But in London, the State capital, Combat UK was probably almost as strong as it had ever been. The members could hide in the maze of streets, disappear from the dragnets the SS put up. They were more difficult to overcome, as were the student elements, the dissident groups. The Germans made the English students learn German – the English students rebelled by scrawling Deutsche Verpiss Dich! and other crude statements on the walls of German buildings.
Röhm reacted with the full backing of the Reichsführer-SS by rounding up student dissidents and having them imprisoned in one of four Konzentrationslager, or Konzlags, in the DSvG. Occasionally, he saw fit to sign execution papers.
But Combat UK was another story. It had begun to grow again in size, and was soon large enough to once again challenge the Nazi regime, particularly in London. German response, however, was brutal. For every German killed by the terrorist group, a hundred English men and women were rounded up and shot dead – shot dead, as opposed to beheaded, because it was quicker, and could be done in public.
Retaliatory executions, though frowned up by the rest of the world and even by some more moderate Nazi party leaders, worked as a deterrent. Röhm could see that. It was so obvious. The Nazis had been doing it since the birth of the German Reich in 1933. And Röhm, who was too young to remember the short Second World War, harked back to those days. He always wished he could’ve been around when Hitler ruled the Reich. He wished he could’ve served the great Führer himself, as his great uncle once had.
But that was impossible.
All he could do now was serve the Deutsches Reich, and the third Führer, who was a pale imitation of Adolf Hitler; a man who was looking to charge the direction of the Nazi Party, who was looking to broaden diplomatic relationships with the rest of the world, who was looking to relax some of the strict laws that governed the Reich and kept the people under control. Röhm thought the man was a liberal and a fool.
That was one sentiment, however, that Röhm kept to himself. Even a high-ranking SS officer such as himself, just a mere two steps down from the Führer, could not consider himself safe from Nazi authority. The Gestapo, an organization he ultimately controlled in England, had a whole department devoted to internal espionage, answering directly to the Reichsführer-SS himself. Surveillance took place daily on high-ranking officers from both the SS and Wehrmacht, the regular army of the Deutsches Reich, as well as leading government officials. They probably had bugs in his office, Röhm always thought to himself as he saw down behind his desk every morning. If they had, there was nothing he could do about it.
They probably even had bugs in his car, he thought that morning as the Mercedes travelled down Hitlerstrasse towards the Amtssitz, the governor’s official residence in London.
Röhm looked around at the car’s interior and his mouth was pulled into a smile. He wore the black dress uniform of the Schutzstaffel, with white trimmings and the familiar SS insignia on the collars. On his head was a smart peaked cap bearing the SS Totenkopf, or Death’s Head insignia, and beneath were the Hugo Boss sunglasses he usually wore.
The Mercedes, flanked by motorcycle outriders and preceded and followed by Audi saloons, pulled into the driveway of the Amtssitz and stopped at the gate. The Audis each held four armed men from the Schutzstaffel. They were the first line of defence for the SS-Oberstgruppenführer. The two men in the car with him were supposed to be his last line of defence, but as Röhm felt the heavy SIG Sauer P226 semi-automatic pistol hanging in the holster by his side, he realized that his own gun hand was his last line of defence, and he was glad he had kept up his pistol training.
Nothing, he knew, could be guaranteed, least of all personal safety - especially when millions of people would be glad to see you dead.
Röhm would’ve shuddered with that thought in his mind, but the Waffen-SS officer on duty at the gate bent his head down to the tinted window beside him. Röhm pushed a button and the window whirred as it moved down.
“Yes?”
“Herr Oberstgruppenführer!” the officer said quickly, surprised, as he snapped to attention. “Heil Führer!”
“Heil Führer,” Röhm said casually.
“Open the gate,” the officer commanded to his junior, and the gate was raised. “Herr Oberstgruppenführer!” he said, offering a saluting once more.
“Thank you,” Röhm said with a wave that the officer construed as a Nazi salute.
