Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  The field marshal gave him one last chance to reason. “Were it you and I alone, there might be some doubt as to what would happen.” Not much, he thought, not when Gandhi was twenty-odd years older and thin enough to break like a stick. He fought down the irrelevance, went on, “But where, Herr Gandhi, is your Wehrmacht?”

  Of all things, he had least expected to amuse the Indian again. Yet Gandhi’s eyes unmistakably twinkled behind the lenses of his spectacles. “Field Marshal, I have an army too.”

  Model’s patience, never of the most enduring sort, wore thin all at once. “Get out!” he snapped.

  Gandhi stood, bowed, and departed. Major Lasch stuck his head into the office. The field marshal’s glare drove him out again in a hurry.

  “Well?” Jawaharlal Nehru paced back and forth. Tall, slim, and saturnic he towered over Gandhi without dominating him. “Dare we use the same police against the Germans that we employed against the English?”

  “If we wish our land free, dare we do otherwise?” Gandhi replied. “They will not grant our wish of their own volition. Model struck me as a man not much different from various British leaders whom we have succeeded in vexing in the past.” He smiled at the memory of what passive resistance had done to officers charged with combating it.

  “Very well, satyagraha it is.” But Nehru was not smiling. He had less humor than his older colleague.

  Gandhi teased him gently, “Do you fear another spell in prison, then?” Both men had spent time behind bars during the war, until the British released them in a last, vain effort to rally the support of the Indian people to the Raj.

  “You know better.” Nehru refused to be drawn, and persisted, “The rumors that come out of Europe frighten me.”

  “Do you tell me you take them seriously?” Gandhi shook his head in surprise and a little reproof. “Each side in any war will always paint its opponents as blackly as it can.”

  “I hope you are right, and that is all. Still, I confess I would feel more at ease with what we plan to do if you found me one Jew, officer or other rank, in the army now occupying us.”

  “You would be hard-pressed to find any among the forces they defeated. The British have little love for Jews, either.”

  “Yes, but I daresay it could be done. With the Germans, they are banned by law. The English would never make such a rule. And while the laws are vile enough, I think of the tales that man Wiesenthal told, the one who came here—the gods know how—across Russia and Persia from Poland.”

  “Those I do not believe,” Gandhi said firmly. “No nation could act in that way and hope to survive. Where could men be found to carry out such horrors?”

  “Azad Hind,” Nehru said, quoting the “Free India” motto of the locals who had fought on the German side.

  But Gandhi shook his head. “They are only soldiers, doing as soldiers have always done. Wiesenthal’s claims are for an entirely different order of bestiality, one that could not exist without destroying the fabric of the state that gave it birth.”

  “I hope very much you are right,” Nehru said.

  Walther Model slammed the door behind him hard enough to make his aide, whose desk faced away from the field marshal’s office, jump in alarm. “Enough of this twaddle for one day,” Model said. “I need schnapps, to get the taste of these Indians out of my mouth. Come along if you care to, Dieter.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Major Lasch threw down his pen, eagerly got to his feet. “I sometimes think conquering India was easier than ruling it will be.”

  Model rolled his eyes. “I know it was. I would ten times rather be planning a new campaign than sitting here bogged down in pettifogging details. The sooner Berlin sends me people trained in colonial administration, the happier I will be.”

  The bar might have been taken from an English pub. It was dark, quiet, and paneled in walnut; a dartboard still hung on the wall, but a German sergeant in field gray stood behind the bar, and, despite the lazily turning ceiling fan, the temperature was close to thirty-five Celsius. The one might have been possible in occupied London, the other not.

  Model knocked back his first shot at a gulp. He sipped his second more slowly, savoring it. Warmth spread through him, warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers. “A long day,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Lasch agreed. “After the effrontery of that Gandhi, any day would seem a long one. I’ve rarely seen you so angry.” Considering Model’s temper, that was no small statement.

  “Ah, yes, Ghandi.” Model’s tone was reflective rather than irate; Lasch looked at him curiously. The field marshal said, “For my money, he’s worth a dozen of the ordinary sort.”

