die Stunde X

by Shaun Stafford

  Maggie twitched and bucked, but with each movement, the bones in her ankle grated together. She wanted to hug her injury, but couldn’t. There was no escape from the pain. Maggie looked at Ellen, saw the smile on her face. She was enjoying this. She saw Maggie not only as a person who could provide her with information, but as the person who had taken Jerome from her.

  Jerome, who Ellen was quite happily prepared to betray to the Gestapo. Maggie snarled at her, and seethed, “I thought you loved him, you bitch!”

  Ellen turned to Maggie and blinked, the smile disintegrating from her face. She turned to the men in the room, then looked back at Maggie.

  “That’s right, you bitch! You said you loved him, but look at you now! You’re willing to betray him to these … these murdering bastards. You’re a lousy fucking–”

  Ellen pushed down hard on the switch and Maggie’s body immediately tensed up. Maggie made gurgling sounds as the voltage was forced violently through her body, but Ellen kept the button depressed. After thirty seconds, one of the men pulled her back from the machine, and she took a couple of steps back.

  It was half an hour before Maggie came to again.

  And even then, there was no respite.

  Ellen kept asking the same questions, kept shocking Maggie with jolts of electricity, and kept ordering her men to rip pieces of her flesh away with their sick tools of torture.

  Finally, she could take no more.

  She knew the answer to what they were asking.

  She knew where Jerome was.

  She had followed him the previous day when he had left her house.

  She had followed him to the hotel.

  She told Ellen.

  Ellen drew her SIG and aimed it at Maggie’s head. Maggie didn’t even have time to scream.

  The boom resounded through the house as Maggie’s brains were blown across the wall behind the bed.

  70

  Erich Klarsfeld sat behind his desk feeling more uncomfortable than he had ever felt before in his life. In front of him was the television camera that was going to broadcast his announcement.

  Klarsfeld had delivered addresses to his people before, but they usually took the form of a pre-recorded announcement. Tonight’s address was to be different. It would be broadcast live to the millions of homes in the DSvG. The whole State would be watching him.

  Klarsfeld sipped from a glass of water, and turned to his secretary. Helga smiled, handed him his notes and stepped back out of shot. Klarsfeld scanned through his notes, then looked at Helga.

  “Want to swap places?” he asked.

  Helga shook her head, smiling, and said, “I would not want to be in your place for a million Reichsmarks.”

  “No, I suppose you would not.” Behind the camera crew stood Röhm and a couple of other Schutzstaffel officers. Klarsfeld felt secure, but that was nothing unusual.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about what the Führer had said, about there being a plot to remove him from power. That was an abomination, Klarsfeld thought angrily. The Führer was the leader of Germany, he was the will of the German people, and nobody had the right to either question him or oppose him.

  And then there was the fact that the Führer seemed to advocate the idea of talking to the rest of the world, and the Russo-American Pact in particular, a view Klarsfeld himself supported. That, the Führer had said, was the reason behind the opposition. It appeared as though the Vizeführer was a man who still believed in the Nazi doctrines of the 1930s, when Hitler first came to power. Those doctrines, Klarsfeld knew, worked sixty years ago, but now were so outdated that they could not possibly be applied to a modern society. Other nations, Russia and America included, lived by different rules in the 1930s, but they had developed. Things throughout the world changed. And it made little difference that the German Reich was the largest, most powerful country in the world, that its army, navy and air force was larger than the combined forces of the Russo-American Pact. If Germany tried to live by the rules of the 1930s, the world would not stand still along with it.

  The German Reich would be left behind, a bumbling, archaic nation, living in the past, living on former glories. The Reich had remained stagnant since the 1950s, when it had fought a war for the last time in the Middle East to seize the oil fields.

  There were only two paths open to the Reich now – either to launch an all out attack on the rest of the nations of the world, and go for domination. Or else evolve and change.

  It could not stay in this stasis forever.

  The German Reich would not survive in stasis.

  The Reich would come to an end.

  Surely no true German Nazi would desire such an outcome.

  But seemingly, the Vizeführer wanted to maintain that kind of society. Doubtless he wanted to round up every indigenous group that wasn’t German by birth, and exterminate them, creating Hitler’s ideal of the Lebensraum.

  But the Reich had to modernize.

  The television producer waved Klarsfeld out of his daydream, and said, “Twenty seconds to air time, Herr Reichsstatthalter.” Klarsfeld nodded his head and looked to Helga. She told him he looked perfect, and he felt more relaxed.

  He glanced down at his notes as the producer counted down the final five seconds, and looked up as the producer announced that they were live.

  “People of the German State of Great Britain, fellow Germans, fellow German-Engländers,” he said, speaking in perfect, unaccented English, “I bring you important news. We are honoured to report that the Führer has arrived in our great State for the May Day celebrations. He will be visiting factories, hospitals and offices that demonstrate the excellence of the workmanship of the German-English people. This is our opportunity to show the Führer just what we have achieved in this State. I hope that those of you who are fortunate enough to be granted an audience with the Führer realise the honour that has been bestowed upon you. This is an event that all German-Engländers will remember for generations to come, and I invite you all to take part.” Klarsfeld glanced down at his notes, and then looked at the camera once more. “It is unquestionably an honour for our State, and I do not wish the Führer to think that the German-English people are ungrateful. Please show your support for the Führer, for all he has done for the German Reich, for the German people. One People, One Empire, One Führer. Thank you for your time. Heil Führer.”

