by Rod Rees
It was a nightmare. It was bad enough for Norma to be stuck in the Demi-Monde, but to have a Dupe talking about taking over her body—taking over her life—was mind-blowingly awful.
“You’ll never be able to pull off a stunt like that. You might look like me, you might talk like me, but you know squat about me and my life. It’s impossible. You don’t know anything about the Real World apart from what you learned serving behind the counter of a clothes shop. They’ll spot you as a fraud straightaway.”
Heydrich gave Norma a crooked smile. “Unfortunately, Miss Williams, there is much in what you say: even someone as intelligent and as diligent as Aaliz will have difficulty in performing in a manner that does not arouse at least some suspicion. That is why, Miss Williams, we have had you kept here at Dashwood Manor in the hope that Comrade Commissar Dashwood’s daughter would be able to persuade you to speak about your life in the Real World.”
He paused to take another draw on his cigarette. “Unfortunately your intransigence defeated Trixiebell Dashwood. I am not surprised; Comrade Commissar Dashwood is a Royalist recidivist and hence an Enemy of the People, and as for his daughter . . .” Heydrich laughed. “She is nothing more than a stupid, idle, vacuous nonentity. It will be better when the pair of them have been arrested and shot. I will have Beria purge the Dashwoods immediately after this evening’s séance is complete. He will enjoy that: Trixie Dashwood is a trim little piece.”
Heydrich stubbed out his cigarette. “Happily for us, Miss Williams, Fate has presented us with another, more certain means of unpicking your memories. Crowley has located a clairvoyant of immense power who will be able to delve into the deepest and most private recesses of your mind. Tonight, Miss Williams, we will drain you dry.” He glanced at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room. “Look at the time. I have other matters to attend to. You, Miss Williams, will spend the afternoon with Aaliz getting to know one another. After all, soon the pair of you will be inseparable.”
Chapter 23
The Demi-Monde: 55th Day of Winter, 1004
Operation Barbarossa: Case White
Case White will be undertaken by the SS–Ordo Templi Aryanis under the command of SS Colonel Archie Clement. Commencing on the 59th day of Winter 1004, two divisions of SS–Ordo Templi Aryanis StormTroops will surround and seal the Warsaw Ghetto. Once this is achieved, the SS will enter the Ghetto and systematically exterminate all UnderMentionables (approximately three million subhumans) living within the walls of the city. The legal basis for this extermination is given by the Racial Classification and Control Law, which removed the protection of ForthRight Law from UnderMentionables, nonNixes and those demonstrating hereditary physical and mental disabilities. Case White is to be completed by the 90th day of Winter, 1004.
—MINUTES OF THE POLITBURO MEETING HELD UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF THE GREAT LEADER ON THE 39TH DAY OF WINTER, 1004
Immediately Captain Dabrowski heard the door of the study shut behind Heydrich, he very carefully replaced the steel fire screen across the fireplace and swept up the small fall of soot that had collected on the hearth. When he was finished there was nothing to show that anything had ever been disturbed.
Not that Trixie took much notice of the captain’s housekeeping; all she had the energy to do was sit slumped on one of the armchairs scattered around the room desperately trying to make sense of what she had heard. Her head was spinning.
Of course, much of it had been gibberish, especially the discussion between Heydrich and the Daemon about this man Hitler. And the part about Demi-Mondians being replicas of Real Worlders and Aaliz Heydrich being sent to the Real World as a replacement for the Daemon sounded like the stuff of trashy scientific romance.
But some of what she had heard couldn’t be dismissed so easily, especially the part when Heydrich had stated his intent to destroy the poor people living in Warsaw.
Or that tonight she and her father were to be arrested and executed. That was a cold-blooded observation she couldn’t ignore. Tonight she and her father were to be purged, just like her friend Lillibeth Marlborough and her family. It seemed hardly believable that she was going to be touched by the terror that had taken so many of her friends.
“He’s going to kill us,” she breathed, hardly able to understand the horror of what was happening.
It seemed unreal.
Dabrowski nodded and then added, “Yes. He means to exterminate my people.”
My people?
Of course; the Poles. The captain was one of the UnderMentionables; it was his people that Heydrich was talking about murdering in Warsaw. As she looked at the pale, trembling Dabrowski, for the first time in her young life Trixie understood the full horrific implications of the philosophy of racial purity that was UnFunDaMentalism. It was not a rather farcical and non-RaTional exercise in religious whimsy but something much more serious. Now she understood that UnFunDaMentalism was simply an excuse for genocide.
Before she had simply accepted the undeniable need for the ForthRight to achieve the racial purity propounded by UnFunDaMentalism—it had, after all, been drummed into her throughout her life. She had unthinkingly accepted that it was a violation of nature for an Anglo-Slav to interbreed with one of the UnderMentionables, just as it would be against nature for a dog to breed with a cat. The Seventh nuCommandment was, after all, explicit in its condemnation of miscegenation. Every day she thanked ABBA—not that she believed ABBA existed—that she had been born an Anglo-Slav, that she was one of the Master Race. By being born an Aryan she had won first prize in the lottery of life. But never had she thought that to preserve and promote the racial purity of the Anglo-Slavic people the Party would destroy the UnderMentionables wholesale.
