The Nero Decree

by Greg Williams

  “Hit by the British on March 17,” the man replied, staring over Johann’s shoulder at the ruins. “A direct hit, I’m afraid. The bastards.”

  “I mean, where are they conducting their operations from now?” Johann continued.

  “The annex,” the policeman replied, gesturing along Wilhelmstraße. “It was built by Schinkel’s student, Stüler. He built the Neues Museum, you know.”

  “Indeed,” Johann said, walking toward the building. “He also built the Neue Synagogue.”

  “Yes, sir,” the policeman said, not entirely sure how he was supposed to respond to such a comment, but clearly intent on not offending an SS officer.

  Johann approached the building on Wilhelmstraße. The sandstone that had once been the color of wheat was stained gray and black by smoke and soot. Johann passed under a high arch, up a broad staircase, through a two-man security detail (the members of which simply nodded at him), and into a large lobby with vaulted ceilings. A young man sat behind an oval-shaped wooden desk. He stood up and saluted Johann, who assumed a casual air.

  “On what floor will I find Oberst Reinhard?” he asked briskly, removing his gloves.

  “The Oberst’s office is on the second floor at the back of the building,” the corporal replied, pointing at one of the two staircases that led upstairs from the central atrium. Johann looked around. There was frantic activity throughout the building. Men and women in uniform carrying files and messages hurried about. Some gathered in small groups, in deep discussion. Death throes, Johann thought. Every lie told to the German people had been issued from this Ministry—or from Goebbels’s Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda—and here, as time ran out, the obfuscators in chief went about their business as if they were running a department store, not a mass deception. Johann thought: Most of these people had never been in the field, but they were responsible for as much hate and falsehood as any group of human beings had ever produced.

  He gripped the handle of the briefcase, his knuckles whitening. He would not allow any more falsehood.

  “Let me call up…,” said the receptionist, lifting a telephone.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Johann, pushing his hand down on the cradle to cut the call off.

  “But, sir, protocol insists that…” The receptionist appeared alarmed.

  Johann spoke calmly and coolly, never taking his eyes from the functionary as he spoke.

  “You would do well to remember that, after several years in the field, some of us don’t need an appointment,” he said. “You pen pushers need to relax a little.”

  With a couple of bounds Johann reached the staircase.

  “I will find my own way,” he said to the receptionist, who sat wondering what on earth he would tell the Oberst if there was a complaint.

  Reinhard had chosen his secretary well. It had been hard to even obtain soap for several years, but the woman was immaculately groomed and appeared to have stepped straight from the reel of a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film. When Johann first saw her, as he opened the door to Reinhard’s office, she reminded him of Snow White: pale skin, red lipstick, black hair. The woman looked entirely out of context.

  He had forgotten that human beings could look like this.

  The anteroom was tiny. Once Johann had opened the door he had to maneuver himself into the room and shut the door behind him before he had space to breathe.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said, acknowledging Johann’s challenging entrance. “Space is at a premium since we lost the other building.”

  “I understand,” Johann said, bowing to her over-courteously in the way that he had seen SS men do when they were trying to reenact an imagined and now long-lost Prussian courtly tradition.

  The woman stood up. She was only just over five feet tall.

  “There is nothing in the Oberst’s schedule,” she said. She was clearly alarmed at having an SS-Sturmbannführer in her boss’s office but didn’t want to appear to be a pushover.

  “I have come directly from the front, as the condition of my uniform indicates,” Johann said. The woman looked him up and down. “I have come to the Oberst’s office because I have a matter of the utmost urgency to discuss with him.”

  The woman nodded in a way that suggested she was now slightly embarrassed and uneasy about the fact that she had questioned the Sturmbannführer.

  “Of course,” she said quietly. “Please, wait a minute.”

  She returned almost immediately and ushered Johann into Reinhard’s office. The Oberst stood up behind his desk, and Johann saluted him.

  “Please, take a seat,” Reinhard said, indicating a simple wooden chair on the other side of his desk. He settled back into his own office chair that creaked under his not inconsiderable weight. The room was dark from the blackout over the windows—the only light was a desk lamp. He was young for an Oberst, probably midthirties, but he had taken to the trappings of middle age easily—his uniform was amply filled, and he had plastered his hair over his head to camouflage its thinning. He regarded Johann with heavyset eyes.

  “Can I have Ursula fetch you anything?” he asked. Johann sensed that Reinhard was what was known by the people as a “golden pheasant”: He had taken easily to the pomp and ornamentation of the military but knew his own limitations; he was fearful of the battlefield and in awe of those who embraced it.

  “Yes,” Johann said. He may have had just one purpose, but he was also aware that he must take nourishment where he could. “Some water and tea… or coffee, if you have it.”

  “Only tea, sadly,” Reinhard said.

  “That will do,” Johann agreed. “Sugar, if you have it.”

  While Reinhard called in his secretary, Johann looked about the room. It was small and wood paneled. Once it would have had a bank of windows looking out onto what Johann imagined was a courtyard below. Now the glass was covered in black paper.

  “So…,” Reinhard said. Johann was enjoying the Oberst’s discomfort. He was clearly finding it difficult having a field officer in his cozy room. “How are things at the front?”