  “Sir?” The aide no longer tried to hide his surprise.

  “He is an honest man. He tells me what he thinks, and will stick by that. I may kill him—I may have to kill him—but he and I will both know why, and I will not change his mind.” Model took another sip of schnapps. He hesitated, as if unsure whether to go on. At last he did. “Do you know, Dieter, after he left I had a vision?”

  “Sir?” Now Lasch was alarmed.

  The field marshal might have read his aide’s thoughts. He chuckled wryly. “No, no, I am not about to swear off eating beefsteak and wear sandals instead of my boots, that I promise. But I saw myself as a Roman procurator, listening to the rantings of some early Christian priest.”

  Lasch raised an eyebrow. Such musings were unlike Model, who was usually direct to the point of bluntness and altogether materialistic—assets in the makeup of a general officer. The major cautiously sounded these unexpected depths: “How do you suppose the Roman felt, facing that kind of man?”

  “Bloody confused, I suspect,” Model said, which sounded more like him. “And because he and his comrades did not know how to handle such fanatics, you and I are Christians today, Dieter.”

  “So we are.” The major rubbed his chin. “Is that a bad thing?” Model laughed and finished his drink. “From your point of view or mine, no. But I doubt that old Roman would agree with us, any more than Gandhi agrees with me over what will happen next here. But then, I have two advantages over the dead procurator.” He raised his finger; the sergeant hurried over to fill his glass.

  At Lasch’s nod, the young man also poured more schnapps for him. The major drank, then said, “I should hope so. We are more civilized, more sophisticated, than the Romans ever dreamed of being.”

  But model was still in that fey mood. “Are we? My procurator was such a sophisticate that he tolerated anything, and never saw the danger in a few who would not do the same. Our Christian God, though, is a jealous god who puts up with no rivals. And one who is a National Socialist serves also the Volk, to whom he owes sole loyalty. I am immune to Gandhi’s virus the way the Roman was not to the Christian’s.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Lasch agreed after a moment. “I had not thought of it in that way, but I see it is so. And what is our other advantage over the Roman procurator?”

  Suddenly the field marshal looked hard and cold, much the way he had looked leading the tanks of the Third Panzer against the Kremlin compound. “The machine gun,” he said.

  The rising sun’s rays made the sandstone of the Red Fort seem even more the color of blood. Gandhi frowned and turned his back on the fortress, not caring for that thought. Even at dawn the air was warm and muggy.

  “I wish you were not here,” Nehru told him. The younger man lifted his trademark fore-and-aft cap, scratched his graying hair, and glanced at the crowd growing around them. “The Germans’ orders forbid assemblies, and they will hold you responsible for this gathering.”

  “I am, am I not?” Ghandi replied. “Would you have me send my followers into danger I do not care to face myself? How would I presume to lead them afterward?”

  “A general does not fight in the front ranks,” Nehru came back. “If you are lost to our cause, will we be able to go on?”

  “If not, then sure
ly the cause is not worthy, yes? Now let us be going.”

  Nehru threw his hands in the air. Gandhi nodded, satisfied, and worked his way toward the head of the crowd. Men and women stepped aside to let him through. Still shaking his head, Nehru followed.

  The crowd slowly began to march east up Chandni Chauk, the Street of Silversmiths. Some of the fancy shops had been wrecked in the fighting, more looted afterward. But others were opening up, their owners as happy to take German money as they had been to serve the British before.

  One of the proprietors, a man who had managed to stay plump even through the past year of hardship, came rushing out of his shop when he saw the procession go by. He ran to the head of the march and spotted Nehru, whose height and elegant dress singled him out.

  “Are you out of your mind?” the silversmith shouted. “The Germans have banned assemblies. If they see you, something dreadful will happen.”

  “Is it not dreadful that they take away the liberty that properly belongs to us?” Gandhi asked. The silversmith spun round. His eyes grew wide when he recognized the man who was speaking to him. Gandhi went on, “Not only is it dreadful, it is wrong. And so we do not recognize the Germans’ right to ban anything we may choose to do. Join us, will you?”

