Moskau

by G. Zotov

  His scenario #3 had just proven to be true.

  He was about to close the Buch when he realized that the food hadn’t been brought yet. Had the Schwarzkopfs kidnapped the fat Hauptfeldwebel waitress? The richer the population, the worse the service. Never mind. He had plenty of things to do to while away the time.

  For the last three days, Jean-Pierre couldn’t stop thinking that he definitely knew one of the three Triumvirate voices. He’d definitely heard it somewhere before, albeit fleetingly. Back in the bunker, he’d been interviewed by three ladies. One of them, judging by her heavy gait (he had a good ear for these things) was bigger than the others. The other two, although not exactly slim, were of rather average weight. So while his ham and beer were still languishing in the kitchen, Jean-Pierre might kill some time seeing if he could find a match for that particular voice pattern. There was a little piece of voice-matching software available on the Shogunet…

  An hour later, the Hauptfeldwebel waitress cast him a puzzled look as she walked past his table. His ham was long cold, his beer mug untouched, its froth sagging sadly. Instead of enjoying his meal, her customer stared at the Buch screen, mouthing something in surprise.

  Beads of sweat covered his forehead.

  Chapter Four

  Ragnarök

  Los Angeles, District 5, Sieg Sieg Freeway

  ONE’S MAIN PROBLEM ABROAD is narrowmindedness, believing that this new place is just like home, only better. Yeah, right. After half an hour of trying to flag down a cab I realized it must have been wishful thinking on my part. The streets remained deserted like during a curfew. Abandoned houses gaped their broken windows. I only saw one bus, its charred carcass lying on its side next to the collapsed bus shelter. Whatever rust buckets happened to rattle past weren’t in a hurry to offer a ride to a man dressed like a Jap and a barefoot girl in a kimono.

  Oh, great. The Coke had been drunk to the last drop. I was thirsty as hell but there was not an open shop in sight. So much for all those travel-agency posters advertising the Californian beach-and-palm-tree Paradise. I had no doubt it did exist: somewhere in Hollywood, next to all those villas bought up by Japanese film producers. I was surprised no one had tried to mug us yet.

  “How far is it?” the girl spits out. Her hair is disheveled, her feet sunburnt. She’s sweating like a pig. All her posh finesse is gone.

  “Twenty miles?” I offer sweetly. “Why worry, anyway? We’re only here thanks to you. Next time you decide to transport us somewhere, do make sure you reserve a room first, complete with a restaurant and a swimming pool.”

  She’d love to talk back but she can’t. Her mouth can only produce hissing sounds. No, it’s not the proof that all women are snakes. She’s simply parched.

  Me too, I’m on my last legs. Like some porter slave, I haul the hefty StG-44 bag, ammo and all, over my shoulder. But deep within me, there’s a celebration going on, complete with fireworks. Our conversation has only just started and she’s too weak to argue! And that’s only the beginning. The moment we got to some decent shade, I’m going to bug her with arguments. Right ahead, I can already see a twin-tower building looming out of the haze.

  I can’t believe my eyes. No way! This miserable excuse for a city actually has a Loki temple!

  The building stands by the roadside, its appearance in stark contrast with the squalid row of plywood shacks with barred windows. They look like shops – or mini jail barracks. The temple, just like mine back in Moskau, is built to the Icelandic standard, shaped as a mountain with a cave inside. Fake hills flank its front doors, complete with imitation Norwegian firs buried in banks of artificial snow.

  I grab Olga’s hand and pull her toward it. She opens her eyes wide but refrains from asking questions. The doorbell is broken. I pound on the iron-clad door and yell in Old Norse,

  “Glory be to Loki, the God of Fire, may he outlive Eternity itself!”

  This is a dead dialect no one speaks anymore. It’s only used for church services. But all priests are obliged to study it in the Higher Theological College.

  A bolt screeches on the inside. The door’s halves swing open. A priest stands in the doorway, a fat guy with a sleep-bloated face. Oh. The city may seem destitute but they definitely don’t starve here. His disheveled curly hair hangs halfway down his back; his black wolf-skin vest reveals perfectly toned biceps. His deerskin pants are part of our work attire. He too is suffering from the heat: the inside exudes the cool freshness of an aircon.

