“It is short notice,” muttered Klarsfeld.
“Herr Klarsfeld - England, Great Britain,” Schaemmel spat the last two words derisorily, “is a State of the Deutsches Reich, and as such the security should be of a high standard. There should not be any discrepancies that could threaten any member of the Reich, no matter whether they are a simple factory worker or the Führer himself.”
“We have our problems here, just like any other state.”
“Perhaps I should report your … lack of enthusiasm to the Führer himself?” Schaemmel said with a smile. Klarsfeld twitched in his seat. “We could find an alternative position for you, somewhere less taxing?”
“I told you I was capable of ensuring the Führer’s safety.”
“Yes,” Schaemmel said, standing, “you said.”
“Thank you for informing me of the Führer’s visit, Herr Oberstgruppenführer,” Klarsfeld said blandly. “I will notify the relevant departments–”
“At this stage, Herr Reichsstatthalter, it would be judicial to notify only SS-Oberstgruppenführer Röhm.”
“I understand,” the governor said, nodding his head. He watched as Schaemmel and his junior offers walked to the door. “Have you arranged accommodation during your stay here?”
“We are here overnight only,” Schaemmel answered, “and yes, our accommodation has been arranged.” He tugged on a pair of black leather gloves and put on his cap. “Heil Führer!” he barked, saluting.
“Heil Führer,” Klarsfeld returned.
He watched them leave, but didn’t see Helga entering. He had things on his mind.
The Führer was coming to visit.
He looked up, saw Helga’s young face looking down at him expectantly. Pretty young Helga, with her short, dark hair, her fine figure.
How he had thought about her, at times when he should not have.
He realised that she was speaking to him.
“Sorry?”
“What is happening, Herr Klarsfeld?”
“The Führer is coming to visit.”
“When?” Helga asked, shocked.
Klarsfeld didn’t answer.
8
The Volksgerichtshof, or People’s Court, of London was a large building not far from Berlin Platz, or as it had been known before, Downing Street. The Court had been built in the early Eighties and was modern in appearance, with a huge glass frontage. Two massive pillars towered far above the gabled roof, topped by magnificent statues of the Reichsadler, the Imperial Eagle. Etched onto the huge glass and steel front was a white Hakenkreuz, and on the back wall of the massive foyer inside was painted the Reichsadler over a portrait of Adolf Hitler. Beneath Hitler’s portrait, and somewhat smaller in size than his, were those of his two successors, including the present Führer.
The red-painted ceiling towered eighty feet above the marble floor of the foyer, and onto it had been painted the ubiquitous black Hakenkreuz, in a white circle – the National and Mercantile flag.
On either side of the portraits of Hitler and his two successors were narrow, tall archways, and it was through these that the people who entered the court made their way into its heart.
Waffen-SS troops in the foyer, armed with Heckler und Koch HK416 carbines, performed security checks on everyone who entered, inspecting their papers, in some cases searching more thoroughly those they believed were suspect. One or two were dragged into a side room to be strip searched. There was not an option to refuse. To refuse was an admission of guilt.
But Ross Varley, who had never set foot inside the Volksgerichtshof, was spared the magnificence of the foyer. He was even spared the sight of its wondrous exterior, which would’ve impressed Albert Speer himself. Because Ross Varley was transferred from the Gestapo’s HQ at the Polizeipräsidium to the Court in the back of a windowless van and, once there, the van made its way down beneath the building to the underground car park.
Ross, wearing the clothes he had put on that morning, was taken from the back of the van, his handcuffs looser, but still aggravating his wounds. He couldn’t walk, because one of his kneecaps was destroyed, and so two uniformed SS officer responsible for his security had to drag him between them along the concrete floor of the car park towards the entrance.
As the doors automatically opened, the sound of a car revving noisily in the background caused the SS officers to twist their heads, as though they feared an attack by dissidents. Ross, too, swung his head around, and peered through squinted eyes as a black BMW M3 pulled to a stop beside the van he had just disembarked from, and SS-Obersturmführer Loritz emerged, with his sidekick, Keitel.