  “Great-souled one, I—I—,” the silversmith spluttered. Then his glance slid past Ghandi. “The Germans!” he squeaked. He turned and ran.

  Gandhi led the procession toward the approaching squad. The Germans stamped down Chandni Chauk as if they expected the people in front of them to melt from their path. Their gear, Ghandi thought, was not that much different from what British soldiers wore: ankle boots, shorts, and open-necked tunics. But their coal-scuttle helmets gave them a look of sullen, beetle-browed ferocity the British tin hat did not convey. Even for a man of Gandhi’s equanimity, it was daunting, as no doubt it was intended to be.

  “Hello, my friends,” he said. “Do any of you speak English?”

  “I speak it, a little,” one of them replied. His shoulder straps had the twin pips of a sergeant major: he was the squad leader, then. He hefted his rifle, not menacingly, Gandhi thought, but to emphasize what he was saying. “Go to your homes back. This coming together is verboten.”

  “I am sorry, but I must refuse to obey your order,” Gandhi said. “We are walking peacefully on our own street in our own city. We will harm no one, no matter what; this I promise you. But walk we will, as we wish.” He repeated himself until he was sure the sergeant major understood.

  The German spoke to his comrades in his own language. One of the soldiers raised his gun and with a nasty smile pointed at Gandhi. The Indian nodded politely. The German blinked to see him unafraid. The sergeant major slapped the rifle down. One of his men had a field telephone on his back. The sergeant major cranked it, waited for a reply, spoke urgently into it.

  Nehru caught Gandhi’s eye. His dark, tired gaze was full of worry. Somehow that nettled Gandhi more than the German’s arrogance in ordering around his people. He began to walk forward again. The marchers followed him, flowing around the German squad like water flowing round a boulder.

  The soldier who had pointed his rifle at Gandhi shouted in alarm. He brought up the weapon again. The sergeant major barked at him. Reluctantly, he lowered it.

  “A sensible man,” Gandhi said to Nehru. “He sees we do no injury to him or his, and so does none to us.”

  “Sadly, though, not everyone is so sensible,” the younger man replied, “as witness his lance corporal there. And even a sensible man may not be well inclined to us. You notice he is still on the telephone.”

  The phone on Field Marshal Model’s desk jangled. He jumped and swore; he had left orders he was to be disturbed only for an emergency. He had to find time to work. He picked up the phone. “This had better be good,” he growled without preamble.

  He listened, swore again, slammed the receiver down. “Lasch!” he shouted.

  It was his aide’s turn to jump. “Sir?”

  “Don’t just sit there on your fat arse,” the field marshal said unfairly. “Call out my car and driver, and quickly. Then belt on your sidearm and come along. The Indians are doing something stupid. Oh yes, order out a platoon and have them come after us. Up on Chandni Chauk, the trouble is.”

  Lasch called for the car and the troops, then hurried after Model. “A riot?” he asked as he caught up.

  “No, no.” Model moved his stumpy frame along so fast that the taller Lasch had to trot beside him. “Some of Gandhi’s tricks, damn him.”

  The field marshal’s Mercedes was waiting when he and his aide hurried out of the Viceregal palace. “Chandni Chauk,” Model snapped as the driver held the door open for him. After that he sat in furious silence as the powerful car roared up Irwin road, round a third of Connaught circle, and north on Chelmsford road past the bombed out railway station until, for no reason Model could see, the street’s name changed to Qutb road.

  A little later the driver said, “Some kind of disturbance up ahead, sir.”

  “Disturbance?” Lasch echoed, leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “It’s a whole damned regiment’s worth of Indians coming at us. Don’t they know better than that? And what the devil,” he added, his voice rising, “are so many of our men doing ambling along beside them? Don’t they know they are supposed to break up this sort of thing?” In his indignation he did not notice he was repeating himself.