“Heil Führer!” he heard the officer call after the Mercedes as it entered the courtyard of the Amtssitz. Röhm shook his head impatiently. There were some idiots in the Schutzstaffel, as there were in any working environment, but that officer was supposed to be in command of the security of the Amtssitz. He could not afford to be an idiot.
As he climbed from the car, Röhm made a mental note to have a word with Klarsfeld about the security of the building. After all, they would have little else to talk about at their meeting, a usual, weekly occurrence that was a tedious affair for both men.
11
Röhm quickly realized that today’s meeting was not going to be one of the usual tedious, tiresome affairs, as he was ushered quickly into Klarsfeld’s large office by Helga, the Reichsstatthalter’s secretary.
There were none of the preliminaries. Klarsfeld did not ask if he wanted a drink, Helga did not wait to take his order. The door was closed behind Röhm, and Klarsfeld, ever the statesman, gestured for him to be seated.
“Heil Führer,” Röhm said, saluting half-heartedly as he sat. Klarsfeld returned the salute, and then glanced down at the papers on his desk. A fax from Germania, Röhm thought, as he stared at the headed paper. “No coffee this morning, Erich?” he asked with a smile.
“I have news, Werner.”
“What kind of news?” Röhm asked, although as he looked at Klarsfeld’s face, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.
“I had SS-Oberstgruppenführer Schaemmel in here earlier today.”
“Schaemmel? Here?” Röhm’s jaw dropped. He was flabbergasted, and Klarsfeld’s bemused expression didn’t help. “What … why?”
“Do not worry, Werner, he was not after your job.”
“I did not think he was,” Röhm snapped.
“He brought news from Germania concerning the Führer. He is the chief of the Führer’s personal guard, after all.”
“Erich, you need not explain the intricacies of the command structure of the Schutzstaffel.”
“The Führer is planning a visit to England on the First of May.”
“This year?” Klarsfeld nodded his head. “But that is only just over a month away.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Did you not … protest?”
“I expressed …” Klarsfeld smiled crookedly. “Well, let us just say that I expressed doubts. Schaemmel told me that if I did not feel I was capable of guaranteeing the Führer’s safety, then perhaps I should apply for an easier job.”
“Really?”
“He said the same thing about you, Werner.”
Röhm’s face reddened.
“What are those documents?” he asked.
“These? Nothing important. Just general points for our departments to revise, concerning protocol.”
“Protocol?” Röhm said with a sneer, as the red started to drain from his face. “I have met the Führer before.”
“As have I,” Klarsfeld said. “But not everybody has, Werner.”
“This is ridiculous, Erich. Foolish. Whose hare-brained scheme was it?”
“I believe it was the Führer’s himself.”
“We cannot possibly guarantee his safety, and you know it.”
“I did try to tell Schaemmel. Apparently, he is unconcerned. Security is in our hands. It is our job, after all, Werner.”
“We have got Combat UK kicking us in the balls, Erich. They are regrouping, taking new members. Only last week, one of their bombs killed five men from the Waffen-SS. If they get wind of this–”
“For now, only selected mem
bers of our departments are to be informed of the Führer’s visit,” Klarsfeld said. “It is, at present, top secret.”
“Erich, we cannot possibly guarantee the safety of the Führer, not in this State. Not with people still opposed to the German regime. We have not got the manpower, for a start.”
“I think Schaemmel believes we have. It is just a case of using what we have more efficiently.”
“And you think that is possible, do you?”
“Perhaps,” Klarsfeld said, shrugging his shoulders, “but then, perhaps not. How should I know? You are the man in charge of security – me, I am just a figurehead.”
“May First,” Röhm muttered under his breath. “You know, I think Schaemmel is having a laugh at our expense. Is he still here?”
“He is still in England, yes, but where he is staying, I have no idea. I could have Helga find out for you, if you really want to know.”
