America Über Alles

by Jack Fernley

  Hand shook his head at the madness of it all and simply walked away, close to despair.

  Now, as he sat in his hut, the door opened and in came his sister. He looked at her and simply said:

  ‘You been off a-whoring again with Werner Conze, Miss Sarah Hand? Or have you been fucking any German that takes your fancy?’

  The bluntness was out of character. The colour drained from Sarah’s cheeks, she burst into tears and ran out of the hut, leaving him alone, again.

  He sat there, a single candle flickering amid the darkness.

  *

  She ran out of her brother’s billet. She had never been spoken to by him, or by anyone, like that. Through the camp she ran, stumbling over tent pegs. The night was dark, the camp lit by flaming forces, running back towards the kitchen, she ran into Hanna Reitsch.

  The girl was sobbing, Hanna took her in her arms and tried to calm her down. The German’s first reaction was that Conze had treated her cruelly, so she took her back to the hut she and von Steuben shared.

  The girl was almost hysterical. Reitsch poured her a brandy and insisted she take it. In between sobs, she started to tell the story and Reitsch was relieved to hear Conze was not the villain but her brother, the previously impeccable figure of Edward Hand. He had cast her out as a whore.

  ‘There are two types of men,’ Reitsch told her. ‘There are the men who look to dominate women. Weak men. What we call insecure men. Powerless men, terrified by the power women naturally hold, who are intimidated and challenged by the natural strength we women have. Then there are the men who cherish women for those strengths, men who see us as different, but equals, superior even. They see the great possibilities of womenkind. There are fewer of them, but by our actions and behaviours, we can help more men see the possibilities of womenkind.

  ‘Your brother is threatened by you, threatened by you starting to emerge from the chrysalis he has entombed you in. You are lucky you have found a man such as Werner who sees all those strengths in you and is not intimidated by you. He is a man of the future. Your brother . . . your brother belongs in the past. He is to be pitied, not damned. Do you understand?’

  Sarah looked up at her, her eyes red, and nodded.

  ‘I have been thinking for some time that we should look to do something to give the young girls of the colonies something to aspire to. I would like to set up what I call the League of American Girls.’

  Sarah looked back blankly.

  ‘It will be a group to inspire young women throughout the colonies to engage in this fight, to support our menfolk in their physical struggle, but also a group to spread the message.’

  ‘The message?’

  ‘The message that we are a new generation of women. Women who refuse to be chattels of men. We are building a new society here. You have heard Werner talk of creating a breed of superman, a new kind of man for a new age? Well, we also need to create a different woman for this new age. We need women with strength and fortitude, powerful women who demand to be treated as equals to their brothers, fathers and husbands. This is our chance to change history. So that your sons are not tyrants to their sisters. So that your daughters have the same opportunities as your sons. What do you think?’

  Sarah smiled at her, ‘I think that is something I would like to see happen.’

  ‘And I want you to lead the League of American Girls.’

  ‘Me?’ Sarah replied, astonished.

  ‘Why not you?’

  ‘Well, I, I have no, I—’

  ‘You have everything, dear Sarah. Do not doubt yourself and what you are capable of. You alone will inspire thousands of young women across these lands to think differently. There is no one better to start such a league.’

  ‘I, I don’t know what to say, Hanna. I can’t believe this. You think I can really do this?’

  ‘I do. With all my heart. You are very dear to me, Hanna, to the baron and, of course, to Werner. I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but we see you as family. If your brother has cast aside you, then please, come and join our family. We may be an odd bunch, but look upon us as your closest friends.’

  Sarah smiled, a big, grateful smile. ‘That means everything to me, Hanna, that you and the baron think so much of me.’

  ‘And Werner of course. He has a special affection for you, that much is quite clear.’

  Sarah blushed. ‘And me for him. He has my heart.’ She whispered, ‘I love him Hanna.’

  The older woman hugged her close. ‘He is the luckiest man alive, Sarah. I have something I would like you to have.’

