The fifteen minutes it took for Aunt Mary to arrive seemed like days to Jerome.
Then he was finally on his way to work.
6
Ben Fabian was a tall man, slim-built yet powerful. His blond hair was greased back away from his forehead and he had a short, tidy beard. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, and had it not been for the fact that his blond hair was darkened by the hair gel, he could’ve been mistaken for an Aryan German. Indeed, it was because he was often mistaken for a German that Ben decided to gel his hair back, darken the colour, in an attempt to prevent any embarrassing mistaken identities.
Ben worked at the Volkswagen Autofabrik, where he was a Line Supervisor – in German, an Aufsichtskraft. His line built the Golfs, from start to finish, and Ben oversaw the entire operation. As such, he worked in close proximity with the German managers and designers.
That didn’t mean, however, that he had to like them.
Ben saw Jerome walk across the plant floor from the changing rooms, where he had stowed his lunchbox and jacket, and he glanced automatically at his watch. Jerome was late. Almost an hour late for the early shift’s compulsory overtime. He’d arrived on time to start at the regular hour, but the management wouldn’t like that. The management liked the shop floor workers to work overtime. Overtime meant more cars being produced. And overtime only worked if everybody was prepared to do it. There could be no slackers.
But Jerome Varley, whose father also worked at the plant as a Line Supervisor, was no slacker.
Frowning, Ben glanced down at the computer screen where he was working, saved the information, and then made his way along the line to where Jerome would be starting work.
He found him standing beside a piece of machinery next to the heavy conveyer system where the painted, empty husks of Volkswagen Golfs were suspended, ready to have their interiors fitted. On the machinery, and below a small, embossed Nazi Hakenkreuz, was taped a model from a pornographic magazine, with her hand tastefully covering her pubic hair. The German government had relaxed the pornography laws, but only slightly.
Jerome was running checks on the machinery’s computer. He looked up as Ben approached, and the supervisor could see the anxiety on his face.
“Morning,” he greeted cheerfully.
“Ben.”
“You’re a bit late, ain’t you, mate?” Ben remarked casually, leaning against the machinery.
Jerome said, “Had a few problems.” He looked around, saw three men working on the other side of the conveyer, stretching inside the car shells and fitting the dashboards.
“What kind of problems?”
“Listen I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” Ben said, nodding his head, “but we have to, Jerome. You see, I’ve got to check your time-card and hand it into the factory manager at the end of the week. It’s not going to look too good if I can’t even give him a reasonable excuse for you, is it?”
“Ben, I really don’t want–”
“Jerome, you can tell me. I mean, it must be serious for you to be acting like this. And you’ve never been late before. Your Dad makes sure of that.”
“He didn’t make it in this morning,” Jerome said miserably.
“Shit, he’s not … oh, I’ve not put my foot in it, have I? I mean, he’s not …”
“No,” Jerome answered with a wry smile, shaking his head. “He’s not dead – at least, not yet, I don’t think.”
“What do you mean?” Ben asked, as a girl from the offices walked up to him, a clipboard in her hand. “Hang on,” he said to Jerome.
“Herr Fabian, there is a report from Quality Control,” the girl said. She was German, couldn’t have been more than twenty, but she was slightly higher up the management chain than Ben was. He looked down at her, at her long, fair hair to her blouse, which was unbuttoned sufficiently to provide a man of his height a comfortable view of her cleavage. Then he looked down to the skirt that was short enough to provide any passing male an excellent view of her thighs, if she should choose to bend over to retrieve something from the floor. If she wasn’t German, he might’ve considered patting her firm backside, tightly restrained in the rear of the short skirt. But the Krauts were unbelievable sticks in the mud and such behaviour would result in severe disciplinary action. Ben was not looking to get the sack, and anyway, he hated the Krauts. All Krauts, male and female.
“What’s the problem, gnädige Frau?” he asked the girl.
“A dashboard has been fitted incorrectly,” he girl explained. “The offending vehicle is currently in the holding yard, awaiting attention.”