“No, no, forget it.” Röhm got to his feet and shook his head angrily. “You realize, Erich, if anything does happen to the Führer while he is here, it will be you and I who will be blamed, not Schaemmel. The Leibstandarte-SS Führer would protect the Führer from any close quarter attack, but that is not how the Engländer terrorists would attack him. There comes a point at which the Leibstandarte-SS Führer becomes absolved from blame, and our forces become responsible.”
“I know that, Werner.”
“Then how can you not be bothered?” shouted Röhm, waving his arms in the air in exasperation. “You are just sitting there like a fucking woman.”
“I have long since learned, Werner, that there are some things you cannot change. Stamping our feet like petulant children will not make any difference. As the British would say, you have to roll with the punches. And this is most definitely a severe blow.”
“I never trusted that greasy lizard, Schaemmel – never.”
“Then you and I have something else in common, Werner,” Klarsfeld said with a smile. “But I am afraid that here, he has the upper hand.”
“Bastard!” Röhm said, slamming a fist into the back of the chair behind which he stood. The chair lifted off the ground and then fell back with a loud bump.
“A few pointers, Werner,” Klarsfeld told him, ignoring the outburst and holding up a sheet of paper. “We have been advised by the German Diplomatic Office to ensure that the streets are clean.”
“Clean? What am I? A fucking street-sweeper now?”
“Beggars, my friend. Apparently, a visitor to England complained about the unsightly creatures on our streets.”
“Beggars!” fumed Röhm. “What kind of shit is this?”
“The Deutsches Reich does not allow begging, Werner, you should know that. And beggars have to be rounded up and placed in Konzlags. Apparently, we have been lackadaisical in this area.” Klarsfeld held up the document containing the statement.
“There are more important things to concern ourselves with.”
“Nonetheless,” Klarsfeld said with a smile, “it has to be done. The Orpo can do it.”
“Naturally.”
“Werner, we all have jobs to do,” Klarsfeld said with a sigh. “And maintaining security in England is our combined job. This State should be secure enough for the Führer to visit, just as the Fatherland is secure for him to reside in.”
“It does not work like that though, does it?”
“Well …”
“Never mind,” stormed Röhm as he made his way to the office door. “Fax that paperwork through to my office.”
“I cannot do that. Top secret, remember. Helga has some copies for you. Collect them on your way out.”
Röhm turned and glared at Klarsfeld, a sneer on his face. Then he grunted and was gone.
Not a happy man, thought the Reichsstatthalter von Deutscher Staat von Grossebritannien, not a happy man at all.
12
Regent’s Park had been renamed Goering Park shortly after the Nazi occupation in 1941, but had retained its natural beauty, despite the addition of Nazi architecture. York Bridge, leading into the Inner Circle, was spanned by a large archway topped with a pillar that towered more than a hundred and fifty feet overhead. The pillar was crowned with a large and beautifully sculptured Reichsadler.
Inside the Inner Circle, which was no longer Queen Mary’s Garden but Hitlergarten, was a statue sixty feet high of the first Führer of Das Deutsches Reich, Adolf Hitler himself.
It was here that Ellen chose to wait. The skies were sunny, despite it still being March, and the gardens were in full bloom, colourful and pretty. In fact, the only thing that spoilt it was the statue of Hitler.
Not because of who it was, but because student dissidents had scrawled ‘CUK’ across the Führer’s legs in red, white and blue. That it itself was an act of sacrilege, Ellen thought, and it certainly warranted the presence of three armed Orpo officers who now stood guard before the statue day and night. Why the letters had not yet been removed was a mystery to most people, Ellen included. But she figured that perhaps once the vandals were caught, they would be made to clean the statue prior to their executions.
Ellen had no doubt that the vandals would be caught. The Geheime Staatspolizei had informers, or Spitzels, across the DSvG, across the German Reich, in fact. Some were willing subjects, others had to be coerced. And nobody knew who they were. That was the chilling factor. Nobody knew who they were, so nobody knew who they could and could not trust.