  “We are doing everything we can,” Johann deadpanned. “I was there only yesterday, and all is ready for the Soviets. We wait; that is all.”

  “I hear that Busse’s Ninth Army and Wenck’s Twelfth Army are said to be coming from the south to defend the city,” Reinhard said hopefully, crossing his hands on his belly. “Do you know anything of this?”

  “No,” Johann said. He had heard the rumor too, although he doubted its veracity. Frantic citizens were clinging on to false hope—as they had done throughout the war (Peace with Britain! Stalin is dead! Miracle weapons have been deployed!) in order to distract themselves from the horror of what was occurring.

  “So you think that—what?—we might have a couple of weeks maybe?” Reinhard asked. The man was clearly apprehensive.

  Ursula entered the room with a tray of tea, water, and biscuits.

  “I found some Lebkuchen,” she said brightly to Reinhard. She clearly knew what made her boss tick. Johann suspected there might have been more than a professional relationship between the pair, despite the gold wedding band on Reinhard’s finger.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Johann said as he sat back with his cup of weak tea. He wanted to convey to Reinhard that he felt comfortable. He moved the briefcase from his lap onto the floor between his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the dark of the room he saw several photos—Reinhard with his wife and children in formal poses. “What do you imagine that you will be doing in a week from now?”

  Reinhard was momentarily thrown. Johann could tell that he was dismayed by the idea of having to fight. “Well, I… don’t know.… I imagine—”

  “How about a month from now?” Johann interrupted him. “Can you imagine that far into the future?”

  Reinhard stayed silent.

  “You have a family, I see,” Johann said, acknowledging the photographs.

  “Ah, yes,” said Reinhard with an audible sigh. “
Two daughters and a son.”

  He passed Johann a studio photo of three doughy children dressed in sailor suits. Johann was pleased—he had the man in the right frame of mind for his purposes.

  “You must have high hopes for them,” Johann said, passing back the picture in a businesslike fashion—he was keen not to drift too far from SS character.

  “Oh, of course,” Reinhard said wistfully. “They have all proved themselves to be good students.…”

  A silence descended on the room. Johann let it settle. He wanted Reinhard to think about his children for as long as possible. Reinhard wasn’t stupid. Even he and the other diligent servants of the regime who had never been near a firearm, let alone the front line, realized that the war was lost. Yet Reinhard waited, tight-lipped. It may have been the dog days of the Nazi regime but he still couldn’t risk incriminating himself through loose talk. The punishment meted out to transgressors was as unforgiving as it had always been, and there was a chance that the Sturmbannführer sitting across the desk from him was a true believer. While it wasn’t uncommon for civil servants or even members of the military to express dissidence, the SS remained the most loyal servants of the Führer. Created by the Party, they would go down with the Party.

  Johann sensed Reinhard’s unease. And with that unease came vulnerability. Johann knew that this was his opportunity. If he managed to mine along this seam there was a chance that he would find weakness that might be exploited.

  “Oberst.” Johann crossed his legs and took a sip of his drink. He was trying to convey confidence, to exhibit control. “I hear from mutual friends that you are a man who can be trusted.”

  Johann looked hard across the desk. Reinhard looked down. A very slight smile played across his mouth: He was flattered by the comment, but he was fearful of it too.

  “Oh, really, Sturmbannführer?” he said. “Is that right? What kind of friends are these that we have in common?”

  Johann balanced the saucer on his knee and tipped his body toward the Oberst.

  “I think that it’s probably best,” he said, “in these challenging times, if I remain discreet as to their identities.”

  “I understand, Sturmbannführer,” Reinhard said. “One can never be too careful. In the heightened atmosphere we find ourselves in we are well served to maintain decorum rather than offer our unexpurgated thoughts.”

  Johann began to feel confident about the role he was playing. Reinhard was listening to him as he would a senior SS field officer, with a degree of vigilance and watchfulness that befitted the potential threat posed by the Totenkopf insignia combined with the arrogance befitting a colonel of so tender an age. Johann pressed his advantage.

  “I can assure you, Reinhard,” he said, “that everything I have to say to you in this office is well considered. Nothing that comes out of my mouth will be unexpurgated. However, some of it may not be to your taste. I should warn you that should you decide to pass on what I tell you, then the consequences for you will be dire. Do you understand?”

  Reinhard folded his arms in front of himself and looked Johann in the eye.

  “These people are very serious,” Johann said, and paused. “We have heard that you are someone who is to be trusted.” He could see that Reinhard’s body was tensing. Perhaps the Oberst was calculating whether being implicated in dissent was worse than the Soviet offensive to come. It was clear that his decision might influence the rest of his days: He would have precious few opportunities to see his chubby Kinder if he was starving in a gulag.

  “I understand,” Reinhard said. “All of us only have thoughts for the Reich.” He had used the Nazi word Reich, the one beloved of the Party officials who dreamt of exercising power well beyond German borders. Was it just habit, or was he trying to tell Johann that he had no time for some unlikely putsch. Johann could tell that Reinhard had spent so long clambering up the greasy pole of the Nazi civil service that he was completely capable of masking his true sentiments. Notwithstanding that, Johann moved onward. He had no choice.