  She pulled away and went to a small box sitting on a table. ‘This was given to me by a very dear friend, a very strong woman, someone who had all those qualities we would like to see in our League of American Girls.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Reitsch thought wistfully for a second. There was no easy way to answer that question.

  ‘She is in Europe. Safe, I hope. She gave this to me as a memento of her affection for me and what we believed in and I am passing this on to you, to wear it proudly as a token of my affection for you and as a symbol of the new world we are going to build.’

  And she handed over a beautiful ring, diamonds surrounding a blue sapphire, unlike anything Sarah Hand had ever seen in her life.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The following week the Stormtroopers and Riflemen left Lowantica. The men were getting itchy in camp and Washington wanted a survey of the country and small towns of northern Pennsylvania. Rumours persisted of British units operating in the countryside, and there was a desire to close down any remaining supply lines for the enemy before the spring brought a return to full-scale operations. In practice, however, the survey soon became little more than a goodwill tour. Wherever they went, they were showered with warmth, especially the Stormtroopers, as recent German immigrants had populated many of the towns, villages and farms. On the seventh day, they arrived at Heidlebergtown, and here the warmth of the greeting exceeded any previous encounter.

  Their drummers and fifes gave advance warning of the Stormtroopers’ and Riflemen’s approach to the town. Small children came running out of Heidlebergtown towards them, their voices screeching, in their hands tiny swastika flags. Parading down the main street, it appeared that every citizen, male and female, had come out to cheer them, lining the rough sidewalks, calling from the few first-storey windows there were. The troops halted at the centre, outside the King George Hotel, and even before the call to rest arms had been made, a small, bullish man appeared in front, hysterically shouting English in a heavily accented German voice.

  ‘Gud morning, gud morning! Velcome Stormtroopers to Heidlebergtown! Ve heard news of your forthcoming and pleased to greet. Here ve are a town of Germans, from Hesse, from Bavaria, from Silesia, from Swabia, all over from Germany. This town was founded by me, Alexander Schaeffer, and ve are proud to velcome our brothers from Motherland here. There is beer, beer for all of you, but furst, ve have a surprise for you. Please, looking towards the porch. Heindrich!’

  On the roof of the porch, a teenage boy stood up and rolled out what appeared at first to be a carpet. Down from the roof it unfurled, revealing an enormous flag. Gently flapping in the breezy March afternoon, was a long red banner, in its centre a white circle with the black swastika at its heart.

  ‘For our Stormtroopers!’ shouted Schaeffer as the local audience burst into applause and cries of ‘Hurra!’

  Conze waited no time, embraced Schaeffer warmly and then addressed the town.

  ‘This is most excellent! When I return to Lowantica Brook and the army headquarters, I will at once rush to His Excellency the Baron von Steuben and tell him of the great honour you have presented us with today. This most beautiful banner, this most honourable of banners! I am sure it will be but the first of many that will illuminate this great land of America! So I can say that today, Heidlebergtown is the leader of the Thirteen Colonies. For every Stormtrooper here, this is the most special of d
ays, to find such a welcome from their fellow Germans, that is indeed most wonderful. But I would also ask you share such warmth with our dear colleagues, the Pennsylvanian Riflemen, who are with us this morning. Perhaps a few words from their leader, Colonel Edward Hand.’

  Again, there were wild cheers and clapping from the townspeople, and Hand, never comfortable with such moments, found himself propelled alongside Conze.

  He cleared his throat. ‘This is indeed a great morning, a great morning to be alive in America. We have fought bravely these last two years and I expect we will have to fight for another two years or even longer before our victory is complete, but we will all be sustained by the memories of the day we came to Heidlebergtown and the welcome we received. But I must not go on for any longer. We have marched already many hours since daybreak, and, sir, I heard mention of beer, and knowing my men, they wish for nothing more than for me to be quiet and for the beer to be broken out.’

  ‘Yah, bier – und weisswurst und schweinshabe und spekkuchen. Eat and drink!’ screamed Schaeffer. The troops broke rank and quickly, a seemingly never-ending river of drink and food was being passed through the windows of the tavern.

