The Furred Reich

by Len Gilbert

  Then he saw what the lapines had warned him about. A gray-furred wolf lay flat on the muddy river bank. Its fur was madded and it crawled fruitlessly on its elbows to get further from the water.

  Hans slid carefully down to the riverbank. As he got closer the wolf snarled at him and bared its teeth.

  “Easy there, Kamerad…”

  “Stay away!” The hurt wolf looked up. Its right eye was swollen shut.

  Hans felt more than a little sorry for the fallen canine. Besides, whatever did this to the wolf could do even worse to himself.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “I said back away!”

  “I’m going to get you out.”

  The wolf snarled and swatted at Hans again, trying vainly to crawl away from him.

  “Come on. Just hold still.”

  It looked up distrustfully at the human. Hans reached down, shifted the wolf’s paws and lifted him up on his back. The beaten wolf flinched and snarled at Hans from atop his back.

  “Let me go,” he coughed out.

  With a deep breath Hans carried the him up the steep incline, almost falling back-first onto the river bank as he did. The wolf was heavier than most humans, but Hans had done this many times. By the time he got back to camp, the night was turning pitch black. Hans set the wolf down just outside his bivouac.

  “Just lay there, alright?” Hans said, setting up a fire pit with sticks and twigs.

  The wolf looked into Hans’ eyes for a moment, then lowered his muzzle.

  “A human,” he grunted quietly. “Where are you headed, human?”

  “Nowhere, really,” Hans said, lighting a match and kindling a fire. The wolf shook its head, as if Hans had given him a wrong answer.

  “Do you have anything to eat…”

  Hans opened up his mess tin. There wasn’t much left in there. He reached in and broke off a small slab of the dried meat from Deltia.

  “It’s not much, but—” Hans leaned over slowly to give him a slab.

  The wolf took a small, careful bite of it, then sat back and stared at the human. The fire danced upwards and illuminated both of their faces.

  “A human escaping this far west. You must have been through hell,” the wolf finally said.

  “Yeah. I have.”

  “Must have come a long way, too…” the wolf mused.

  “You could say that,” Hans smiled.

  “Yes, well. You’d better keep going. They’ll be here soon enough.”

  “I see…”

  Who was ‘they?’ Hans didn’t want to show he was ignorant on this, lest the wolf begin to wonder.

  “Actually. I was hoping to stay here.”

  “You can’t. Grimeskins will be here soon. They chased me down the river.”

  So he was talking about the ‘Grimeskins.’ They didn’t sound very friendly.

  “Where should I go, you think?”

  “Flee straight west. To the edge of the world if you have to. The Grimeskins will kill you in no time,” the young wolf winced in pain as he spoke.

  “That where you’re going?”

  He shook his head.

  “Me? No. I’m going to the forest wolves. I’ll fight and die there, that’s all.”

  “What if I went to the forest wolves, too?”

  Kasha raised an eyebrow at the human, as if Hans had dropped in from another planet. Deciding to quickly change the subject before Kasha became yet more suspicious, Hans stretched and got up from his seat.

  “If you don’t mind I’m going to sleep,” Hans said. “You should stay here. You’re in no shape to run.”

  “…I know…” he sighed.

  “Oh, and sorry. What was your name again?”

  “You may call me Kasha,” the wolf answered.

  Qok

  Hex bit his lip as he departed the reception room. He’d had enough of the arrogant emperor Jiroft and his slights. One way or another Jiroft would regret the tone he used today. The monsters were coming to depose Jiroft soon enough. Good riddance.

  Xusa, the capital of Ahuran, was just as it looked when Hex was much younger. Beyond the manicured green sprawl of the palace grounds, columns of tall lime-rock buildings lined the wide streets like giant offerings. From a distance, orchards and fields struggled in the semi-arid soil until a wall of white-capped mountains stopped everything.

  An ox-drawn cart sat outside Hex’s residence early that morning.

  “This cart headed to Port Jasra?”