Segregation: of course. Condemnation of miscegenation: naturally. The abortion of mixlings: certainly. Control of race through the State Register of Racial Purity: without a doubt. But genocide . . .
The Party condoning the killing of three million or more men, women and children living in the Warsaw Ghetto was unbelievable. But now the unbelievable had been made believable: she had heard Heydrich himself talk with casual indifference about slaughtering these poor innocent people.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” admitted the ashen-faced Dabrowski. Usually so decisive and energetic, he sat becalmed in his chair, numbed by the words that had come drifting up from the study. “Oh, we knew that the situation wasn’t good. We knew that we Poles were classified with the nuJus as Second Class citizens of the ForthRight, but none of us ever thought that Heydrich was so deformed of character as to contemplate mass murder. The man is obviously mad.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I have to get to Warsaw. I have to warn my people.”
“Will they listen?”
“I don’t know. How can anybody believe such a monstrous thing? But I have to try. The first thing we have to do is get out of here. And that won’t be easy.”
“We’ll speak to my father. He’ll know what to do.”
THEY FOUND TRIXIE’S FATHER SITTING ALONE IN THE MORNING ROOM going through his red boxes of Ministry papers and doing the best he could to forget the baleful presence of Heydrich stalking the house. That he was surprised to be interrupted by his daughter and the Polish captain was an understatement: it was an unbreakable rule in the Dashwood household that the comrade commissar was not to be disturbed when he was working.
Dashwood’s surprise mutated into real concern when he saw Trixie lock the door and approach with a finger pressed to her lips. “The captain and I have overheard something, Father,” she whispered, “something so terrible that we felt obliged to come to warn you. It is imperative, father, that no one eavesdrop on our conversation.”
Comrade Commissar Dashwood, a survivor of the Troubles and of the Royalist purges that followed, had lived for too long in the ForthRight to disregard such warnings. He gave a nod and waved his guests over to an alcove set in the corner of the room. As soon as they were settled, he
pulled a heavy curtain across the alcove, effectively sealing the three of them from the rest of the house. “We are safe here from prying ears,” he said quietly, “but speak softly. They say Beria hears every word uttered in the ForthRight, even the whispers of lovers. Very well, Trixie, what are these secrets that you are so determined to share with me?”
Trixie gave a breathless synopsis of what they had heard when Heydrich was meeting with the Daemon. Through the five minutes of Trixie’s monologue her father sat silent and impassive, occasionally glancing to Captain Dabrowski for his nodded confirmation of what Trixie was saying. At the end of Trixie’s speech her father lit a cigarette and spent a minute or so in ruminative reflection. Eventually he turned to the captain. “So, Captain Dabrowski, it would appear I have been nurturing a viper in my bosom. Am I right in assuming that you are a crypto . . . one of the Cichociemni perhaps?”
“The Cichociemni?” asked Trixie.
“It is the name we Poles give to the dark, silent ones,” explained Dabrowski. “We are a group of Polish patriots who are dedicated to securing the freedom of the Polish people from the bondage of the ForthRight. As your father correctly surmises, I am one of the Cichociemni. I am a Polish crypto, my mission being to infiltrate the ForthRight hierarchy and learn their plans.”
Trixie looked at the captain with surprise. The man was a counterrevolutionary. A Polish counterrevolutionary!
Dashwood gave a mirthless chuckle. “An accurate if somewhat disingenuous summary, if I might say so, Captain. I have an inkling that your intentions are somewhat more robust than simply the gleaning of information. Checkya intelligence reports indicate that in the event of the ForthRight moving against the Warsaw Ghetto the Cichociemni are sworn to eliminate specific targets within the Party’s senior personnel.” He took a long draw of his cigarette. “Presumably, Captain, you intended to assassinate me.”
The captain had the good grace to blush. “I make no apology for being a Polish patriot, sir, nor for my ambition to defend my people from tyranny. You are, sir, a legitimate military target: our information is that you are the foremost expert in the ForthRight regarding matters of logistics. You are, after all, the man who refashioned the ForthRight’s road network; your ministry supervises the traffic moving along the Thames, the Rhine and the Volga. You are the genius behind the ForthRight’s new railway network, you are the man responsible for the suffering of the ten thousand men of the Polish Slave Labor Division forced to work through the Winter building the new railway spurs connecting the ForthRight to the Hub.”
“You were going to murder my father?” interjected an incredulous Trixie.
“There are nearly three million people confined to the Warsaw Ghetto, Miss Dashwood, their lives made a living Hel by the ForthRight. Is it any wonder that we have been provoked into the contemplation of such an ignoble action? But in my defense, Miss Trixie, understand that your father and only your father was targeted. We are not like the Party: we would not eradicate a man’s family in senseless retaliation. This was to be a military operation, not a purging.”
Dashwood gave a wry laugh. “It is a fine distinction, Captain Dabrowski.”
