Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Good, good,” her father said. He looked up suddenly. “I hope you were not playing games with your tutors.”

  Hilde coloured. She’d heard the rumours about Professor Murken - she had no idea who’d started them or why - but she had never touched or been touched by any of her tutors. Hell, as far as they knew, she hadn’t even had a boyfriend! Being with Martin had been fun, but she knew her parents would have hauled her out of the university if they suspected, even for a second, that she was having an ‘unsuitable’ relationship.

  “No, father,” she said. “They have been nothing but proper to me.”

  “Good,” her father said. He cocked his head, slightly. “I’ve heard a vague rumour that the leaflets came out of the university, Hilde. Would you care to comment?”

  “I have heard the same rumour,” Hilde said. He didn't suspect her, did he? She had no idea how he could have suspected her. Her parents practically treated her as an extension of themselves. “Father, I know no one at the university who would dare write such leaflets.”

  “Your mother apparently received a copy,” her father said. “Did you give it to her?”

  “No, father,” Hilde lied. If he knew already, if one of the maids had reported her slipping it into the pile of letters for her mother, she was doomed. He’d pull her out of the university and send her to one of the finishing schools in Switzerland, where young female brains were turned into mush. It wasn't as if her parents couldn't afford the fees. “I wouldn't dare pass on one of those leaflets.”

  “A sensible attitude,” her father said, blandly. “Should you discover who happened to write the leaflets, Hilde, you will inform me at once.”

  “Yes, father,” Hilde said. She knew better than to argue openly. She’d just keep her mouth shut and pray the group was never uncovered by the SS. “May I ask a question?”

  “You may,” her father said, after a moment. “I do not, of course, promise to answer.”

  Hilde took a breath. “Are the claims in the leaflets true?”

  “Of course not,” her father said, too quickly. “They’re lies, lies put about to weaken the Reich. We had similar problems in the sixties with radicals who were influenced by American ideals. They were rapidly crushed.”

  He shook his head. “The fools who wrote and distributed these leaflets may think they’re doing the right thing,” he added, after a moment. “They’re young, of course; only a youngster would have the conceit to believe they could change the world by distributing leaflets. But they’re wrong. They’re very wrong. They’re undermining the Reich itself, Hilde.”

  Hilde couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. “Is that wrong?”

  Her father gave her a sharp look. “You studied Rome, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, father,” Hilde said. She'd found history boring, but she remembered a few details. “I had to read about the Romans for school.”

  “Brutus killed Julius Caesar,” her father said. “Do you recall that part of the story?”

  Hilde shrugged. Her lessons had centred around the great Teutonic heroes who’d brought down the Italians and established, once and for all, that Germans would never be slaves as long as they stood united. She recalled Julius Caesar, but only in passing.

  “Brutus and his comrades had no plan for what would happen after Julius Caesar was brutally murdered,” her father said, after a moment. “He had no idea how to capitalise on his success, so he did nothing as events slipped out of hand. And so, instead of the successful restoration of the Roman Republic, Emperor Augustus rose to power.”

  “I see, father,” Hilde said.

  “Go,” her father said. “I have a meeting now, but I’ll see your mother and yourself at dinnertime.”

  Hilde nodded, rose and left the room. It might have been an accident, but her father had given her something to think about. And something, she knew, she would have to discuss with the rest of the group as soon as possible. Who knew what would happen if the Reich came apart at the seams?

  ***

  “You weren't seen, were you?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Andrew Barton said. Walking through the richest part of Berlin was far safer than trying to sneak through the suburbs. “As long as the papers you provided are in good order, I shouldn't have been in trouble even if I had been stopped by the police.”

  He smiled as Arthur Morgenstern sat back in his chair. The man was deeply corrupt - and desperate for ready cash. Slipping him a few hundred thousand dollars had been more than enough to turn him into a source, although - as always - Andrew had to remember that the SS might be playing him, rather than the other way around. Morgenstern was genuine, as far as he could tell, but there was always a quiet nagging doubt.

  “That’s good,” Morgenstern said, after a moment. “There have been developments.”

  Andrew took a seat and leaned forward. “What sort of developments?”

  “Threats of a new set of trade unions in various corporations,” Morgenstern said. “And people whispering about those damnable leaflets. Even my wife knows what they are.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrew said, sincerely. Frau Morgenstern would have made an excellent source, if she hadn't been more determined to build up her own power base than assist the United States. “And your daughter?”

  “Denies everything,” Morgenstern said. He looked up, suddenly. “Could you offer her a scholarship to Caltech?”

  “I could arrange for her to be selected, if she puts her name on the lists,” Andrew said. The university would kick up a fuss - and the FBI wouldn't be any happier - but the OSS had more than enough clout to make sure that Hilde Morgenstern was safely out of the Reich for a couple of years. “Does she have genuine potential?”