  “Reinhard,” he said, “you should understand that what is being discussed now isn’t about a rearguard action or saving the country as it is. That war is over. The men I represent are senior figures within the Wehrmacht, intelligence, and civil society, and they are concerned about the future of Germany well beyond the spring of 1945.”

  “I have heard of such people,” Reinhard said. Johann couldn’t read his tone of voice. Was it dismissive? Malevolent? Or was it just the literal truth? German High Command was presently awash with rumors—they were the currency by which people communicated—so it was hardly surprising that Reinhard was aware of such things.

  “I assume that you have read the intelligence briefings from the east, Oberst?” Johann asked. Reinhard nodded.

  “Millions of Soviets are massed across the Oder. Millions of them,” Johann said. “They have tanks and artillery lined up for miles the length of our border with barely enough space for a man to pass between them. When the offensive comes it will be devastating. They will crush our depleted defenses and arrive at our city within hours. Berlin and everything—and everyone in it—will be destroyed. There will be no quarter given. You know what went on in the east in forty-one and forty-two? It will be much, much worse than that.…”

  Johann paused for a moment and let the thought settle. He leaned over and took a sip of his water, swallowing loudly for emphasis. “In the west, the Americans and the British have broken through our lines, but have stopped advancing at the Rhine. No one is clear as to why. The rumors you hear about the Americans arriving in Berlin first are untrue. The Soviets are knocking at the door already.”

  Reinhard took a deep breath as if imagining Red Army infantrymen storming into the Ministry, scattering paperwork and burning the desks, bringing chaos and disorder.

  “For the future of our country, we must do everything that we can to prevent this from happening,” Johann said urgently. “For the past few days, senior figures within Army High Command have been in contact with their counterparts in the American forces. We are trying to bring the best possible peace to Germany.”

  “How so?”

  Johann thought that Reinhard’s question suggested that the Oberst wasn’t playing games. He had straightened in his seat a little as if genuinely intrigued. Johann wondered if it was possible to underestimate the degree to which people were desperate to leave the city.

  “Our offer is that German forces will show no resistance if the Allies agree to advance quickly beyond the Rhine. The agreement is that they would secure Berlin before the Soviets can advance past what’s left of Army Group Vistula, which is outnumbered by some estimates by ten to one.”

  Reinhard weighed this up. There were rumors circulating about secret deals of this nature. One version even had the Americans and the British joining with German forces to fight the Red Army.

  “And who are these senior military figures, doing the negotiating?” Reinhard asked skeptically. Johann gave him the deadest eye he could muster.

  “Do you think that I am at liberty to discuss such details?” he said irritably. “Those of us who are involved in this patriotic work are sworn to secrecy.”

  Reinhard pushed his chair back slightly and crossed his legs. “It’s hard to know who you’re talking to these days,” he said.

  “Indeed,” Johann replied. “There is a great deal of talk in Berlin. As a military man you know that the only thing that matters are people’s actions. When all is said and done, that is the only thing that shifts the universe—and it is what we will be judged by.”

  “And God?” Reinhard asked. Johann couldn’t help a small, bemused smile. Were Nazi officials evoking long-repressed religious deities now?

  “No,” he replied. “Whoever comes after us once this mess is finished with will judge us alone.”

  Reinhard eyed him warily.

  “Well, well, well…,” he said eventually. “Even the SS are thinking about the end of all this.…”
>
  “I can assure you that the SS will do everything it can to serve the best interests of the German people,” Johann said. He was amazed that he had spoken on behalf of the SS. It didn’t seem possible. He tried to think clearly: Was this credible? Would a Sturmbannführer in the SS really talk in this manner to an Oberst, albeit even if he was simply a functionary? While Reinhard was testing him, it didn’t seem that he considered the conversation unlikely. Johann waited, his right hand ready to reach for his pistol at the slightest hint that Reinhard would turn on him. He was confident that he could shoot the man, grab the briefcase, and escape from the building before he was caught—the Ministry was large and there was such distraction that the few security officers on duty would take time to get organized.

  Suddenly he had his answer.

  “You didn’t come here just to tell me this,” Reinhard said. “What do you want from me?”

  Johann had his chance.

  “The Allies have stipulated a number of conditions,” he said. “Guarantees of one kind or another.”

  Reinhard appeared excited about being allowed into a secret brotherhood.

  “The Nero Decree,” Johann said flatly. “It must be revoked.”

  The two men sat across from each other in silence. Eventually Reinhard sat up and placed both his elbows on the desk in front of him. He formed a steeple with his hands.

  “But you know that this is impossible,” he said. “An executive order from the Führer is exactly that. No one has the authority to revoke such a diktat other than the Führer himself.”

  “Of course,” Johann said. “The Allies know that as long as the Führer is in power he will never overturn the decision. However, if an order is issued from High Command to units in the field there is every chance that, by the time the Führer becomes aware of what has happened, events will have overtaken him.”

  “The Allies can move that quickly?”

  “Without resistance, yes,” Johann said emphatically. “They could have their forward units driving through Alexanderplatz within a day.”