“I’ll get somebody right on it,” assured Ben, taking the form from her clipboard. “This it?”
“Yes, Herr Fabian.”
“You know, you should smile a bit more often, gnädige Frau,” Ben said. The girl, far from doing as he’d suggested, frowned at him, and twirled quickly around. She clicked up to the office door in her heels. “Stupid Kraut bitch,” Ben hissed, and folded the sheet of paper, putting it in his pocket as he faced Jerome. “You’re talking about something serious here, ain’t you?”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s troubling you, Jerome, and I’m here to help.”
“The Gestapo came for my Dad this morning.”
“Fuck,” Ben muttered under his breath. “Did they say what for?”
“No. They had a Schutzhaft Order, and they just took him away. My Mum was in a right state. I had to stay with her until my Aunt arrived. I couldn’t leave her by herself.”
“No, of course not,” Ben said, fingering his beard. “Bloody hell. The Gestapo. Last time somebody I knew got lifted was almost a year ago. And your old man too. Fuck me, he’s about as harmless as a bloke can get.”
“It happens to innocent people as well, Ben.”
“I know, I know,” Ben said quietly, looking around the factory floor. Nobody seemed to be watching them, but that didn’t mean their conversation wasn’t being overheard. He was no fool – he knew to keep his true sentiments to himself. But Jerome had suffered a traumatic blow. He might not have the sense to keep a lid on his true feelings. “Listen, Jerome, you should be careful what you say today.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if they lifted your old man, they’ll be watching you,” Ben said. Jerome blinked, as though his words were sinking in. “Just watch what you say – it’s a good piece of advice. Take it.”
“I will,” assured Jerome.
“I mean it,” Ben said, putting a cautionary hand on Jerome’s arm. “The walls have ears – literally. Just remember that.”
“I will.”
“And I hope … well, you know.”
“I know,” Jerome said, but he thought to himself that there wasn’t much hope for his father – not now. None at all.
“I’ll give you a lift home tonight, if you’re stuck,” Ben said.
“Thanks.”
“See you later.”
As Ben walked away, Jerome leant back against the machinery behind him and closed his eyes. What had happened to his father that morning was unbelievable. And it had all happened so fast. Yesterday, he and his father were working in the factory – today, he was working alone. There hadn’t even been any time for him to come to terms with the notion of losing his father.
Jerome opened his eyes and looked around the factory. He saw around a hundred men in this unit. There were more than two thousand working in the entire plant. More than that though, Jerome was looking at the actual factory itself, at the walls, where huge banners with the Nazi Hakenkreuz printed upon them hung, suspended from the high ceiling overhead.
The Hakenkreuz, black, hooked crosses in a white circle on a red background. There were three of them in this one unit and more around the plant. Smaller banners were suspended at other positions, some with the Hakenkreuz, other with prints of either the current Führer’s face, or that of the first Führer, Hitler, upon them. Ein
Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer, they proclaimed. Abeit Macht Frei. Slogans that Jerome had been taught at school – one people, one empire, one leader. Work brings freedom. Everywhere was Nazi propaganda.
There was no getting away from it. Even in the changing rooms, small posters urged the workforce to Stamp out partisans and dissidents! Keep your ears open for information! Report anything untoward to the Sicherheitsdienst! Jerome thought about that. Somebody had reported his father to the Sicherheitsdienst, the Security Service, the SD, as it was commonly known. And they had then handed the case over to the Gestapo. That was why his father had been arrested.
Somebody had betrayed him.
Jerome’s eyes dropped from the Nazi propaganda to the faces of his fellow workers. He looked at each of them in turn, occasionally realizing that they were looking back at him.
He looked at their faces, but he couldn’t see what was truly behind them.
One of them had betrayed his father.
But Jerome realized that he didn’t want to know which one. Because if he ever found out, he would want to kill them.
Jerome turned to the computer screen on the machine beside him, and finally began his day’s work.