  “I suspect they don’t,” Model said dryly. “Gandhi, I gather, can have that effect on people who aren’t ready for his peculiar brand of stubbornness. That, however, does not include me.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Pull up about two hundred meters in front of the first rank of them, Joachim.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Even before the car had stopped moving, Model jumped out of it. Lasch, hand on his pistol, was close behind, protesting, “What if one of those fanatics has a gun?”

  “Then Colonel General Weilding assumes command, and a lot of Indians end up dead.” Model strode toward Gandhi, ignoring the German troops who were drawing themselves to stiff, horrified attention at the sight of his field marshal’s uniform. He would deal with them later. For the moment, Gandhi was more important.

  He had stopped—which meant the rest of the marchers did, too—and was waiting politely for Model to approach. The German commandant was not impressed. He thought Gandhi sincere, and could not doubt his courage, but none of that mattered at all. He said harshly, “You were warned against this sort of behavior.”

  Gandhi looked him in the eye. They were very much of a height. “And I told you, I do not recognize your right to give such orders. This is our country, not yours, and if some of us choose to walk on our streets, we will do so.”

  From behind Gandhi, Nehru’s glance flicked worriedly from one of the antagonists to the other. Model noticed him only peripherally; if Nehru was already afraid, he could be handled whenever necessary. Gandhi was a tougher nut. The field marshal waved at the crowd behind the old man. “You are responsible for all these people. If harm comes to them, you will be to blame.”

  “Why should harm come to them? They are not soldiers. They do not attack your men. I told that to one of your sergeants, and he understood it, and refrained from hindering us. Surely you, sir, an educated, cultured man, can see that what I say is self-evident truth.”

  Model turned his head to speak to his aide in German: “If we did not have Goebbels, this would be the one for his job.” He shuddered to think of the propaganda victory Gandhi would win if he got away with flouting German ordinances. The whole countryside would be boiling with partisans in a week. And he had already managed to hoodwink some Germans into letting him do it!

  Then Gandhi surprised him again. “Ich danke Ihnen, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, aber das glaube ich kein Kompliment zu sein,” he said in slow but clear German. “I thank you, field Marshal, but I believe that to be no compliment.”

  Having to hold his monocle in place helped Model keep hi
s face straight. “Take it however you like,” he said. “Get these people off the street, or they and you will face the consequences. We will do what you force us to.”

  “I force you to nothing. As for these people who follow, each does so of his or her own free will. We are free, and we will show it, not by violence, but through firmness of truth.”

  Now Model listened with only half an ear. He had kept Gandhi talking long enough for the platoon he had ordered to arrive. Half a dozen SdKfz 251 armored personnel carriers came clanking up. The men piled out of them. “Give me a firing line, three ranks deep,” Model shouted. As the troops scrambled to obey, he waved the half-trucks into position behind them, all but blocking Qutb road. The half-trucks’ commanders swiveled the machine guns at the front of the vehicles’ troop compartments so they bore on the Indians.

  Gandhi watched these preparations as calmly as if they had nothing to do with him. Again Model had to admire his calm. Gandhi’s followers were less able to keep fear from their faces. Very few, though, used the pause to slip away. Gandhi’s discipline was a long way from the military sort, but effective all the same.

  “Tell them to disperse now, and we can still get away without bloodshed,” the field marshal said.

  “We will shed no one’s blood, sir. But we will continue on our pleasant journey. Moving carefully, we will, I think be able to get between your large lorries there.” Gandhi turned to wave his people foreword once more.

  “You insolent—” Rage choked Model, which was as well, for it kept him from cursing Gandhi like a fishwife. To give him time to master his temper, he plucked his monocle from his eye and began polishing his lens with a silk handkerchief. He replaced his monocle, started to jam the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, then suddenly had a better idea.

  “Come Lasch,” he said, and started toward the waiting German troops. About halfway to them, he dropped his handkerchief on the ground. He spoke in loud, simple German so his men and Gandhi could both follow: “If any Indians come past this spot, I wash my hands of them.”