The
Goddess
Of
Fortune
A Novel
Andrew Blencowe
Copyright 2014 Hamilton Bay Publishing
This novel is based on historic events; the characters and plot have been altered in part to combine fact and fiction.
978-1-927750-45-2 (paperback)
978-1-927750-46-9 (eBook edition)
Also available in German and Japanese.
Published by Hamilton Bay Publishing
[email protected]
Dedicated to the memory of William Troeller
Contents
Preface
Prologue
1: Meeting An Old Friend
2: Jules Verne’s Spaceship
3: Cold Comfort for Fatso
4: Sasaki’s Franklins
5: Kobayashi’s Friday Night Soirées
6: Big André’s Suggestion
7: The Well-Read War Plan
8: The Urbane Gentleman
9: The Little Flower’s Helper
10: Mr. Horikoshi’s Confession
11: The Seasoned Campaigner
12: The Wingless Eagle’s Last Flight
13: A Gift For Ayinotchka
14: Isaiah’s Message
15: Milch’s Boffins
16: Mimi’s Sparrow
17: The Swede’s Bridegrooms
18: The Valve Maker’s Observation
19: The Smell Of Burning Rubber
20: Roosevelt’s Sacred Magisterium
21: A Fine Social Contract
22: Sato’s Cherry Blossoms
23: Admiral Abe’s Type 93
24: The Polo Player
25: Winston’s Delight
26: Somme Redux
27: The Chamber Pot
28: Bad News For The Lisper
29: The Billiard Table
30: The American Admirer
31: Brooke’s Announcement
32: The Burning And Third Manassas
33: Halifax’s New Job
34: Rab’s Delight
Epilogue
Bibliography
Other Sources
Preface
On a very hot Sunday morning in June 1914, Gavrilo Princip ducked into a sandwich shop in Sarajevo for an early lunch a little before noon. Earlier that day he had failed to kill Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Outside the sandwich shop quietly eating his cheese sandwich, Gavrilo could not believe his luck: the large limousine carrying the royal couple stopped directly in front of him. Princip dropped his sandwich, took three steps forward, and fired just two shots, killing both Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. Had the sandwich shop been located two doors further down the street, Princip would have been too far from the car.
This is not to say that the proverbial powder keg of central Europe in 1914 would not have exploded from another spark a little later. But who knows, and who knows when? The Second Balkan Crisis of 1912-1913 had been resolved peaceably. Perhaps the tiny spark that started the catastrophe of the First World War was the location of the sandwich shop.
Another one of these situations was the Japanese Imperial Navy’s arrogant and sloppy overuse of French Frigate Shoals—the Japanese Navy had used this small Pacific atoll to launch ineffectual and gratuitous raids on the Pearl Harbor naval base located on one of the two main American possessions in the Pacific. The Japanese used French Frigate Shoals to refuel flying boats by tanker submarine. The sole purpose of these useless raids was to puff up the reputation of desk-bound admirals in Tokyo, nothing more.
But the ever-astute Chester Nimitz had noted Japan’s repeated use of French Frigate Shoals and had placed an American destroyer there as a deterrent—the Japanese having needlessly alerted the Americans to the critical strategic value of French Frigate Shoals with the useless raids.
When the French Frigate Shoals were truly needed for the critical refueling of the reconnaissance flying boats prior to the battle of Midway, there was an American destroyer sitting there. Had the destroyer not been there, and had the reconnaissance flying boats been refueled, they would have reported what Yamamoto most feared—that the American aircraft carriers were not in Pearl Harbor. As it happened, the Japanese went into the critical Midway battle blind, lacking this key piece of intelligence.
Andrew Blencowe
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
Prologue
On the 84th Street of Manhattan on this glorious Monday morning in September the sun into my study is streaming. On days like this I think how it was just a few years ago when Germany and America almost went to war. Fantastic though this seems now, I want to explain to the new generation of readers how this seemingly impossible situation could have almost occurred.
This afternoon I will be taking a short trip to the Empire State Building at 34th Street to meet the German Chancellor, my close friend, Alfred Jodl. Alfred is my only true friend in politics—on either side of the Atlantic. A friend in politics seems like a contradiction, as we politicians are all just sharks circling looking for the weakest to eliminate. Tomorrow we will be travelling by train to meet President Truman to discuss, among other topics, the situation in French Indochina.
As this is Alfred’s first trip to New York (his previous two trips were just to Washington), I promised him we would visit the Chrysler Building, so he could see for himself the stainless steel terrace crown designed by Van Alen.
The steel was a special order by Walter Chrysler himself to the Krupp works—only the best German Krupp steel (the patented Enduro KA-2 austenitic stainless steel) was good enough for what many consider the ultimate icon of the Manhattan skyline. I know the details as I was the architectural consultant to Van Alen. Every time I look at the Chrysler Building, I think of Krupp.
