by Ib Melchior
Von Eckdorf returned the young officer’s salute. His face had a pinched, arrogant look.
“Welcome to Thürenberg, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” Willi said.
Von Eckdorf didn’t answer. He turned and with deliberate displeasure surveyed the kaleidoscope of activity in the courtyard before him.
“Colonel Krueger is expecting you, sir.”
Abruptly von Eckdorf started up the steps, immediately followed by Willi. At the big solid double doors they had to stand aside for two men carrying a Wehrmacht field communications console. With a last petulantly disapproving look down into the bustling courtyard, von Eckdorf entered Burg Thürenberg.
The massive, ornately carved desk was fully eight feet long. It obviously belonged in the big room with the inlaid wood panels, beamed ceiling and lead-paned windows set in the four-foot-thick stone walls. Not so the purely functional steel filing cabinets which lined one wall—most of them with their drawers protruding, slack-jawed and empty. Several men were busily emptying the rest, selecting and transferring papers and documents to various boxes; others closed and sealed the boxes and carried them away.
At the big desk, sorting through stacks of papers, stood an officer in the uniform of a Wehrmacht colonel. It was Colonel Karl Krueger. He looked up as Willi and von Eckdorf entered.
“Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf, Herr Oberst,” Willi announced formally.
Von Eckdorf gave the Nazi salute:
“Heil Hitler!”
Krueger walked around the desk to his visitor. He was a slender man, graying already at the age of fifty-one. He carried himself erect, but without the Prussian ramrod stiffness. His long face, dominated by penetrating, intelligent eyes under bushy eyebrows, was etched with deep nose lines and with determined furrows at the corners of a thin-lipped mouth. There was no warmth in his expression as he regarded von Eckdorf, rather a deliberate politeness prompted by necessity.
“Heil Hitler!” he said without demonstrative enthusiasm. “Or, as we shall soon be saying, Grüss Gott!”
Von Eckdorf inspected the officer. His petulant mouth set in distaste. No wonder, he thought primly. No wonder there’s no order around here. An officer, greeting you with a Bavarian peasant greeting!
“Generalfeldmarschall Keitel sends you his regards,” he said. His voice was unpleasantly high-pitched.
Krueger nodded. “Thank you. You must excuse the appearance of our quarters. We aren’t prepared to receive guests.”
Von Eckdorf drew himself up. “I’m not a guest, Colonel Krueger,” he said testily. “I am an emissary from Feldmarschall Keitel. I have brought you your orders. The Feldmarschall is most eager that you start operations as soon as possible.” The little man bristled with indignation.
Touchy little twerp, Krueger thought.
“Of course,” he said.
Von Eckdorf glanced pointedly at the men working at the files.
“I am a little—taken aback”—he tasted the words delicately—“at the state of affairs around here, Colonel. I should have thought you’d have been ready—actually moved before now.”
Krueger shot him a quick glance. So that’s the game we’re going to play, he thought. The big shot, come to throw his weight around. Not in my command!
“It would have been inadvisable, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” he said. He did not elaborate. Let the little bastard ask, he thought.
Von Eckdorf fixed him with an imperiously inquiring look.
“Well?” he asked irritably.
“Our prepared position would not have been ready for us,” he said simply. “I’m sure you are aware of that.”
Willi was watching the two men. He was fascinated. He recognized the juggling for superiority that was going on. A superiority claimed by von Eckdorf by virtue of having it bestowed upon him, but in reality belonging to Colonel Krueger simply because he already had it.
Von Eckdorf’s face looked pinched. His voice was becoming even sharper.
“You have been informed, I believe, that I am to act as the Führer’s personal representative?”
“I have.”
“Good. I shall be staying in a village quite close to your headquarters area.”
“I see.”
“I shall, of course, expect to be fully informed of all your activities, once you go operational.”
“Of course.”
“And when will that be, Colonel?” Von Eckdorf’s voice carried more than a hint of sarcasm. He felt on top of the situation again. “Things still seem to be—well, in quite a state of disarray.”