  “You a priest?” he asks me in the same butchered German as the woman shop vendor. Apparently, they don’t know any better. “Sorry, I need to see your passport first.”

  The formalities only take a minute. Having checked my ausweis, he invites us into the Banquet Hall.

  O Gods of Asgard, what a bliss! It feels almost like home. The sacrificial altar covered in blood and scraps of meat, the fire pits, the walls of dark rock, the sword rack… It’s all so wonderful, so dear to me that I feel tears well in my eyes.

  “Eric Adams,” the priest introduces himself as he shakes my left hand. “Don’t look,” he nods at the sword rack, “this is disposable crap. I just got it from the depot. I can see you’ve performed quite a few funerals. Even if a guy dies choking on a hamburger, his widow will rip you apart if you don’t lay a sword in his hand and pronounce that he died in battle.”

  A ten-foot statue of Heimdallr towers by the altar. The guard of the rainbow bridge between Asgard and Midgard, he has the eye of a falcon, capable of seeing a drop of dew at a hundred miles, his ears so perfect he can hear the grass grow. Heimdallr is the son of nine sea virgins, the daughters of Aegir the sea demon. He is the only human being who has nine mothers. I’m not sure if this is supposed to make him happy. On one hand, during the Sun festival he can stuff himself silly on nine celebratory meals. On the other, even one mother can be enough to drive you nuts.

  The statue was of Greek marble, hand-painted. Not some cheap factory cast.

  “What’s with the gold teeth?” Olga snickers, studying the statue. “Did he use to serve in the Azeri Legion?”

  Adams stares daggers at her.

  “Not in his case, sweetheart. He’s not one of those who made a fortune selling rotten fruit and veg in Moskau markets,” I say weightily as Adams’ face turns crimson. “The Gods of Asgard nicknamed him Gold Fang because his teeth were tinted yellow, like a beaver’s.”

  “I see,” she gives a bored nod and moves to the mural on the next wall depicting Ragnarök, the Vikings’ Apocalypse. The painting is excellent.

  “The girl’s got a heat stroke,” I calmly inform Adams in Old Norse. “Plus the nervous breakdown over a makeup bag she’s lost. Besides, she belongs to a very rare cult – I don’t even think you know about it. Ever heard about Christ?”

  He scratches his head. “Ah, I know,” he finally croaks. “The guy who cut his mentor’s body into tiny pieces and ate them every day, washing them down with blood? You be careful. Cult members can be dangerous. But enough of that. Have some beer, brother, and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Good gods, who in their right mind would say no to a beer? As Adams pours out some Bavarian Life Brew, he complains about the intricacies of a priest’s life in LA. He has to order disposable swords in Mexico and single-use burial boats in Argentina. He answers to the Priests Council of NYC but the subsidies are not forthcoming. Adams is forced to breed skunk pigs in the temple’s backyard, otherwise he’d have nothing to sacrifice. The city is almost dead. The only place you can buy food from is Paradise City near Hollywood, the abode of Japanese traders, the local moneybags, and Dictator McCain’s Secretaries of State.

  The posh Meiji Hotel is there too. Excellent.

  I shake my right hand. A sharp pain pierces my mind.

  She did manage to slice through my right palm with the knife just in time, bringing me back from the nightmare of my vision.

  There’s no way I’ll admit it to her, but every time I dread being stuck there for goo
d. Blood seeps through the bandage. And you know what? I may be mild-mannered and all, but I have a strong desire to grab Olga’s throat and bash her against the wall. Which I just might do tonight if she continues playing the silent game.

  In the meantime, I need to find out everything I can about this Loktev guy. I swear by the eight legs of Sleipnir, he’ll show up again soon enough. You think he’s dead? Yeah, dream on. As old men say, he who’s survived four gun bullets won’t burn.

  Now where’s Olga? Ah, she’s still busy studying the Ragnarök mural.