Alfred is arriving on the new zeppelin Paulus filled with the German invention of Hydrolium—a special uninflammable mixture of hydrogen and helium—safe, but with 80% of the lifting power of hydrogen. It’s fitting that the German Chancellor is travelling on an airship named in honor of the victor of Stalingrad and Persia, whose bold audacity captured the Suez Canal from the British, and who hastened the end of the terrible war with Britain. The Empire State Building’s old zeppelin mast has been re-engineered to take the new German automatic mooring cables.
As most people know, Alfred took over from me as chancellor, after I served my term following the signing of the Armistice of ’42. But this is all water under the bridge—now you can read for yourself how our two great countries came so close to the brink of a disastrous—and completely unnecessary—war.
Albert Speer, Manhattan
Monday, 13 September 1948
1: Meeting An Old Friend
Vevey
Saturday, 7 September 1940
The sun slowly set in the late summer day but the heat was still on the lake. Lake Léman—“Lake Geneva” as the moneyed classes liked to call it in Geneva—was its normal quiet self: modest, still and bland, just like the Swiss themselves. Julius Stein wandered about his apartment in his old purple and yellow dressing gown, the gold braid ends of the belt having been almost completely chewed off by the short-haired dachshund that respectfully followed his master. Julius slowly made his way to the small interior bedroom for his ultimate luxury—his afternoon nap.
The bed was really an elevated tatami mat holding a pale orange futon with a small Japanese buckwheat pillow at its head. The Asian bed blended into the room that was conventionally decorated by Julius’s very conventional German wife in what she boasted to the rich Iranians living in the apartment below was a “Japanese motif.” Sophie so loved to use the English word “motif,” a word she had recently discovered in one of Julius’s preci
ous copies of the American Esquire magazine, which, for reasons never explained, Julius kept and very occasionally re-read; the February 1936 issue was always in his study, with a slip of paper to mark an article by an American writer.
Julius laid down and thanked heaven for his tiny, small corner of peace and calm in the world. Every minute of every day back in Germany there was a tension in his chest and in his stomach, a sense of anticipation—actually more a dread—of the knock on the door, or even the tap on the shoulder as he rode the slow and squeaky elevated railway around Alexanderplatz—his and other Berliners’ beloved “Alex.” A dread of him and his family being taken away by the security service to disappear into the night and fog, to have their names recorded in the horrible and antiseptic SD books with only the terrible initials of “NN” beside their names. It had happened to his friends, it could have happened to him any day he was in Germany; this was the reality of the “New Germany.”
Julius knew the Swiss: they were dull, they were boring, and their lives centered around money and prestige, but they were fair in a world rapidly losing all sense of fairness. And he loved the sense of security he felt in Vevey.
Now, a glorious warmth slowly wrapped its soft feminine fingers around him, caressing him like a mother does to her child, nothing more important to her than to see the little smile and the tiny eyelids slowly drooping.
In the warmth and peace of the small bedroom, Julius could actually sense himself slowly falling asleep, a sensation he had never experienced in Germany. Soon he and the dog at his feet were asleep, both quietly snoring.
As the large, dark navy blue Mercedes descended into Vevey from the surrounding hills, the light rain ended and was replaced first by gloom and then, increasingly as they descended, by sunlight, at first feeble then increasingly bright and warm. The smell of chocolate announced the arrival at the home of the Swiss chocolate industry, with the cows in the surrounding verdant hills providing the milk.
The car quietly moved to the parking reserve of the Trois Couronnes—the Three Crowns—a typical Swiss five-star hotel: discreet, spotlessly clean, self-effacing and, of course, extremely expensive. The fresh coarse gravel made little noise as the car came to a rest after its long journey. The motor, now at rest, sang out occasional metallic pings as it cooled after its long labors.
A tall and sparse figure left the comfort of the Mercedes—the custom-made rear seats were astonishingly restful—seats made by the custom maker Kurtsmann’s who specialized in bespoke coach work for Mercedes’ arch-enemy Auto Union, but in this case had been persuaded by the effortless guile of the balding young man.
Unobtrusively, the modest man made the five-minute walk from the hotel to the first group of apartments up the slight incline by the lake. He looked like any Swiss bourgeois—a small business owner perhaps—dull in dress and self-effacing in appearance and demeanor.
The small gate was painted a shiny piano black with three brass hinges, unevenly spaced, in the north Asian practice, where the two top hinges bore all the weight while the lowest hinge acted simply as a rudder. Closer inspection showed the gleaming paint to actually be baked enamel—“God is in the details,” the visitor smiled.
Stopping for a moment, more out of habit than necessity, the man looked for the name—this was not his first visit. Pressing the button marked Stein, after a delay of a few minutes, the heavy wrought iron front door opened, and the familiar face of Professor Julius Stein peered out, still slightly befuddled from this nap.
Clarity returned and Stein exclaimed, “Albert! What a joy!”
“Professor.”
“Please, please come in, and please no more ‘Professor!’ ”
Albert entered.
Sophie, Julius’s wife, coldly greeted Albert and then disappeared into the modern but quite small kitchen.
After Albert left she complained, “They are all the same;” Julius gently reminded her of how both of them had avoided the camps or worse.