Krueger regarded the little man. That’s all I need, he thought with annoyance. To be saddled with an insufferable, self-important little prig like that! He gave him a look of studied astonishment
“On the exact date planned, of course, Herr von Eckdorf,” he said deliberately. “I presume you know it?”
Von Eckdorf colored. He hadn’t asked to be sent here. But he certainly wasn’t going to put up with any impertinence!
He was about to give a sharp retort, when Krueger turned from him and motioned to an orderly, who had just entered the room. The man hurried over.
He was about thirty-five, with a ruddy complexion and large, guileless, water-blue eyes. He carried an armful of clothing—a pair of gray forester’s knee britches, heavy woolen socks, a coarse green shirt and a gray Bavarian jacket with carved bone buttons. Krueger inspected the clothing idly as he continued to talk to von Eckdorf. There was an undisguised suggestion of dismissal in his voice.
“The first units leave tonight. The rest, including myself and my staff, tomorrow.”
Von Eckdorf searched frantically for something significant to say. He felt his importance, his authority slipping away from him.
“We shall be in position the day after, Herr Reichsamtsleiter—as planned,” Kreuger finished.
“Good,” von Eckdorf said curtly. “I should like, however, to inspect the state of your readiness myself.” It was the best he could do.
Krueger looked at him with a small, slightly mocking smile.
“Of course,” he said with condescending amiability. “Untersturmführer Richter is at your disposal.”
He took the Bavarian jacket from the arms of the orderly.
“You will excuse me.” It was a statement, not a request. “I’m about to change into my new—uniform.”
He turned to the orderly.
“Schon gut, Plewig.” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Von Eckdorf glared at him. Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by Willi. Suddenly he stopped. He removed an envelope from his inside coat pocket. He turned back to Krueger and handed it to him.
“Yes. One more thing,” he said coldly. “The Führer sends you his congratulations, Generalmajor Krueger!”
Without waiting for comment, he turned and walked from the room.
Krueger looked after the little man. He was faintly amused. Small man in a big job, he thought. Inevitable result—officiousness! He looked at the envelope in his hand. It bore the official Nazi emblem embossed on it—the proud eagle holding a swastika in a wreath of oak leaves. He threw the envelope on the big desk without opening it. He sighed. Thoughtfully he fingered the coarse, heavy fabric of the gray Bavarian peasant jacket. . . .
Von Eckdorf was still smarting from Krueger’s insolence. He was scowling, tight-lipped, as he marched down the broad corridor. Soldiers and civilians were streaming back and forth in an unceasing flow of activity. The Werewolf school was closing down, preparing to go underground. Von Eckdorf slowly relaxed. That’s why he was here, after all. To observe. To calculate and evaluate. And to report. And that’s exactly what he would do. Accurately. Systematically. And with orderly precision. He felt better. He was on familiar ground.
The two men passed a doorway. Both the heavy carved oak doors stood wide open. Von Eckdorf glanced inside. It was the great hall of arms. An expanse of carved oak paneling; long, narrow, deep-set windows; two rows of old, colorful banner
s heavy with dust hanging under the opulently painted ceiling; a huge rectangular area of a lighter color on one stone wall, where once a priceless tapestry must have hung. The hall was empty, except for two men burning papers and documents at a blazing fire in a huge walk-in fireplace at the far end.
Von Eckdorf strode into the hall and walked to the fireplace. Willi followed. He said nothing. He’d decided to keep quiet until the Reichsamtsleiter spoke to him. Then play it by ear.
One of the men at the fireplace took a large sheet of cardboard from a pile on the floor. He bent it in half and threw it on the fire. He reached for another. Von Eckdorf held out his hand.
“Let me see it,” he ordered.
The man glanced quickly at Willi. Willi nodded. The man handed the cardboard to Von Eckdorf.
“Bitte.”
