himmler would appreciate.

The Reichsführer finally broke his still pose, and patted Heydrich, somewhat approvingly, like a pervert attempting to be avuncular.

“Excellent.”

Heydrich smiled at him. Himmler gazed at the west bank, which the ship drew towards; the crowds visibly deepened and they drew level with Whitehall Palace; the Parliament building and Big Ben.

Heydrich felt a spine-tingling thrill. Even his legendary poise was almost broken, and he worked hard to maintain ‘the cold face’.

Himmler was shaking. “We stand poised for historic tasks of the German order. It will be our life work. The form is harsh, but in our harshness we are kind to our blood. The necessity of cleansing England is a shame, these men too are of our blood, but just as in the Reich we must purify. That is SS duty; I am no more a murderer than was Arjuna, a loyal servant of the Aryan people and Krishna.”

Heydrich winced in irritation. Himmler
would
have to spoil the moment with his idiotic bluster.

“Quaintly expressed, Herr Reichsf
ührer,” he responded sarcastically.

The silent crowds watched as the Kondor cruised by; Heydrich could distinguish faces at the distance. The SS guards lining the Embankment clicked their heels to attention as the boat passed; one in three stood facing the river, and gave the salute. Himmler and Heydrich both returned the straight-wristed gesture in the style of the Führer.

Heydrich, having enjoyed it for some moments, spoke again.

“Yes,
quaintly
expressed. Not that these tasks are to be written of with
quaint expressions
. It must be
unwritten
.

“Indeed, Obergruppenführer,” Himmler said uncertainly.

“It will never be written, but our tasks will be done for the greater good. Like the Germ Theory of Disease; we remove a cancer to save the body of our civilisation.”

Himmler smiled at that.

“Your logic again, General.”

“National Socialism’s world vision is as logical as it is idealistic. You say are Arjuna, Reichsführer? I am a policeman, restoring order in the pursuit of a German sphere of influence in Europe. The Jews are a people of assimilation; thus, too, have we absorbed their best qualities and vilified them for the worst. Our hatred of their nuances only strengthens our racial bond.”

Himmler was shocked, though he masked it. Heydrich let him digest that, before moving to assure him as the ship slowed, approaching the small port at which they were to disembark at the Strand.

“Enemies of the Reich are to be exterminated, and there is no shortage of bullets with which to accomplish this. The times of Jewish intellectualism is over; we have absorbed their cleverness and incorporated their determination, now, the Teutonic peoples; Aryan, Nordic, Saxon, will overcome through purity of blood and the hardness to create a real future for our race.”

Himmler glowed, thoroughly reassured. “My dear Heydrich… Obergruppenführer, General; you are a shining light of our race.”

Fool
, Heydrich thought. All the years of rising together with Himmler, through setbacks and triumphs, the ease with which he could manipulate the prim, puritanical pedant was still a source of irritation for Heydrich, though useful. Even the casual mention of ‘race’ was a crude reminder of the old Jew rumours from Heydrich’s grandmother remarrying with a man named Süss. Despite the name, the man was no Israelite, though Gregor Strasser had tried in vain to bring the ‘Hebrew’ Heydrich down with it. Since then, Himmler had foolishly believed it to be some kind of leverage, despite a full Gestapo investigation and the Führer himself exonerating Heydrich after an hour alone with him.