  The producer informed him that he was off air, and Klarsfeld grabbed the glass of water and drained it. He turned to Helga.

  “How did I do?”

  “As well as can be expected, Herr Reichsstatthalter, under the circumstances,” she answered with a smile. “Though I do think you used the word ‘honour’ perhaps one too many times.”

  “Perhaps,” Klarsfeld agreed, smiling. “Now, I think I should see the Führer.”

  “Yes, mein Herr.”

  Klarsfeld walked over to Röhm, and the two of them left the room.

  They had a job to do, and that was to save the Führer’s life. Whether that was possible, however, was another thing altogether.

  71

  Ben turned to Jerome as the news broadcast ended. He smiled and said, “Well, the visit’s still on.” They were sat in Ben’s room in the hotel. They were sharing a slab of German lager.

  “I would’ve thought they’d come to move us out of the room,” Jerome said, “seeing as how you get a clear view through to the hospital.”

  “I told you, that doesn’t matter. They’re hardly going to post guards. I’ll just break in an hour before he’s due.”

  “But what if they do post guards?”

  “We’ll deal with it.”

  “I’d like to know how?,” Jerome persisted.

  “In that case, we’ll have two options,” Ben said. “We either take the guards out, if that’s feasible, or we have to relocate to another sniping point. Relocating is a difficult task, so if it’s possible, we take the guards out.”

  “Have you seen Liam?”

  “I�
�ve seen Liam, yes,” answered Ben, somewhat impatiently. “And he’s seen the Americans. When this thing is over, we’ll get the hell out of England.”

  “What about Maggie?”

  “What about her?”

  “Does she get a seat out of here too?”

  “She won’t want one.”

  “I told you I saw her, Ben, and she wants one.”

  “And I told you, Jerome,” snapped Ben, getting to his feet and cracking open another can of lager, “that I didn’t want you out on the streets wandering around. And I especially didn’t want you seeing that fucking Kraut again.”

  “I had to let her down gently–”

  “Which would’ve been better achieved by never seeing her again.”

  “And if I hadn’t seen her, I wouldn’t have bumped into Maggie.”

  “Which wouldn’t have been a bad thing,” muttered Ben, “considering that’s all you’ve been thinking about since you left Scotland. You didn’t tell her where you were staying, did you?”

  “Of course I fucking didn’t. And anyway, Maggie’s no Spitzel.”

  “I didn’t suggest that she was,” Ben said. He took a swig from his lager and sat back down. “Thing is, the fucking Krauts have ways of getting people to talk, Jerome. And if they come across Maggie, for whatever reason, and get her to talk, she’ll talk about everything. If you’re being interrogated, if they break you, once you start talking, you don’t fucking stop.”

  “Would you?”

  “I should think I would, yes,” answered Ben truthfully. “If they tortured me for long enough. I wouldn’t want to, but they’d no doubt make me, unless they got bored before I cracked. It’s a game, Jerome, a chess game. If they carried on for long enough, they’d find my weak point. When somebody’s sawing off your feet, when they’re pumping you full of electricity, when they threaten to cut your bollocks off, yeah, you’d do anything to get them to stop. And those aren’t the worst things they do. So, yes, I guess I would talk, even though right now I think I’d rather bite my own fucking tongue off.”

  “Yeah, well, why would the Germans arrest Maggie? What reason would they have?”

  “She’s a fucking bait, Jerome, she lures Krauts into traps.”

  “But I still don’t think–”

  “Jerome, wake up and smell the coffee. This is a police state. You do anything that is considered remotely subversive, and you’ll get tortured, and you’ll get executed. It’s a way of fucking life, as your old man found out. What do you suppose he did? Probably called the Führer an arsehole, and now he’s dead. If they get hold of Maggie …”

  “I don’t need to be reminded.”

  “It seems you do. And remember, if they get to us, we’ll suffer the same treatment, and I don’t want that.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then be a bit more fucking careful.”

  “Okay, okay. But I still want Maggie to come with us.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Ben told him. He wanted to say if rather than when, but he didn’t want to concern Jerome more than he had to. His face softened. “Listen, let’s forget about all that shit. We’re here to do a fantastic job. But before we do it, let’s have one last party, yeah? That’s what we’ve got this beer for.”

  Jerome smiled and took a sip of his lager. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

  “Don’t be,” Ben said. “We’re gonna be successful. I guarantee you that.” He took a massive swig and then laughed. “Did your old man ever teach you the Hitler Song?”

  Jerome shook his head blankly. “I don’t think so.”

  Ben began to sing. “Hitler has only got one ball, Goering has two but they are small …” Jerome laughed and listened as Ben sang the rest of the song.

  By the end of the evening, they were both singing it, and shushing each other in case anybody was listening in. Ben led him back to his room, lay him down on his bed.