Neither of them looked at Ross, and his view of them was truncated as he was dragged through the open doors and taken through the custody suite to the cellblock, where he was left to await his trial which, one of the SS officers assured him, would be taking place within the hour.
The cell was small, perhaps six feet square, with a low ceiling. An undersized bed ran along the wall opposite the door, and the interior was lit by a tiny, covered lamp in the ceiling.
Ross sat down on the bunk as he contemplated his future – a scant one at that.
The charge was preposterous. Treason. He’d made one joking remark, and somebody at the factory had obviously taken offence. Either that, or they were being paid by the Gestapo to search for dissidents.
But Ross knew he was no dissident. He was an honest citizen, trying to support his family by making an honest living, working in a factory. Ross knew nothing of life before the occupation. All he’d ever known was the Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien – the German State of Great Britain.
Now it had all gone wrong.
Horribly wrong.
He thought about Abigail, about her beautiful face, her warm smile, her sense of humour. He thought about the kids. About Jerome and their arguments about getting up early. About Nicole and the fact that she had started bringing the odd boyfriend back home. And about Campbell, at twelve, the baby of the family.
What were they doing now?
It was still the morning, and already he was close to being sentenced to death. He was not stupid. He could see that was his future. The death sentence. And in the German Reich, those being sentenced to death had to face the Guillotine – a French instrument of execution utilized by the Germans.
Ross closed his eyes, tried not to think about it, but he couldn’t help it. It overshadowed even the thoughts of his family – the Guillotine.
He would be taken to the execution chamber, laid face down on a bench, his hands cuffed behind his back, as they were now, and the restraining bar would be brought down to prevent him from moving his head.
He would hear the click of the lever, the swoosh of the blade as it slid down …
After that, who knew?
Would he still be able to see in the split second after his head was sliced unceremoniously from his body? Would his eyes see the cold steel of the head basket, already filling up with his blood, as it rushed towards him? Would he be able to comprehend that his head was no longer attached to his body, that he was surely going to die?
Or would that happen the moment the blade sliced through his neck, severed his spinal column, his main arteries, detached his head from his body?
Ross shuddered and shook his head.
Then he bowed his head down and felt the tears rolling down his face. Tears he could not wipe away because his hands were manacled behind his back.
Cursing to himself, Ross bent over and wiped his face on the coarse blanket on the bunk. He didn’t want the bastards to see him crying. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.
Even though his heart was broken, and he was scared shitless, he was going to put on a brave face.
He corrected himself. He was going to try to put on a brave face.
9
SS-Obersturmführer Loritz’s hand hovered over the sheet of quality paper, the third page in his latest sketch book. Clasped between his fingers was a graphite pencil, a
nd before long, it danced lightly across the page, confidently and quickly sketching out a face. The expression on the face was one of despair, a haunted look that showed in the eyes. The eyes – Loritz’s own speciality at art school had been the eyes.
He often wondered how he had ended up in the SS, when he could’ve been an artist. Loritz had, when he’d been in his late teens, harboured a desire to pursue a career drawing in graphic novels, but the competition had been fierce, and though he could outdraw many of his contemporaries, reality had set in. Or rather, his father’s reality. His father had been a senior man in the Sicherheitsdienst, and had expected his son to follow in his footsteps. Drawing, he had told the young Wolf Loritz, was for children and dreamers. Reluctantly, Loritz had agreed, and joined the SS after leaving university. But he still drew, even now, especially when he was stressed. He didn’t like to think he could ever become stressed by his job, and this was something that he would never reveal to any of his friends or colleagues, but it helped to calm his nerves.
His hand stopped moving, the sketch before him finished, and he looked at it carefully for a few moments, before scribbling Wolf L in the bottom left corner. He raised his eyes, and his gaze fell upon a face which matched that in his sketchbook.