Von Eckdorf turned it over. There were words printed on it:
RISE ROSE RISEN
RUN RAN RUN
SAY SAID SAID
SEE SAW SEEN
SEEK SOUGHT SOUGHT
SELL SOLD SOLD
SEND SENT SENT
SET SET SET
SHAKE SHOOK SHAKEN
SHALL SHOULD SHOULD
SHED SHED SHED
SHINE SHONE SHONE
SHOOT SHOT SHOT
SHOW SHOWED SHOWN
SHRINK SHRANK SHRUNK
SHUT SHUT SHUT
SING SANG SUNG
SINK SANK SUNK
SIT SAT SAT
SLAY SLEW SLAIN
He looked questioningly at Willi.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It’s from our classes in English, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,’’ Willi explained. “A lesson in grammar. The members of our intelligence group speak excellent English.”
“So.”
Von Eckdorf threw the chart aside. With his foot he spread apart the others in the pile on the floor. He cocked his head to study a particularly colorful one. It showed the insignia of U.S. Army noncoms and officers with the corresponding ranks written in English and German. He was pleased. He approved of the charts. Orderly. He marched from the hall.
The two men reentered the corridor. A group of young girls walked past. Every one was pretty, with the natural, healthy, shiningly clean look of the German girl. They were all dressed in attractive dirndl dresses with provocative necklines, and they all carried a small piece of civilian luggage. Von Eckdorf and Willi watched them go by. Despite their charm and femininity they moved with precise military bearing.
Von Eckdorf looked inquiringly at Willi.
“They’re trained office workers, Herr von Eckdorf—in English. We expect they will work in American military government offices.” Willi grinned. “And they’ll make good girl friends for the Amis!”
“I see.’”
Von Eckdorf frowned. He did not entirely agree with that sort of thing. Sacrifices had to be made, of course, but was it quite necessary to—to defile German womanhood in that way?
Willi pointed to a bulletin board on the wall.
“There’s a list of the courses in English office work, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” he said. “It might give you an idea of what we’ve been doing along those lines.”
Von Eckdorf turned to the bulletin board. The courses seemed well planned. Complete. He studied the list.
Willi stared after the girls disappearing down the crowded corridor. Even from behind they made an appealing sight. Especially the little blonde, who always looked at him with such brazen appraisal.
Gerti, he thought. Gerti Meissner. That’s who she looks like. The same round little ass moving so deliciously under the skirt. What was it? Two years ago? Almost. He’d still be in officers’ school.
He wondered about Gerti. And his son. He was sure it was a son.
He didn’t often think back to Bodenheim. He never had made up his mind about it—whether to be proud of it or regret it. He let his thoughts drift back. . . .
Willi was uneasy when his commanding officer at the officers’ training school summoned him to his office. He stood stiffly at attention. The CO had his service records on the desk before him. He was pleased with them, he said. Willi Richter was just the sort of young German the Third Reich wanted. Man to man he confided in Willi. They’d investigated his personal background thoroughly; his ancestry—all the way back to the eighteenth century, he told him; his entire medical history. They’d made certain he was of healthy, pure Aryan stock. And then he put the question to him. Would he like to volunteer to spend two weeks at Bodenheim?
It was quite a shock to Willi. Actually to be asked! He was excited. He knew about places like Bodenheim. They used to kid about them in the barracks. Stud farms, some of the men called them. There were several of them scattered through Germany, usually hidden away in the most secluded and beautiful surroundings. Bodenheim in the Schwäbische Alb near Stuttgart was such a place. A Lebensborn establishment—“Source of Life.”
Willi’s CO gave him the whole story. The Third Reich had long realized the vital necessity of keeping the German race pure. If you mated a brood mare of pure stock with a pure-blooded stallion the issue would be thoroughbred. It had something to do with chromosomes and things like that, which carried the hereditary traits, he explained. Germany needed such “thoroughbreds.” Perfect German children produced by two racially pure human beings of unmixed Aryan blood. A new race—the first generation of pure Aryans, pure Nazis—created in the womb for the Fatherland! In the Lebensborn the Führer made it possible. Here young German girls selected for their perfect Nordic traits were made available for young men of equally pure Aryan stock. There were no responsibilities. No obligations. The resulting offspring belonged to the Third Reich!