  “Her marks are good,” Morgenstern assured him. “I’m sure she could pass the entrance exam.”

  That proved nothing, Andrew knew. Caltech would try to reject her if she didn't pass the exam - and they’d be furious if Andrew’s superiors insisted on allowing her to attend anyway. But competition was fierce at Speer University, he had to admit. Hilde Morgenstern wouldn't have managed to get as far as she had if she hadn't had genuine talent along with her family’s connections.

  Morgenstern sighed, loudly. “First we had problems in France, now we have problems in the Reich itself,” he added, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t like the idea of new trade unions.”

  “I suppose you wouldn't,” Andrew agreed. “I thought they were banned.”

  “Oh, they are,” Morgenstern said. “And the workers should know it. There are government unions to take care of their requirements. But they’re ignoring the rules.”

  Andrew wasn’t surprised. The only hint of socialism in Nazi Germany lay within the Nazi Party’s name - National Socialism. In reality, the corporations made big donations to the Reich’s government and, in exchange, all independent trade unions were banned. Anyone who tried to found one could expect to be fired and jailed, perhaps exiled to the east, in short order. And yet, as the Reich’s economy tightened and pay checks grew thinner, it was harder and harder for the bosses to intimidate the workers into silence.

  “That could be a problem,” he agreed, dryly. “What have your masters decided to do about it?”

  “Nothing, as yet,” Morgenstern admitted. “I think they’re hoping the whole problem will just go away.”

  “They thought that before the Great Depression too,” Andrew reminded him. “But it didn’t.”

  “No, it didn't,” Morgenstern agreed.

  He was frightened, Andrew realised. Given his position in the Ministry of Industry, he had good reason to know the full scale of the problem. Andrew hadn't been sure what, if anything, to make of the leaflets, but if Morgenstern was worried...

  “And if it doesn't go away,” he said carefully, “what do you think they’ll do?”

  “Something drastic,” Morgenstern said. “And I want my daughter out of the Reich before that happens.”

  Andrew nod
ded. “We’ll see what we can do,” he said. “But she will have to pass the exams, Herr Morgenstern. Anything else would be far too revealing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wieland House, Berlin

  6 August 1985

  Gudrun lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  Her parents hadn't been particularly demanding, much to her relief, ever since Konrad’s father had called Gudrun’s father and had a long - and private - discussion with him over the telephone. Gudrun hadn’t been sure how her father would react - particularly if he realised that she’d known Konrad was crippled before his father had found out - but he’d largely left her alone, while her mother had only given her a handful of chores to do when she got home from the university. In some ways, it was a relief, but she had a nasty feeling that the Reichmark was about to drop. How long would it be before her father started nagging her to find a husband - or presented her with a list of suitable candidates?

  And Konrad was going to die.

  She'd known he wasn't going to recover completely, if he ever made it off the life support machine, but she’d dared to hope that they might have a life together. Now, she could no longer cling to the illusion. Konrad’s father would turn the machine off, once he actually found his son; he wouldn't leave his son’s shattered mind trapped in a crippled body. It wasn't fair, Gudrun’s thoughts mocked her; no one had seriously considered telling Grandpa Frank that it was time to die, to go on to the next world, even though he was a disgusting old man. But what had Konrad done to deserve such injuries? He’d been young and strong and the world was at his feet.

  And it killed him, she thought, bitterly. How many times had he sat beside her on the bed, sneaking kisses despite the open door? She wasn't sure she could bring herself to kiss anyone, ever again; she’d practically betrayed Konrad by kissing Horst, even though it had been in the heat of the moment. Konrad did everything right and he was still betrayed by his own government.

  She wanted to sit up, she wanted to do something, but she couldn't muster the energy to do anything more than lie on the bed. There were chores she needed to do, she was sure, and homework she needed to finish before going back to the university, yet it was so hard to focus her mind. If her father saw her latest set of marks, he’d blow a fuse; Gudrun knew, without false optimism, that her grades had slipped badly. And yet, between the knowledge of what had happened to Konrad and her own work with the leaflets, it was hard to focus on her studies. What sort of future did she have if nothing changed?

  There was a tap on the door. She looked up. Her father was standing there, looking worried; Gudrun sat upright hastily and beckoned him into the room. She couldn't keep her heart from pounding, although she was fairly sure she wasn't in trouble. Her father rarely entered her room unless she was. It was her mother who normally inspected it each weekend and snapped at her to clean up her mess, place clean clothes in the drawers and wash her dirty outfits in the sink.

  “Gudrun,” her father said, sitting on the bed next to her. “I am truly sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Gudrun said. She wasn't used to her father being sympathetic - or understanding. Even when he’d bawled out the BDM matron, he’d given Gudrun a look that promised she’d be in hot water as soon as she got home. “Konrad... Konrad meant everything to me.”