It maintained a level of fear that was needed to keep such a large empire as the German Reich in order for the last sixty years or so. People daren’t step out of line for fear of reprisals. Reprisals were swift and brutal. In the very least, dissidents could expect a harsh beating from their Gestapo or SD interrogators. At the very worst, they could find themselves facing the guillotine. And most executions took place with a week of the Court sentencing; some even took place the same day.
There was little chance of an appeal hearing. Retribution was immediate and unforgiving. It had been that way since Hitler had taken over as Führer und Kanzler des Deutsches Reich, and it would remain that way until the Nazi regime was finally deposed. If it ever was.
Ellen couldn’t see that happening in the near future.
Ellen was twenty, had short, brown, curly hair, a pretty face and dark eyes. She was still wearing her nurse’s uniform as she sat on the bench closest to the statue of Hitler. It consisted of a clinical white dress and stockings, white pumps, a blue cape and a blue hat. On the breast pocket of her dress was her nameplate, printed black on white. Krankenschwester Ellen Brauchitsch, Krankenhaus Goebbels. The Goebbels Hospital was situated on Marylebone Road, just south of where she now sat. At twenty, she was officially still learning, still a student nurse, but that didn’t matter. It passed the time, and it was a respectable career choice for a young German girl.
Ellen looked up, saw Jerome walking towards her, and couldn’t help but smile. As he got nearer, she saw his red face, and it was apparent that he had been running. Smiling, she got to her feet, but he waved her back down, and then sat beside her, panting loudly.
“You look as though you could do with a rest,” she remarked with a smile. Her accent was barely German – she had lived in England for virtually all of her life – though she hadn’t yet adopted the use of contractions in her speech, so she would always sound German to any Brit.
“I could do with a drink,” he gasped, rubbing his parched throat.
“Let us go for one then.”
“Let me get my breath back first,” Jerome said, patting her leg. “Jesus, I’m knackered.”
“Did you not get a lift from your father?”
“My father?” Jerome said, raising his eyebrows and then turning down the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid not.”
“You two have had another row?”
“Nothing like that,” Jerome said, looking around. His eyes fell upon the green uniforms of the three Orpo officers guarding the statue, but they were out of earshot, and as he looked
around the park, he saw nobody else close enough to overhear their conversation. “My Dad was arrested this morning,” he said, looking directly at Ellen.
“Oh my God. What for?”
“I don’t know,” Jerome said, shrugging his shoulders and bending down to tighten up one of his shoelaces. “They slapped him with a Schutzhaft Order and took him away.”
“Who? The Geheime Staatspolizei?”
“Give them their proper name, Ellen, the fucking Gestapo,” Jerome said, sneering, as though he had to cough the word like phlegm violently from his lips. “Jesus, you know, yesterday, everything was going just fine. Now … shit, I don’t know.” He shook his head, glared at the Orpo officers. One them looked at him, frowned, and then looked away.
“That is terrible,” Jerome heard Ellen say. He turned and looked at her. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You should contact the Gestapo–”
“Why?” Jerome interrupted quickly.
“Well … you want to know what is happening with your father.”
“I know what’s happening, Ellen,” snapped Jerome. “They’ve took him into Protective Custody. And we all know what that means. They’ll take him to the People’s Court, sentence him to death, and then …” He considered going through the throat-slitting motions, but realized that wasn’t appropriate. It certainly wouldn’t have been funny, not at a time like this. Instead, he just shook his head and said, “Fucking Germans.” Ellen, beside him, looked away, embarrassed. Jerome realized, too late, what he had said, and put a hand on hers. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you had a good reason. I understand. You can talk to me.”
“Yeah, well …” Jerome began, then broke off.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Jerome, what?”
“My Dad must’ve said something, somewhere,” Jerome said, “and somebody overheard it, and told the fucking Gestapo or the SD. Now he’s been arrested.”
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