  It is a feast for one’s eyes indeed. On the left there’s Fenrir the wolf holding the sun in his jaws. On the right, Jormungand the serpent rises from the sea depths. The artist especially excelled in depicting the moment Jormungand sinks his venomous teeth into Thor while the god buries his sword in the serpent’s neck: according to the prophesy, they’re doomed to kill each other in this combat. The fire giant Surt is busy scorching the earth with his sword of flames while Hel, the goddess of the dead, grins with her rotting mouth. Behind her back, Naglfar, the ship made entirely of dead people’s nails, resurfaces from the depths. A bearded Odin fearlessly swings his sword at Fenrir, not knowing that soon the monster wolf’s jaws will rip his heart out of his chest. On top of the mural, Heimdallr complete with gold teeth blows his Gjallarhorn whose thunderous sounds will announce the beginning of Ragnarök to Asgard.

  “Monsters getting killed by monsters,” Olga says softly. “Is this how you think your regime will end?”

  Adams and I exchange quick glances.

  “Absolutely, Fräulein,” Adams mumbles. “Only this isn’t the end but the beginning. Odin’s sons will survive as will the sons of Thor. And in the woods of Hoddmímis Holt, a man and a woman will take refuge from the disaster. Their names are Lif and Lifthrasir. They will beget children, giving rise to a new Nordic race. Which is why-”

  “No,” she interrupts him. “This isn’t how it’s going to end.”

  She turns round and heads for the front door. Priest Adams heaves a strained sigh like a wounded buffalo. I can see he’s got a lot to tell me. Unfortunately, now we don’t have the time.

  “Please, brother,” I lay my hand on his shoulder. “Do take us to Paradise City.”

  “I only have a motorbike,” he informs me, grim. “Gas costs a fortune in California. Can’t afford it. You need a shitload of yen to run a car here. But I can help a brother priest and his nutcase lady. You wait a couple of minutes. I need to offer Heimdallr a sacrifice so he grants us a safe trip, fuck it.”

  He leaves. Soon he reappears, carrying a squealing skunk pig by the scruff of its neck.

  “Savages,” Olga says with disgust.

  “Go and eat your own god, girl,” Adams replies indifferently.

  He throws the pig onto the altar and slices its throat in one practiced motion.

  Archive # […]

  Blood ID-ing (the Racial Department memo).

  The physical characteristics of the Nordic race:

  Hair type: straight or slightly wavy

  Hair color: blond to brown

  Eye color: blue/gray/green

  Lips: thin

  Chin: narrow, angular, pugnacious

  Skin: fair, white with a pink undertone

  Constitution: Normosthenic

  Lower jaw: deep

  IT IS THE DUTY OF THE MOSKAU SS Racial Department of the Main Security Office to ensure that no Aryan certificates (the so-called “Blood IDs”) are issued to persons of inferior races. We all remember the scandal over SS Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, Chief of the Reich Security Office. This man who used to occupy one of the Third Reich’s highest posts, had concealed the fact that his grandfather, a violinist with the Vienna Opera, was of Semitic origin. It wasn’t until 1959 when new hemotests allowed the science to expose his crime. Heydrich committed suicide by taking a lethal dose of poison.

  Racial Department workers should never hesitate to demand new DNA tests from people who have already passed them. Vigilance is the key. Untermenschen cannot take up positions in government, they cannot own shops, banks or any form of real estate. As of the recent 1984 amendment to the Nuremberg Law, even the owner of a street sausage stall should be of Nordic race. Non-Aryans are allowed to receive primary school education but are banned from colleges. All applicants for positions in public administration must prove the purity of their blood and submit their DNA samples to a dedicated depository.

  The concept of the untermensch embraces a much wider range of inferior races than the more commonly-known Semitic and Roma. Polish blood is considered non-Aryan while Iranians who are direct descendants of Aryans have the right to work freely beyond the confines of work camps. The 1935 Blood Defilement law forbids mixed marriages between Germans and untermenschen. Any sexual relationship or even a kiss between the two is punishable by prison. Persons of Semitic origin are forbidden to employ Aryan women under 45 years of age. Within this last year alone, the Moskau Racial Vice Squad have arrested and sent 140 Aryan girls to work camps for kissing an untermensch (usually a Pole). Times have changed: these days, all schools and colleges should include the Concept of Racial Hygiene in their curriculums.

  What is that, exactly?