Ross Varley.
Loritz was sat at the back of the small courtroom, one of ten the building housed, Keitel beside him. Because he couldn’t smoke, the heavy German consoled himself by picking his nose and wiping the spoils on the back of the seat in front of him.
Loritz put down his sketchpad and picked up the book of notes that was in his open briefcase on the seat next to him. After finishing reading through the notes, Loritz elbowed his colleague in the ribs.
Keitel moved on to biting his fingernails, which still irritated Loritz, but not as much as his other bad habits.
The Richter, or Judge, of Courtroom Seven was in his early sixties, an ex-Gestapo man by the name of Berger who, like the great Führer Hitler, hailed from Austria. Loritz was confident that Richter Berger knew the score. He figured that when Ross Varley’s case was called he would have no problems in securing the Todesstrafe, the ultimate penalty.
Loritz settled back and watched as the next case on the courtroom’s list was called – an Engländer who had been caught in the act of raping an eighteen year old German girl. The Kriminalpolizei inspector in charge of the case, Kriminaloberinspektor Wiesmann, stood up to read out the charges, including other rapes in his area that had been attributed to the suspect.
“The defendant is also suspected of committing four other rapes in the last ten months in the area of Whitechapel,” Wiesmann boomed, his voice carrying effortlessly, thanks to superb acoustics, to the rear of the courtroom where Loritz was sitting. Four rows of twelve chairs were in front of the Gestapo officer, but only twenty or so were taken, most of them by journalists, some of them citizens who wished to witness firsthand a court session. Occasionally, the family members of suspects facing the Volksgerichtshof would be granted permission to enter, so that they could watch their relatives condemned to death, or life imprisonment - which meant, effectively, death. Only rarely were defendants acquitted, usually after they had secured a method of release that was not entirely legitimate.
Loritz himself had never taken a bribe. He had been offered one once. The man who made the attempt had been tried and convicted a week later. His fate was ten years in a Konzentrationslager. Loritz doubted that the man was still alive.
Wiesmann listed the rapes in chronological order, and concluded by adding, “Two of the previous rapes were also of German women,” before sitting down and allowing the defending lawyer to have his say.
The lawyer shifted uncomfortably to his feet, and stepped slowly up to the bench. Slightly embarrassed, he smiled at the Richter, and then turned to look at the defendant.
“Uh,” he began nervously. He was English. Loritz saw the reason for his anxiety. Nobody wanted to defend criminals, and no lawyer, no true German lawyer, would ever agree to defend an Engländer. This lawyer had been placed in an uncomfortable position that he didn’t want, but he was obliged to act for the defendant.
He had to ensure, however, that his defence was not too strong. Defending criminals, especially known criminals, was a hazardous business and could get a lawyer noticed by the Gestapo as a dissident. Loritz made a note to get the details of the lawyer before he left the court.
“My client does not deny any of the charges,” the lawyer went on. The defendant sat motionless in the accused’s chair, on display to the entire courtroom. From the look of his eyes, Loritz figured the man was drugged, but that was not unusual. “As such, I cannot really, uh, act in his defence. What I will say, however, is that I ask the court to be lenient with him, because he has two children to look after. His wife, tragically, was killed almost a year ago in a terrorist bombing. Since then, my client’s mental health has deteriorated, and …” The lawyer looked at the Richter, who was raising an eyebrow impatiently. He’d heard it all before, and he was clearly of the opinion that personal loss was no excuse for the brutal rapes of five women. “The defence rests, Herr Richter,” the lawyer said quickly, sitting down.