  “I’ll come for you in the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”

  Jerome held out his hand and Ben shook it. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Ben.”

  Ben looked down at him with tears in his eyes. And then he left Jerome’s room.

  Jerome closed his eyes, clasped his hands behind his head, and thought about Maggie. About their new life together, away from the Nazis.

  Freedom to do what they wanted when they wanted to. Freedom of speech, freedom of movement, freedom to choose where to work.

  The Americans would undoubtedly treat them with some reverence, because of the very nature of the operation that would’ve caused them to move there in the first place.

  The assassins of the German Führer.

  What an accolade, Jerome thought.

  He smiled, and thought about Maggie.

  And he slept and dreamt about Maggie.

  And their new life.

  72

  Eight green Ordnungspolizei trucks, their blue lights sweeping across the unlit street, pulled into Frankfurt Boulevard, two blocking the road at either end, the remaining four screeching to a halt outside the apparently insignificant Pig and Whistle public house, which at four-thirty in the morning was closed for business, as it should’ve been.

  Once the Orpo vans and their scores of officers were in position, the BMWs from the Geheime Staatspolizei screamed into the street, their engines roaring, the sirens wailing, their tyres screeching and smoking as they skidded to a stop outside the pub.

  Immediately, the plain-clothes officers leapt from the cars, some of them armed with MP5s, as were the Orpo officers, others armed with shotguns and pistols.

  SS-Obersturmführer Loritz reached the front door of the pub first, and signalled for some of his officers to cover every exit. Then he raised the shotgun he was brandishing, and blew open the lock. The blast echoed through the street, stirring people from their beds and to the windows of their houses, where they watched with subdued interest as their local pub was raided.

  Loritz entered first, switching on the lights as he did so. From the back of the bar came the sound of further shots, and more Gestapo officers poured into the building.

  Loritz made his way to the staircase behind the bar, just as a shadowy figure descended the stairs, pulling his dressing gown together as he came into view. Loritz aimed his shotgun at him.

  “Stay where you are! This is a raid!”

  “What the fuck’s going on?” the man demanded sleepily.

  “Geheime Staatspolizei, put your hands in the air!” Loritz commanded. The man did as he was told. “You are the landlord of this establishment, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  Loritz stepped up to the man and flexed his jaw as he looked carefully at him. The Engländer was big, built like an ox. But Loritz was the one with the gun and dozens of officers backing him up.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Smithers. Billy Smithers.”

  “Well, Herr Smithers, this is a raid by the Geheime Staatspolizei. I am SS-Obersturmführer Loritz. I am in charge. We have reason to believe that this establishment is being used by terrorists as a meeting place.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “We will search these premises,” Loritz said, gesturing to his men, who then moved in every direction. Loritz turned to Smithers. “You had better hope, Herr Smithers, that we find nothing incriminating. With the Führer visiting this State, we may have to use you as an example of a particularly harsh punishment.”

  “You won’t find anything here,” Smithers said confidently.

  Loritz didn’t like the man’s smile.

  Half an hour later, after his men returned from a fruitless search, he liked it even less. But he still saw the faint look of relief appear on the man’s face.

  He was clearly afraid of them finding something.

  And because his men hadn’t found it, it had to be well-hidden.

  So Loritz sent his men out again, and as they departed, he watched Smithers’ face carefully.
And Smithers started to sweat.

  Especially when Gestapo men entered the gents’ toilet. Loritz watched him closely. As the Gestapo men left the toilet, relief once again appeared on the man’s face.

  Loritz smiled and ordered his men back to the bar.

  Then he selected two Gestapo officers at random, and Keitel, his right-hand man, and along with Smithers, the four Gestapo officers entered the toilets.

  The officers held Smithers against the far wall, and Loritz entered the cubicles one by one. As he entered the last one, he stopped, and stamped on the floor. It felt solid. He turned and looked at the man. Smithers was sweating profusely now. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

  Loritz walked back along the line of cubicles, entering each one in turn, and banging on the floor with his combat boot.

  The floor in one of the cubicles sounded hollow, as though there were nothing solid beneath it. Loritz reached forward and pulled the chain. The toilet flushed as normal, but some water leaked out of the waste pipe to the rear. Loritz got down on his knees, gripped the toilet, and pulled it firmly. It moved away from the wall ever so slightly, only a fraction of a centimetre, spilling the contents of the bowl onto the floor of the cubicle. Loritz stood up and faced Smithers.

  “Are you going to tell me what is strange about this toilet,” he said, “or do I have to find that out for myself?”

  Smithers didn’t answer, but the answer was written all across his face.

  Loritz stepped out of the cubicle, raised his shotgun, and aimed it at the hollow-sounding floor. He squeezed the trigger, the shotgun bucked, its report sounding loud in the confined space of the gents’. The ringing remained in his ears for a long while after he left the pub, but for now, Loritz wasn’t concerned with such trivialities.

  The small hole in the floor, perhaps eight inches in diameter, revealed that there was indeed nothing beneath the floor. Loritz fired again and again, until there was little remaining of the wooden floor, and also little remaining of his hearing.