It was Albert who had persuaded the Swiss—initially against their will—to accept, perhaps “tolerate” was more accurate—the former head of the political economy school at the University of Berlin. Albert had pointed out to a number of Swiss departments, in particular the security people, the benefits of having Stein as a local consulting expert: his cosmopolitan world view; his expertise and knowledge of all things American; his encyclopedic knowledge of economic history.
And Albert had an ulterior motive. While it was true that he could have gotten safe passage for the professor and his wife to England or America, Albert wanted to retain access to Stein and his insights; so quiet, bucolic, boring, and nearby Switzerland was the perfect choice.
An example of Stein’s mind was the searchlights; it was Stein who had initially suggested the searchlights. As a canny and effective business man in his own right, Stein was thoughtful and surprisingly imaginative when it came to projecting the image of a company (or even a country) and this he discussed with Albert one bitterly cold evening in Berlin in ‘35.
“Albert, you should consider something truly spectacular for the next one of your so-called party rallies. While I obviously detest your Chancellor’s internal policies, I have to admit I begrudgingly admire his use of radio—it’s as effective as the American dictator Roosevelt’s. (Stein retained a deeply cynical streak when it came to all politicians, especially those who came across as caring; ‘they are the worst thugs of all’, Stein had told Albert numerous times.) And these mass rallies are the modern-day panem et circenses that the ancient Romans did so well—sadly the average person wants to be told what to do and is happy to comply if his belly is full.”
It was with this comment that the two men created the idea of the Cathedral of Light (or rather Stein explained and Albert listened). Against the rabid complaints of all, Albert had collected every searchlight in Germany—there were 130 working searchlights (eight others were still being constructed) —to be combined to create the Cathedral of Light lighting spectacular in the ‘37 Rally of Labor in Nuremburg. Albert got the credit, but both Albert and Stein knew it was Stein’s Berlin idea on that bitterly cold winter’s night that generated this breathtaking extravaganza (photographs of which got as far as the 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and the Imperial Palace in Tokyo).
Stein led Albert to the living room with its glorious view of the lake.
“After such a long and arduous journey, I am sure you need some sustenance. Come, Albert. Eat.”
Point be made, Albert was hungry after the trip, but he was also concerned the food would simply make him sleepy.
So Albert asked for Italian coffee.
“Espresso, it is to be then.”
Turning to his wife, Stein quietly said,
“Sophie, why don’t you let me and Albert catch up on old times? Does that make sense?”
“Does that make sense?” This was the phrase Albert had heard Professor Stein say a thousand times—“Does that make sense?”
This was precisely the reason for Albert’s visit—does that make sense?
Stein lead Albert to a very small study—no desk, books alone three walls, a large dull brown overstuffed club chair with a small table to the left side—Albert recalled Stein was left-handed.
Albert settled on the small sofa, the only other furniture in the room.
Stein looked at Albert and smiled.
“So I suppose you’re interested in knowing what Germany should do when Japan attacks America.”
Stein’s delivery was like a Vevey tram ticket collector’s “that will be one franc, please.”
Try as he might, Albert was unable to contain a gasp.
Stein laughed.
“Albert, dear Albert, you are still so easily shocked, and after all these years as a high functionary.”
Stein remembered one warm Sunday afternoon lakeside stroll they had made together, and how Albert was so shocked by the discovery of the detritus of Saturday night’s activities of courting couples’ lovemaking in the
park that he ran all the way down to the lake.
Albert looked at Stein directly.
Stein shrugged.
“Albert—a blind man can see this. And here I am all alone, without my brilliant students, all alone in this beautiful apartment you created for me,” Stein raised his hand at Albert’s objection.
“Albert, you—you, Albert—you alone got us the two Swiss passports and the money and the papers—you, it is to you to whom Sophie and I owe our lives. Of course, I do not have words to thank you.”
Stein looked at Albert as he spoke, and Stein was at an age where he could be honest without being mawkish.
“So, Albert, how can I help you; how can I repay you, if ever so trivial?”
Albert leaned back and looked at this man—tall, still handsome, generous, and erudite. Sometimes Albert sat and wondered about the “master race” gibberish and asked himself, what was the Austrian’s game?
Albert sighed and said,
“Professor, as always—as always—you’re more than a few steps ahead of me. Actually, I wanted to get this point in about two hours’ time, after I had my knights and bishops in place. But as you’ve squared my rook, as you so often do, I will be brief.”
Stein’s warm eyes did not move from Albert.
“You are correct. We do expect our fair-weather oriental allies to attack the Americans. We are not sure where or when, but it will be soon.”
Stein, matter-of-factly, said,
“When and how does not matter—the Japanese could attack San Francisco, or Seattle, again, this makes little sense, or San Diego—that does make a modicum of sense. Of course, instead of the United States, the Japanese may attack the American possessions of the Hawaii Islands or possibly the Philippines. When is also not critical. Personally, I expect it before May or June of ‘42, because that is when the Japanese will run out of oil. But it could be tomorrow, or it could be August in ‘42. My guess is sooner, rather than later, it will be before August 42 as August is the start of the typhoon season in north Asia.”
The Goddess Of Fortune Page 1