  An avian face whipped around at the sound of Hex’s voice.

  “Woah! That really you, Hex?”

  “It is, but I don’t recognize you.”

  “Oh I knew you looked familiar! Last time you was here I took you and your family down to Giraz and the Gulf. I bet you don’t even remember this face.”

  “I don’t, sorry, but I do remember that trip fondly.”

  “Don’t you remember that time you fell asleep at the table and your face fell into the bean soup?”

  “Oh, uh. You were there for that?”

  “Sure was,” the avian laughed. “Name’s Qok. Nice to see you all grown up, though I wish it were under better terms.”

  “How’d you manage to come so far in all this chaos?” Qok asked.

  “Had some help all along the way. One thing I’ve learned is that there are a lot of good people out there. Even during hard times like these.”

  The oxcart kicked off and shuffled along the main streets. Families and other travelers hopped aboard the cart. At some point Qok picked up some empty wooden casks which carried the distinct aroma of Berrywine.

  By sunrise they were in the outskirts of Xusa, headed south and west toward the cooler vineyard country. Hex kicked his shoes up and relaxed as the sun rose. There was still a very long way to go, but this part of the journey would be safe and smooth. A nice change of pace from the previous weeks.

  The slow, bumpy ride took them through a valley of wheat fields, and he could sometimes hear the grasses blowing against each other in the wind. He saw farmers with brimmed hats wading through the fields to collect the harvest before the frosts arrived. That day the cart stopped only twice, and sleep came easier than usual when the sky got dark. Most of the passengers, children included, had fallen asleep. By sunrise the landscape had changed again. Hex saw tiny vineyards passing by them, and felt the cool, mild air on his fur.

  That afternoon they came to a scheduled stop. Hex recognized the town as Zarekord, a mishmash of narrow streets that spilled out past an ancient city wall into the cool meadows and orchards. Most of the other passengers disembarked in the town and made their ways home. Hex and Qok stayed at a travelers’ house at the edge of a Berrywine vineyard.

  “Ya know I thought you would stay with us in Xusa. It’s much safer here, you know.” Qok said to him as they both got off the cart and put the oxen into a barn.

  “I know. But. My younger brother lives in a safe location further west. I’m going to collect him.”

  “Oh…” the old bird mused.

  “Is that why you’re doing down to—”

  “Yes. And its a ways even after that.”

  “Where? Deltia?”

  “No it’s, well, I can’t say where it is but it’s not Deltia.”

  “I see. Well. If I can help you at all beyond Jasra just let me know.”

  “I appreciate your help, Qok.”

  Vaterland

  “Kasha?”

  A wet wind blew over Hans’ tent. He woke up and looked around to see that Kasha was gone. Gusts of wind were broken only by the pines. An overcast sky greeted the Landser when he stepped out of his tent and folded it up. Kasha must have been in quite a rush to get away from the ‘Grimeskins,’ whatever those were. If Kasha was right, then this region was no place to call home.

  In silence he marched, or just trudged, his way out of Balaton woods and back to the rabbit huts which squeezed together on the glade. No one was outside today, and the door was shut.

  Hans
stopped for a moment but then gave the door a soft knock. There was no answer, so he knocked once more.

  “Oh, who is it?”

  The old woman’s familiar voice barked out.

  “Ah, it’s just me. Hans.”

  The elderly lapine opened the door and scowled at him.

  “What is it this time?”

  “Um. May I come in? It’s quite cold today.”

  “Yes, yes. So’d you see any wolves?”

  Hans entered and sat down on the wooden floor. The boy again emerged from the room, staring at Hans, but this time the young lapine came out when he saw the human.

  “In fact I did speak to one. I found him down by the river. He was trying to flee because some army is coming this way. Called them ‘Grimeskins.’”

  “Hmm. So why did you come back?”

  “To warn you, of course. The wolf told me these Grimeskins do terrible things. He says they’re coming this way and will be here soon.”