  The Concept of Racial Hygiene secures the purity of the superior nation. We all know that in 1935-1945, the Reich conducted the forced sterilization of all persons suffering from chronic diseases including blindness, deafness, epilepsy, as well as mental patients and those suffering from alcohol addiction. Prior to 1956, all terminally ill persons were euthanized; now they’re deported to Africa.

  All these actions have resulted in a significant improvement to our gene pool. Nowadays, in order to sterilize a person in the Third Reich you need to acquire the permission from the next of kin – which normally isn’t hard to do. The risk of meeting a handicapped beggar, an old-age invalid or a mentally unstable individual in the streets of Moskau has been greatly reduced, especially considering that the majority of such society misfits are foreign crooks faking disability. All of the genuinely handicapped have by now been locked up in appropriate classified facilities away from big cities.

  The SS medical service conducts regular checks of all citizens, obliging them to report themselves to special health exams. The country can’t afford those who overstrain its resources by taking frequent sick leaves.

  Over time, the Reich’s racial policy has proven a success. Unfortunately, the rapid progress of copying equipment as well as the easiness of the anonymity of the Shogunet network offer vast possibilities for the frauds manufacturing fake “Blood IDs”. In over 20,000 unrelated incidents, persons in possession of an Aryan certificate proved to be what the Third Reich qualifies as half-blood – or Mischling as they’re also known.

  The Wannsee status adopted on January 20 1942 qualifies an Aryan as a Mischling if he’s proven to have an ancestor of either Semitic or Roma origin going back 300 years. The SS conducts ‘Spot a Jew’ game sessions in Moskau schools. Overall, the levels of the Kommissariat’s racial commitments are high.

  Curator of the Ministry of Propaganda and Public Education SS Oberführer Ivan Petrov.

  Chapter Five

  Lab Rats

  Paradise City, Meiji Hotel

  DR. SOROKIN OF LEBENSBORN FAME didn’t look at all like a doctor. He didn’t have that old-fashioned Chekhovian goatee-and-pince-nez look of an Aryan intellectual about him at all.

  A fit old man with a gray crew cut opened the hotel room door to us. He wore a T-shirt with an elephant print and a pair of long baggy shorts. On seeing me, he pushed his shades to the tip of his nose and opened his arms to me.

  “Well, well, well. What a sight for sore eyes! Consider yourself at home, my boy.”

  The fact that “his boy” had arrived with a girl in tow didn’t seem to baffle him.

  Paradise City lives up to its name. The hotel suite is decorated in shades of orange: all three rooms of it, including the bedroom and the lounge, every poof and
easy chair. Even the glass bar in the corner is orange. The room has electricity and running water.

  Once done with all the hugging and back-slapping, Sorokin promptly called the Il Duce restaurant and ordered us a pizza and a shedload of local corn whiskey. Ignoring Olga’s objections (finally someone brave enough to confront her), he dialed another number, contacting a Chinese tailor who took our measurements and promised to deliver her a new dress by the morning to replace her tattered kimono.

  Three hours later, the whiskey jug empty and nothing but crumbs left in the pizza box, I cautiously move to business. I tell him what brought us here.

  His face darkens. No wonder: this is what any man would feel if his son came to visit him, only to ask for a favor. He gives us a curt nod and leaves the room.

  “You sure he won’t call the Gestapo?” Olga whispers.

  “I am,” I mumble through the last mouthful of pepperoni. “He’s like a father to me. Of course I’m only one of probably five hundred children he used to tutor but he’s always been different from other Lebensborn kinderführers. He never followed the rules to the letter; instead, he tried to guide us on the way to our own vocations. He noticed my interest in Scandinavian mythology and encouraged it, sending me to Norway to Young Priests’ Summer Camps. He introduced me to sword fencing and Japanese martial arts; he sent me to Mein Kampf courses and taught me the history of National Socialism – and it’s been a while since it was removed from school curriculums.”

  She nods, drawing on a cigarette. The California republic may formally be a third Reich lookalike with a dash of Japanese exotics but at least here they failed to enforce the tobacco ban.

  “They kidnapped you from your parents,” the girl points out. “How can you love someone who took everything from you? You’re just used to him. He’s not your father.”