“But an important one, Comrade Commissar!” retorted Dabrowski. “I am a Polish officer and a gentleman and as such I would not deliberately endanger your daughter. Unfortunately, as your daughter and I have heard, Heydrich is not of the same mind. Once this evening’s séance has taken place he intends to have Beria place both you and your family under arrest. Your daughter, sir, is to suffer for your supposed misdemeanors. That is the Party’s way, is it not: collective responsibility for all crimes? And we both know what will be the fate of your daughter once she is in the hands of that monster Beria.”
Dashwood glanced nervously at Trixie. “I would prefer it, sir, if you would refrain from discussing such matters in front of my daughter.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I suppose I have been lucky to survive as long as I have. No matter how careful I was, I knew that someday they would come for me. In Beria’s book, once a Royalist, always a Royalist. It’s just a shame they have come sooner than I had planned.”
“Surely this is nonsense, father; they can’t arrest you!” Trixie protested. “You have been a loyal member of the Party. They would be insane to eliminate you simply on suspicion of your being a Royalist reactionary, just on a whim. You must appeal to the Leader. You must convince him there has been some dreadful misunderstanding.”
“Unfortunately, Trixie, there has been no misunderstanding. You must realize that Heydrich and his cronies are mad.” It was a simple statement but so replete with treason that Trixie was shocked into silence. Her father had always been so careful not to criticize the Party or its leadership in front of others. “But their madness,” he continued grimly, “should not blind us to the fact that they are accomplished people, that their intelligence apparatus is the most efficient in the Demi-Monde.”
There was something in the way her father said the words that made Trixie look at him afresh. It was as though he had sloughed off a mask to reveal something different and far more deadly beneath. Whereas before she had only seen the dutiful Party apparatchik—a little dull and stuffy, it had to be admitted—now there was a man of action, determined and strong. It might have been the spark in his eyes or the resolute set of his mouth but suddenly he was different. Very different . . .
“You’re a Royalist!” Even as the words tumbled out of her mouth, Trixie knew they were true. He was one of the people that Miss Appleton at the Academy had lectured them so fiercely to be on their guard against. He was one of them.
Dashwood nodded. “Yes, Trixie, I am a Royalist, I am one of the Silent Opposition. King Henry might have been unbalanced, but he was never as evil as Heydrich. Heydrich can’t be allowed to succeed. I and others like me have been planning—” He stopped, looked up at Dabrowski and gave him a half smile. “Perhaps it isn’t too late. The opening phase of Operation Barbarossa—the destruction of Warsaw and all the people in the Ghetto—by Clement’s SS–Ordo Templi Aryanis begins in three days. In three days the Party will take its first step toward seizing control of the Demi-Monde and imposing its lunatic ideas regarding racial hygiene on the whole world.”
“Clement won’t find the Ghetto easy. We Poles will fight—”
“And you will lose! What will you and your fellow Poles use to oppose the SS–Ordo Templi Aryanis, rocks and coarse language? The SS are the finest shock troops in the ForthRight, they are the mindless bastards selected for their brutality and susceptibility to thought reform. They believe that by killing anyone who isn’t an Anglo-Slav they are doing ABBA’s work.”
“Get us the guns and we will fight.”
“Get you the guns . . .” repeated her father. “Yes, there might be a way.” He pierced the captain with a hard stare. “Answer me truthfully, Captain: if your Poles have weapons, will they fight?”
“We will fight, Comrade Commissar, make no mistake of that. We will fight to the last man and to the last breath. We will die with our hands around the throats of those who seek to destroy us.”
“You are organized?”
“The Warsaw Free Army is ready. I have the honor of being a major in the WFA.”
“Then know this, Captain: though I cannot offer you salvation, I can help you and your people die as a proud people.” Her father turned to Trixie and smiled ruefully. “Trixie, you are my greatest love and my greatest treasure. I am proud to be the father of such a strong and independently minded girl, but now I implore you to display all this strength and independence and ignore what your heart might tell you. The Demi-Monde is faced with a great evil and it is the responsibility of everyone to oppose that evil, even at the cost of their life. My life is over . . .”
Trixie gasped with astonishment. “What are you saying, Father? We can run, we can hide.”
Dashwood shook his head. “No, for me the die is cast. I cannot escape, Trixie. If I were to try I would be caught and the
n there would be no hope for you. And anyway, I have a higher mission.” He turned back to Dabrowski. “Amongst your detachment here in the manor, are there men you can trust implicitly, men you would trust with your life?”
The captain thought. “My sergeant and four others.”
“Not enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“There are two barges laden with rifles and ammunition moored just below the Oberbaum Bridge on the Rhine. These are obsolete weapons intended for export to the Quartier but though they are obsolete they are serviceable. A resolute and daring captain, with a company of soldiers equally uncaring as to whether they live or die, could board the barges and, under cover of darkness, sail them upriver to the Ghetto.”
The captain could barely contain his excitement. “Give me an hour in Warsaw and I will have such a company of men. We will take the barges or we will die trying. All that I ask is that you tell me where they are moored.”
“In a moment. First I need an undertaking from you, Captain. I need to hear you swear an oath as an officer and a gentleman that when you escape from the manor you will take my daughter with you.”
“No,” exclaimed Trixie. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”