  “Hmm. Well, let them come.”

  “What—why?”

  “We’ve had invaders before. We’ll have them again. They’ll come, they’ll go, we’ll stay. Though you should probably leave. There’s no space you if these ‘Grimeskins’ come.”

  He sat there looked up at the old lady. She was right, of course. Hans needed to go back west to find a home. The lapines were nice enough to help him, so the least he could do was warn them.

  “Here.” The woman got up, opened a cupboard and gave Hans a scrolled parchment.

  “I can tell you’re one of the travelers from the other world. We won’t be needing this.”

  Hans unfurled the scroll and stared transfixed at it. It was a map of their world, with Deltia clearly marked on the south shore of a sea, and Ostia on the North Continent side. Toward the bottom he saw the Velt, and could guess which route he’d taken northward to Deltia, and then beyond into the much wilder North Continent.

  “What’s the matter with it?” The lapine asked, but Hans barely registered the woman’s speech.

  “…Well?”

  Finally he looked up from the parchment.

  “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I can see the path I’ve taken.”

  “Oh? And where are you headed to?”

  “Well. I was headed toward The Cottonwine Lands, but I now see that isn’t possible. Where are we on this map?” He asked.

  The woman pointed to a forested blot on the map in the south and eastern part of the North Continent.

  “Ah, and, what’s here?” Hans placed his index finger on the middle part of the North Continent. According to the map, here were no cities there, only hills, woods and meadows broken up by various blue fingers.

  “Huh? Why there? What’s so special about that place?” The old lapine asked.

  “Well, it’s the middle of the North Continent,” Hans shrugged, “and, uh, the middle is a good place to be.”

  “Well,” she replied, “If you want to go to the middle, avoid the woods to the north. Nothing but wolves. They’ll tear up a lone human. And don’t let the spotted cats find you. You’ll never get away. Stay south, pass through the mountains here, then go straight north.”

  “Thank you so much for helping me.”

  “And here,” She pulled out a whole loaf of wheat bread from the cupboard. “I shouldn’t give you this, but it’s a long journey where you’re going and you’re too skinny as it is.”

  “Thank you Grandma. I think I can make it on this.”

  Hans bid her and the boy goodbye, and made his way out to the meadows. The cow mooed loudly at Hans one last time. On his way out he stopped to take a drink at the wooden trough, then turned his back on the village and set out alone once again.

  Counsel

  Without warning, a titanic crash rocked the packed Dachau War Crimes courtroom, and Jochen found himself jumping from the witness chair, tackling his American defense counsel to the floor before a falling piece of cement could land on the American’s head.

  “What the hell’s going on here?!” Jochen shouted in English.

  “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me!” The American responded in an accent that, even now, faintly told of cotton fields and plantation homes.

  “They’re coming for you! The werewolves are!” The American continued.

  Automatic machine gun fire went off and a chorus of screams could be heard from the bleachers just a couple feet away from them.

  “You’ve got to help us get out of here!” Jochen tried to shout over the screams.

  “The hell I do! That’s treason!”

  “They’re going to slaughter us anyway. We never had a fair chance! You know that! Just give us a chance to make it out of this!”

  The middle-aged, American military lawyer hesitantly looked down and pressed the handle of his Browning HP…

  Six weeks earlier

  There was a stern knock on the cast iron door and Jochen stood at attention as he was required to do. A skinny, chestnut-haired man with a soft face entered the room. The man was accompanied by a guard and a Jewish-looking translator.

  “Joachim Peiper?” He asked in a voice as soft as his face.

  “Jawohl.”

  “I’m Colonel Willis Everett Jr., the counsel for yourself and the other defendants.”

  The translator repeated Everett’s words in German. This ‘attorney’ was probably another one of Perl’s tricks. Perl had done everything he could to get whatever false confessions from Peiper’s men over the last few weeks. Nevertheless, Jochen had something for his new ‘lawyer,’ Everett.

  “I have something for you.” Jochen responded in the Colonel’s language.