“Herr Cottle,” the Richter said loudly, “I have heard the evidence for the prosecution, and also the rather flimsy case for the defence.” He looked down at the defendant, could see that he was clearly drugged and was not taking any of this in, but continued nonetheless. Loritz smiled at that. Berger didn’t give a shit for sob stories. Berger dished out justice, and today he was clearly in a particularly harsh frame of mind. “In any case, rape cannot be excused. It is an extremely serious offence, one which brings a lump to the throat of any decent German citizen. As such, it warrants an equally serious penalty.” The Richter leant back in his chair. This was the signal for the court attendant to take out the frequently used black cap, or square of black silk, and place it on the Richter’s head. This was partly in deference to the British tradition, though many Germans, and most Engländers saw this as mocking the former British legal system.
That done, Berger leant forwards once more. “Herr Cottle, I pass the Todesstrafe. It is the judgement of this Court that you are to be taken from the Volksgerichtshof to a facility of execution, and there, within no more than seven days, you will be beheaded.” Berger banged his gavel. “Take him down.”
There were no gasps of surprise from the witnesses in the Court, just bored shuffling of feet and coughs and sneezes, as they made use of the time in between cases. They’d probably heard half a dozen such judgements passed that morning.
As Cottle was led away, the next case was called, and Loritz settled back into his seat.
It wouldn’t be long now.
And he had no doubt that Richter Berger would pass the same sentence on Ross Varley.
10
SS-Oberstgruppenführer Werner Röhm was the Schutzstaffel Chief in England. As such, he controlled all police and security departments, including the Ordnungspolizei, the Kriminalpolizei, the Sicherheitsdienst and the Geheime Staatspolizei. Consequently, he was the man in the Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien who wielded the most power.
The great nephew of Ernst Röhm, one of Adolf Hitler’s right-hand men, who died mysteriously in the 1930s, he was a tall, lean man, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Slightly effeminate, he was also left-handed, and possessed a deep voice that didn’t match his physique. Despite these traits, however, he was far from soft, as many people had learned through the years as he climbed his way to the top.
He had left the Berlin University at eighteen, after completing a degree in politics and war in record time. He had immediately stepped straight into a position with the Schutzstaffel, entering at the lower officer rank, SS-Untersturmführer. Ten years later, and at the rank of SS-Sturmbannführer, he transferred from the Sicherheitsdienst to the Gestapo.
He remained there for seven years, but the Gestapo, like the rest of the Deutsches Reich, was going through changes. Changes that Röhm
didn’t like. They called it modernisation. The Gestapo was reverting back to its official title, Geheime Staatspolizei. They were trying to make the organization seem respectable and they were introducing new restrictions. Restrictions that Röhm found impossible to work with.
So, at thirty-six, and having attained the rank of SS-Gruppenführer, the Schutzstaffel rank equivalent to the army rank of lieutenant general, he transferred to the SS State Department. As a leading SS officer, he worked as adjutant to the highest-ranking SS men in France, Poland and Belgium. At forty, he was promoted to the second highest rank in the SS, that of SS-Oberstgruppenführer, and with it came the offer from the Führer himself to command the entire Schutzstaffel forces in the Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien.
The DSvG, consisting of England, Scotland and Wales, was not a particularly large State, having a total population of 45 million, but it was comfortable enough for Röhm. It being his first command, he didn’t want someplace too difficult to control. He didn’t want to outstretch his limited experience. And the DSvG, four years ago, was just about perfect. It had a population of white citizens, some of which were even of Aryan stock. There was only minor unrest, from a small number of people who still, some fifty years after the war was over, fought for their “nation’s” independence.
This group of partisans, going under the name Combat UK, was sinking into despair, crippled by major Gestapo and SD offensives which left its membership in hundreds, rather than thousands. Sympathizers, faced with execution if caught, chose to desert the organization. For the first time in almost fifty years, the Nazi regime in the DSvG was succeeding. Children could speak fluent German, some were even joining the Nazi Jugend, where they were further indoctrinated into the German way of life.
People were happy. For the most part, they did not want terrorism blighting their lives. Car bombs, shootings, assassinations - these were not the things that most Brits wanted.
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