  Once the excitement had died down, the men relaxing in small groups around the building, smoking pipes, flirting with the local girls or having their weapons examined by young boys, Conze and Hand sat down with Schaeffer.

  ‘A beautiful town you have here, sir,’ said Hand, small talk never his greatest strength.

  ‘Yah, very beautiful. You know, ve have the furst waterworks in America. Only here. Ungerground pipings, water here to this square. I did this. No other town in Americas has this. Water piped from spring to here. My wife and I, ve have gifted these to the town.’

  ‘This is your town, sir, you founded it?’ asked Conze.

  Schaeffer shifted a little uneasily. ‘Vell, I named it and build the tavern – vhich now we vill call the Baron von Steuben, yah!’ He raised a tankard, which Conze clinked. Hand was drinking a pitcher of water.

  ‘So you didn’t start the town?’

  ‘Nein. There were were others here before. From Germany. Juden.’

  ‘Jews. Ah,’ said Conze with a knowing tone.

  ‘Yah. I was firsting in South Mountain, but not so good. So moved here, land better. Here was a small village, some craftsmen, traders, trading with Indians. People not so mix. I see future, a town laid out like in Germany, no? So, so . . .’ He moved his hands about him as if trying to pin something down. ‘So, I bought the Jews out. They move, up the road, just a mile. They still there. They have trading, they call it the Lebanon Trading Post.’

  He moved closer to Conze, conspiratorially whispering, ‘They not make banner to welcome, no. They trade vith British. Cornvallis. They sell. Indians. They sell. Sometimes, ve need things and they don’t have them. But Britishers, oh, they have for them. Anyone with this,’ he rubbed his fingers together. ‘Heidlebergtown need no Juden. Keep them out of town. Best.’

  ‘Supplying the British, are they?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Britishers there all the time. Special reserves for Britishers.’

  ‘Well, very interesting,’ Conze replied. ‘We are on what we call a scouting mission, to find where the British might find some friends. In the morning we shall pay a visit to the Lebanon Trading Post for ourselves, but for tonight, we’ll share more of the glorious hospitality of Heidlebergtown, if that is all right with you, Herr Schaeffer?’

  ‘Uh? All right? It will be our pleasure. Bier!’

  The following morning, the sun slowly dragged itself up to reveal the surprise of a frosted morning; spring appeared to have retreated. The men’s boots crunched over the crusted, rutted road, the Stormtroopers leading with a pace that the Riflemen found difficult to keep to. Where the Germans had risen early, briskly, and fell uncomplaining into line before setting off, the Pennsylvanians wore too obviously the effects of Schaeffer’s beer. They woke grudgingly, complaining, falling into a shabby, farting, uneven line, their moans and groans contrasting with the quiet professionalism of the Stormtroopers. Even now, despite their new bright blue coats, white trousers and stout brown boots, they appeared bedraggled next to the aesthetic Stormtroopers, in their grey-green belted suits. Looking back at the shambling line, Conze reflected there was still a long way to go before these troops had reached the necessary standard.

  Within twenty minutes they spotted the Lebanon Trading Post ahead. A collection of five buildings tucked away from the road, nestling among the near naked trees, a staging post, general stores and two or three houses – rough, timbered pioneer houses. Conze halted the line and called Hand to him.

  ‘Have the Riflemen secure both sides of the road, Ed. I’ll take the Stormtroopers and have these buildings inspected. Who knows, there may be British troops staying here. Let’s not let any of them escape, eh?’ Behind Hand’s back, a Rifleman was retching. ‘I see your boys are ready for the day as usual.’

  Hand turned to see the trooper. He could smell his men from ten yards away. They embarrassed him this morning. Over the past ten weeks, they had taken to the drills and discipline of the Germans; they wanted to be like the Stormtroopers. They had seemed close, but now they had reverted to type. They had taken to the drink with gusto and were paying the price. In the cold of the morning, they looked like the old Riflemen, not the Stormtroopers they aspired to be. ‘That Rifleman, fall out. Sergeant, discipline him!’ he shouted at O’Leary.