Willi felt vaguely disturbed by the clinical explanations and analogies, but his discomfort was easily swamped by his pride in having been selected. And the excitement. It was like a dream come true. Two weeks of bed calisthenics! he thought with enthusiastic anticipation. And at the state’s expense!
By the time Willi reached Bodenheim some of his high excitement had turned to apprehension. He wondered what he’d let himself in for.
Bodenheim was nestled in a wooded valley in the mountains. It was apparently a small village that had been taken over entirely by the Lebensborn. There was much new construction among the old houses. The headquarters of the establishment was in the former guest lodge, the only large building.
Willi felt the cold, impersonal atmosphere of the place. It clamped a further damper on his waning enthusiasm. A sharp-faced, indifferent woman in the uniform of a BDM noncom took his orders and filled out his card. Apparently the place was run by the Bund Deutscher Mädel—the female counterpart of the Hitler Youth. Probably most of the girls were BDM. He looked around curiously. He hadn’t seen any of his future bedmates yet.
He was assigned to a room in a little house close to the lodge. He’d stay there two weeks. It would be the scene of all his activities.
And then once more the inevitable medical examination.
When the doctor, an SS Stabsarzt, was finished with him, he was turned over to a hospital orderly, a coarse, disagreeable fellow with an unpleasant, perpetual smirk. Maybe he’s jealous because he’s not getting any, Willi thought with amusement. It would be a hell of a thing in a place of plenty like this! The man took a blood sample and a urine specimen from him for analysis.
Blood and urine, Willi thought. Blood and urine—the measures of a man!
Then the orderly handed him a little beaker already labeled with his name.
“Here,” he said “Give me a specimen of your semen.”
Semen? Willi looked at the man, perplexed. Suddenly understanding flooded him. He felt the blood rising on his neck. Semen! But how? How would he get it? Uncertainly he looked at the orderly.
“Well, you can’t piss it out,” the man snapped impatiently. “Jerk off!”
Willi stood rooted to the spot. The orderly nodded toward a door.
“In there. It’s
all yours.” He leered at Willi. “There’s a couple of girlie magazines in there. Might help!”
Willi walked into the little examination chamber. He closed the door behind him. There was no lock. He sat down. He knew he couldn’t do it. Not on command. The whole thing was impossible. He couldn’t even get a hard on.
He squirmed on the chair. I’ve got to try, at least, he thought. He fumbled his pants open. Christ, he thought. No good. All he could think about was that obnoxious orderly right outside.
He saw the magazines lying on a glass-top table. Well, anyway, they’ve thought of everything, he mused. He picked up a magazine. He started to thumb through it. The pictures were fantastic. Not merely suggestive. Graphic. The women were delectable. Sexy as hell! Willi looked closer. He became interested. To his surprise he suddenly felt the familiar swelling in his groin. He looked down. I’ll be damned, he thought.
Tentatively he put his hand down. Gently he stroked. He chose a picture of a voluptuous blonde in a transparent negligee lying invitingly on a sofa, and concentrated on her. After a short while he was actually enjoying himself.
It took him much less time than he’d thought, before he had the specimen in his beaker for the orderly. He looked at it curiously. He held it up to the light. He’d never really examined the stuff before. Millions of perfect little Aryans, he thought wryly. Half of them anyway.
He buttoned himself up. Now that it was all over he felt vaguely ashamed, degraded. It was a hell of a thing to have to do for one’s country!
He saw the girl in the social hall at the lodge the next evening. She was standing by herself at the little juice bar sipping a lemonade. She looked very young—and somehow vulnerable. He thought she was lovely. His tests had all been positive—or was it negative? Anyway, he had been instructed to mingle and get acquainted. The quicker and the more intimately the better.
He started over to the bar, making his way through the couples dancing to the gramophone music. There were at least twenty couples on the dance floor; others were sitting around in the comfortable room, talking. The young men were all in uniform. Most of them were SS, but there were uniforms from every branch of the armed forces. The girls wore a variety of attractive dresses.