  “I didn’t know that you spoke English,” Everett said, “but if you could please respond in German it will be easier for both of us.”

  Everett handed the paper to his translator and repeated the contents aloud to himself.

  “Anton Motzheim; beaten for an hour to extract a confession. Paul Zwigart; rope placed around his neck, kicked in the genitals, mock death sentence, to get confession. Hans Siptrott; strangled until unconscious to get a confession.”

  Everett read four others, looked on squeamishly, and cautiously took off his spectacles. There was an awkward pause between the two men.

  “Uh… Have all of the men reported to you?”

  “No. Only two. I haven’t spoken to all of these men.”

  The colonel stood up.

  “I will talk to the rest of them. Thank you.”

  The three of them left and shut the thick door behind them.

  Jochen shook his head and lay back down to stare up at the concrete. He had no faith that Everett would do anything, but Jochen was going to do everything he could do to help his men, even though they were turning on each other. It had been six weeks since he and the others were transferred to Dachau for their trial, a trial which was set to begin at some unknown time.

  Solitary confinement made his spirit grow strong, but his body grew week and atrophied. Regarding the outside world, all Peiper and the others had to go by was rumors; rumors such as a manhunt for Hermann Goering of all people. One would think Goering would be hard to miss. Fritz Kramer, Sepp Dietrich’s chief of staff, who sat in a cell adjacent to Jochen, once laughingly told Jochen about a rumor that Dietrich was in fact leading an underground resistance, and that their former division leader was planning to attack and break the men out at the eleventh hour.

  Weltanschauung

  Willis Everett Jr. never planned on defending those who murdered American soldiers, yet here he was. Willis’ father, a New England carpetbagger who settled in Atlanta at the end of the Civil War, took on his son as a partner in his law firm after Willis finished school with only mediocre grades. Age kept Willis from service during the war, but a lingering feeling of guilt compelled him to enlist toward the end. Willis was too old to be a soldier, but at least he could share in the sacrifice, even though this long assignment was straining his marriage back home.

 
Constantly he’d write home to his wife with assurances that he wasn’t fooling around with French or German girls. He promised his sweetheart that he’d make it all up to her once he got back home, but that was another matter.

  Willis’ assignment was to the famous Malmedy Massacre trial. Floodlights filled the gray interior of the War Crimes Tribunal, which was actually a converted hall within Dachau concentration camp. Today, judges sat behind a bulky wooden table with the Stars and Stripes looming in the background. The witness chair sat in the middle, and both counsels sat on a deck facing the witness chair. Behind that deck, the 72 defendants of the SS-Leibstandarte were already seated in the bleachers. In unison the defendants turned their heads as Everett came in.

  He’d spoken to each of the SS men individually, yet he couldn’t help being a little taken aback when all 72 of them were together. Even from a distance their eyes all spoke of sacrifice and death. Today the judges would hear from defendant number 41, Joachim Peiper. In all his time interviewing the SS defendants, Everett realized that each of them looked up to Peiper, who was the commanding officer for all of them.

  Everett was able to speak with commander Peiper only one week before the trial. Peiper spoke of disturbing allegations. He’d handed Everett a list of seven men, which detailed their interrogations. Despite the men’s solitary confinement, all the defendants had roughly the same story to tell.

  There was no time to personally interview all 72 defendants. That was probably by design. In fact, since arriving in Dachau, the prosecutors blocked every attempt at discovery, particularly discovery on interrogation methods.

  Everett told his recently-arrived translator from New York, Herbert Strong, to make a questionnaire and distribute it to the SS men. As Everett feared, he found almost all of the soldiers had been tortured.

  There surely was a massacre of American prisoners at Malmedy, and the Leibstandarte did it, but this was hardly a trial. The methods going on here were un-American, and would tarnish the United States’ image if word of ever got to the press. Even more than that, the whole situation ate away at Willis, personally. He believed in justice, and this wasn’t it.