7
Like most of Europe after the Second World War, Nazi England had seen its fair share of changes during and after the occupation. In most towns and cities, German street names began to appear, in some cases obliterating those that had been there for years. Occasionally, the Germans saw fit to rename whole suburbs, even whole towns. They certainly did not baulk at changing the names of individual buildings, and Buckingham Palace, once the home of the British Royal Family, was no exception.
Buckingham Palace had a new name, partially to eradicate the memory of the monarchy from the minds of the occupied Engländers, but mainly because the building had a new job. A new job, and a new official title – Der Amtssitz des Reichsstatthalter. The English governor’s official residence. Indeed, most, if not all, of the citizens who passed through London’s City Centre, along Buckingham Palace Road, since renamed Hitlerstrasse, and past the old palace could not ever remember a time when the monarchy reigned in England. To them, the palace had always been Der Amtssitz des Reichsstatthalter. And that was how the Germans liked it.
The German governor of Great Britain, the Reichsstatthalter von Grossebritannien, was a bespectacled man in his late forties by the name of Erich Klarsfeld. A respected Nazi party member, he was, up until seven or eight years ago, a senior SS officer. But a change of direction in his career saw him moving to the Diplomatic Office of the Deutsches Reich, where he secured a position as the Spanish Deputy Governor. He remained there for no more than three years before the Führer himself recommended he take up the vacant position of British Governor, and Klarsfeld was only too happy to oblige.
Klarsfeld usually rose early each morning, even at weekends, and spent the first couple of hours in his large spacious office overlooking Hitlerstrasse. This particular morning was to be no exception.
Klarsfeld, dressed in a smart, yet sombre, grey suit, with a white shirt, a red tie and Nazi Hakenkreuz armband, watered the flowers in his office as his secretary went over the appointments for the day.
“SS-Oberstgruppenführer Röhm will be in at eleven this morning, Herr Reichsstatthalter,” she explained, “and then the English Businessmen’s Union leader will be in after lunch, at two.”
“Fine, Helga,” the Reichsstatthalter said with a nod, and moved to the window box to water the roses planted there.
“At three o’clock, you have an appointment with the Nazi Jugend Chief of Staff–”
“Damn,” Klarsfeld cursed, and looked at Helga, a sneer on his face. “Do I have to meet that idiot?”
“His appointment has been cancelled by our office on six previous occasions, mein Herr,” Helga explained. “It would be … diplomatic to speak with him now.”
“Yes, yes,” Klarsfeld said, waving his hand, “but you be sure to call me for an important meeting after ten minutes.”
“Yes, mein Herr.”
“You know, Helga, I …”
Klarsfeld broke off and frowned. Something had caught his eye in the street below. An official looking procession was making its way up Hitlerstrasse towards the old palace. Two dark Mercedes, and three black, big four-wheel drive BMW X5s. Klarsfeld put down the watering can and placed his hands on his hips.
“Herr Klarsfeld?”
He didn’t acknowledge Helga. Instead, he waited until the procession had reached the gates of the Amtssitz. He watched as the armed guards from the Waffen-SS checked identification papers, and then the convoy was waved through.
This was getting stranger by the minute. The flags on the bonnets of the Mercedes, together with their German number plates, told him that this was an official visit from Germany. The cars had clearly been brought over on a transporter.
Klarsfeld turned to Helga.
“Are we expecting anybody else today?” he asked.
“No,” Helga said, walking across to the window.
“Then who are they?”
“German Nazi officials,” Helga said, “judging by their insignias.”
“Get on the phone to the gate,” Klarsfeld order, pushing her gently across to his desk, “find out who they are. To be forewarned is to be forearmed, as they say.” Helga leant over his desk and picked up the telephone handset. She spoke quickly, nodded her head, and then replaced the handset. “Well?”
“Delegation from Germany,” she said.
“We know that,” snapped Klarsfeld. “Any names?”
“SS-Oberstgruppenführer Schaemmel.”
“Schaemmel,” murmured Klarsfeld, sitting behind his desk and frowning. “Schaemmel? The name is familiar …” Then his eyes widened. “The Führer’s personal guard. The Leibstandarte-SS Führer. Schaemmel is their chief officer.”