  Turning to Conze, ‘We’ll secure the exits. No one will escape. If there are British here, that is.’

  Conze made off down the still hard, rutted highway with his Stormtroopers. From the first house came a thin, flickering candlelight. With a swift hand movement, he ordered his men to take up position around the house before marching up and hammering on the wooden door. From inside came the sounds of surprise, indecipherable mumblings, the scuffling of furniture, before the door opened, cautiously. A bearded man in his mid-twenties, wearing a nightshirt, stood before Conze.

  ‘Good morning!’ shouted Conze at the still foggy man. ‘This is the Lebanon Trading Post, no?’

  ‘It is,’ replied the man, looking nervously at both Conze and the Stormtroopers who stood in a semicircle, their weapons pointing directly at the house. ‘Are you after supplies?’

  ‘No, we are after the British. We are the Stormtroopers of the Continental Army and we are hunting down British units – and those supplying them. And we are here this fine morning, at the Lebanon Trading Post, because we have reports of British troops in this area. And we are wondering, why would they be coming to the Lebanon Trading Post? Have they found friends at the Lebanon Trading Post?’

  ‘We are no friends of the British here. We keep ourselves to ourselves. Our only friends are those who wish to buy our goods or use our staging post.’

  ‘Would that not include the British then?’

  ‘We have seen no British here since last year. General Washington saw to that, when he beat the British at Princeton. They are affeared of coming down these roads now.’ He indicated the Stormtroopers. ‘And I can see why. Would your men like breakfast, coffee?’

  ‘They would. They would like coffee. And eggs. And bacon.’

  ‘We can make coffee and eggs.’

  ‘But no bacon.’

  ‘No bacon, no.’

  ‘How unusual. Juden?’

  The man shifted uneasily. He understood the sly vehemence behind that question. It had driven his family from the town twenty years earlier. It was why the skilled craftsmen and artisans who had founded Heidlebergtown had moved on, to blend into the larger towns of the colonies. It was often there among those who stopped at the trading post: the freshly arrived pioneers making their way down from New York to find new lives in western Virginia; the gnarled, bearded loggers returning from Philadelphia to the forests of the north for the season; and the merchants peddling their wares from town to town, village to village. A constant drift of people coming out to populate the new conti
nent, all of them bringing with them the the vices and prejudices of the old continent.

  ‘Yes, we are a Jewish settlement. We have been here for many years. Before others came, we were here.’

  ‘Before the Indians? No, I don’t think so. What is your name?’

  ‘Solomon Mandabach.’

  ‘Dutch?’

  ‘Our families came from Eindhoven, fifty years or so ago.’

  ‘So, Solomon Mandabach, before we have coffee, before we lay down our weapons, you’ll understand I have to secure the safety of my men. So, please, I would ask you to have all your families out here, so we can rest assure that there are no British here, waiting to trap us.’

  ‘There are no British here.’

  ‘Well, then, you have nothing to hide. I’m sure you would rather ask your people to come and meet me, rather than have my men wake them from their beds? Chop, chop, let us get this day started.’

  Mandabach gave something of a nod and returned to the house. Conze walked away from the porch towards his men. From the outskirts of the village, he could see Hand watching him. He gave a cheerful, if disdainful, wave.

  Within a few minutes, Mandabach reappeared, dressed now, along with a woman and three small girls. They huddled on the porch of the house. Conze shouted, ‘Mrs Mandabach, please come and join me. Your husband is going to wake the rest of the village.’ The woman looked anxiously to her husband, who nodded his assent and then, obediently, she led the girls towards Conze, who walked a little towards them.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked the mother.

  ‘Caryn, Caryn Mandabach.’

  Conze nodded in turn, before crouching down on his haunches to address the girls, a warm smile across his face. ‘And who are you, such beautiful young ladies?’

  ‘Sarah,’ the oldest, perhaps seven, replied.