  “Your mother means everything to me,” her father said, uncomfortably. “But if she died, she wouldn't want me to just give up.”

  Gudrun stared down at her hands. “I’m not feeling suicidal, father.”

  “Good,” her father said, dryly. “I’d hate to have to take you to hospital.”

  Gudrun flinched. A person who showed suicidal tendencies could be committed to a mental health institution and held indefinitely. Gudrun had heard enough horror stories about what happened behind their locked doors to know she never wanted to step into one, certainly not while there was breath in her body. She had heard of a couple of students who’d committed suicide under the pressure, but it was very rare. Students at the university weren’t encouraged to wallow in self-pity.

  “I just don’t want to think about anything else at the moment,” she said, carefully. “He was proud of me, father. I don’t want to let him down.”

  “I’m proud of you,” her father said.

  You don’t understand me, Gudrun thought. Her father had always gotten on better with his sons, taking them to play football and camping in the hills while Gudrun had stayed with her mother. You would have been happy if I’d been born male too.

  “I approved of Konrad,” her father said, after a moment. “SS he might have been, but he was a good lad and would have taken care of you.”

  “I don't need a man to take care of me,” Gudrun snapped. “I’m not... I’m not going to be a housewife.”

  Her father gave her a long considering look. “And if you graduate with the highest marks in your class,” he said, “what will happen then?”

  “There aren’t enough computer experts in the Reich,” Gudrun said. She allowed a hint of sarcasm to run through her voice. “I may be a weak and feeble woman, father, but they won’t be able to dismiss me because I was born the wrong gender.”

  “I hope you’re right,” her father said. “But you do need to consider finding a new husband.”

  Gudrun stared at him. It was easy to sound horrified - and tearful. “Konrad isn't even dead yet!”

  “But he will be,” her father said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “And even if they keep him on life support, he will not be a suitable husband. He will not be able to father children.”

  Gudrun shuddered. She did not want to have that discussion with her father. Her mother had discussed how babies were made when she’d bled for the first time - she remembered that it had almost been a relief, because she’d been convinced she was desperately ill - and the BDM had explained it in clinical detail, but discussing it with her father would be far too embarrassing. She recalled Konrad’s bandaged body, lying in the hospital bed, and shuddered again. His genitals had been blown off by the blast.

  She took refuge in anger. “Father, is having children the sole purpose of my life?”

  Her father frowned. “You are a young woman,” he said. “The longer you wait before having children, Gudrun, the harder it will be to get pregnant and bring the child to term. If you wait too long, you simply won’t be able to have children.”

  “And if I do,” Gudrun said, “I’ll be trapped in the house.”

  “Your mother rules the house,” her father pointed out.

  “But she is trapped,” Gudrun countered. “She has to look after three little brats who don’t do anything to help...”

  “You had your own bratty stage,” her father said, sarcastically.

  “That’s not the point,” Gudrun said. “Kurt, Johan and Siegfried do nothing around the house - they don’t even pick up the trash in their rooms. Johan and Siegfried threw a fit when mother told me to clean their room, but they weren't willing to do it for themselves. And even if mother goes back to work when Siegfried turns eighteen and gets a job of his own, she’ll have given up the best years of her life.”

  Her father’s face darkened. “If she hadn't had children,” he said, “you wouldn't exist.”

  “I know,” Gudrun said. It was true, after all. There was no point in trying to deny it. “But I want to be something more than a housewife and mother, endlessly picking up after my children.”

  “You’re a young woman,” her father said. “You were born to be a mother.”

  “It doesn't seem fair,” Gudrun objected. How could she expect her father, the lord and master of the household, to understand? “Why do I have to be a mother?”

  Her father gave her a long look. “No one would expect you to go to work,” he said, after a moment. “You are not expected to go to war, or work in a factory, or do anything to bring in money for your family. Your husband, Gudrun, will be considered a failure if he doesn't ensure you have everything you need. H
e will be roundly mocked if his wife is in rags and his children are naked...”

  “And then he will get drunk and take it out on his wife,” Gudrun said. She’d never seen her father hitting her mother, but she’d known a couple of girls in school who’d had terrifyingly violent fathers. No one had cared when they’d come to school sporting nasty bruises they refused to talk about, let alone show to the matrons. “And the wife has no rights at all.”

  She looked down at her hands. The BDM matrons had gone over the responsibilities of a wife in some detail, assuring their charges that a proper housewife was loyal, obedient and never complained, let alone committed adultery. If she did, Gudrun had been told, she could expect to lose custody of the kids, if she didn't wind up in jail. Gudrun recalled asking just why the husband was allowed to commit adultery, if his wife didn't have the same rights, and being forced to write lines as punishment. Her mother hadn't found it very amusing when Gudrun, her hand aching, had been sent home with a note. In hindsight, Gudrun couldn't help wondering if her mother’s angry reaction had been fuelled by her awareness of her own helplessness.