“What is he doing here?” Helga asked.
“Whatever it is, it is sure to be trouble. I have never trusted Schaemmel. It is him and his kind who give all Nazis a bad name.”
“What should I do?”
“Prepare the coffee, Helga,” Klarsfeld said, looking around his office as if to ensure it was tidy. “I think SS-Oberstgruppenführer Schaemmel will want to speak to me.”
At that moment, the telephone rang, and Helga leant across the desk to answer it. “Yes? I see. The Reichsstatthalter will see them. Send them up, thank you.” She replaced the handset. “They are on their way up, Herr Klarsfeld.”
“I really do not like the sound of this,” Klarsfeld moaned, as Helga went around the office closing the windows. That finished, she walked across the door and opened it, just as a man dressed in the black uniform of the Schutzstaffel stepped into the office’s reception. Behind the man were two others, each bearing the rank insignias of SS-Oberführer. Helga stepped out into the reception, closing the door behind her, and smiled at the man she presumed was Schaemmel.
His uniform was immaculately pressed, and he wore black boots that were so shiny she could’ve used them as a mirror to check her make-up. He wore a smart peaked cap, with brilliant white braiding that matched the trimmings on his uniform, and carried a thick file.
He saluted her with a casual “Heil Führer,” and she felt compelled to return the gesture, even though she hadn’t saluted anybody in that manner for more than eight years – ever since leaving the Nazi Jugend, in fact. Schaemmel continued, his voice shrill, loud. “I am SS-Oberstgruppenführer Schaemmel, Leibstandarte-SS Führer. I have business with Reichsstatthalter Klarsfeld.”
“May I enquire as to its nature?” Helga asked anxiously.
“You may not,” Schaemmel snapped. “Is the Reichsstatthalter in?”
“Yes,” Helga answered, but she felt that Schaemmel already knew that. He would’ve asked at the gate, and he would’ve been given an answer. A man of his standing was never lied to. “I will tell him–”
“No need,” Schaemmel said, pushing past her with his two junior officers.
He pushed open the door and stepped quickly into Klarsfeld’s office, giving the Nazi salute as he approached the governor’s desk. “Heil Führer!” he said loudly.
“Heil Führer,” Klarsfeld responded, somewhat less enthusiastically. The door behind Schaemmel was shut by one of the Oberführers, and Helga was locked out. “What can I do for you, Herr Oberstgruppenführer?”
“Herr Klarsfeld,” Schaemmel said, sitting down opposite the governor and removing his cap. “I bring you news from Germania.”
“What news?”
“The Führer plans a visit to England.”
“To England?” Klarsfeld said, frowning.
“On May First.”
Klarsfeld was flabbergasted. For a few moments, he couldn’t speak. When he did all he could ask was “Why?”
“No Führer has visited England since Adolf Hitler in 1941, after the United Kingdom surrendered,” Schaemmel said.
“It still doesn’t explain why.”
“The Führer does not need a reason,” Schaemmel said indignantly.
“I understand that.”
“News of the Führer’s visit must not be leaked out,” Schaemmel went on. “Instead, it will be announced at a time closer to the event.”
“But May the First is less than six weeks away,” Klarsfeld said.
“Correct.”
“I cannot guarantee his safety–”
“The safety of the Führer is paramount, Herr Klarsfeld,” snapped Schaemmel, leaning forwards in his chair and picking up a framed photograph of Klarsfeld’s family that had been placed upon the desk. “It will be the responsibility of your office, and that of SS-Oberstgruppenführer Röhm. If you feel, however, that you are not capable of ensuring the Führer’s safety–”
“I’m capable,” protested Klarsfeld quickly.
“Good,” Schaemmel said, replacing the photograph. “Then I’m sure the Germanian office will be in touch with you to finalize details. And I understand that Reichsführer-SS Stauffenberg will arrive shortly prior to the Führer’s visit to inspect security.”
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