The Twisted Patriot

by Pirate Irwin

  “Ah, the centurion comes forward to give Jesus the vinegar to assuage his thirst,” mumbled the Baron only increasing the Bible-reading Hildebrandt’s unease at his work for the Gestapo, which he had joined to be a genuine policeman where investigative work took precedence over the humdrum daily workload of the uniformed lot. Being associated with Gruber had quickly disabused him of such notions but by that time it was too late and any request to get out would have placed him under suspicion for his loyalty to the state. Beating up elderly barons had not been his idea of serving the Nazi party, nor indeed Germany, and certainly it was a fact he diplomatically avoided when he returned albeit nowadays rarely to see his parents in Cologne. He could not wait for the war to end as he was sick and tired of it, and if the Baron was indeed guilty, good for him, because a premature end would suit him just fine and then men like Gruber could fend for themselves and answer for their crimes while he sought out a place in the post-war police in a proper democracy. Of course, he imparted none of this to Gruber, and he had some blood on his hands, that was for sure, but he tried to land light blows but sometimes it was impossible to avoid letting go of yourself and a quick trip to the local priest on his leave time alleviated his soul somewhat.

  Gruber had by now calmed down and padded over to him and looked down into the Baron’s swollen eyes which were barely discernible as the eyelids were virtually closed. “Is he all right, Hildebrandt?” he asked anxiously. Hildebrandt wasn’t too sure as the Baron’s breathing was erratic at best and was rasping, which suggested he had broken several ribs but he nodded to try and reassure Gruber.

  “Well, if you think he’s all right then its bath time for the Baron and as he can’t help himself I suggest we aid him those several yards to the tub so he can wash away the dirt and those unfortunate bloodspots on his shirt. Most unaristocratic, no?” snarled Gruber. Hildebrandt protested because he realized that bath time could only mean more torture for the Baron but Gruber was having none of it and, pushing the younger man aside, he pulled and dragged the Baron towards the bath and the freezing water that awaited him. With one mighty effort, because Hildebrandt refused to help him, Gruber lifted the Baron and dumped him into the dirty white tub allowing a lot of the water to splash over the sides and onto Gruber’s shiny black shoes which only enraged the thug even more, provoking him into holding the Baron’s head under water to punish him for his sloppiness.

  It didn’t really matter how long he performed this exercise because Baron von Preetz, putative future Foreign Minister and one time highflying diplomat, was already dead after suffering a massive heart attack on entering the bath, the shock of the freezing water too much for his weakened body. Hildebrandt pushed Gruber aside and rolled the Baron’s lifeless corpse onto the floor and gave him the kiss of life while also pounding his chest and then desperately lowering his head and listening for any sign of life. There was none, and Hildebrandt knew there would be little hope for him and Gruber of breathing for much longer either, because while others had died under their custody, they had been expressly told he was to be kept alive as their superiors felt he would eventually crack and also von Ribbentrop, while shocked to hear his closest advisor had been implicated in a plot against his beloved leader, had demanded that he should not be harmed fatally as he still felt dubious over his betrayal of the regime. Hildebrandt glanced behind him and glared at his partner, who was cowering in the corner, his bottom lip quivering and dribble spiralling down onto his white shirt making him look even more Neanderthal than usual. “Pull yourself together Gruber!” he sneered. Gruber just slumped further down the wall, his false machismo revealed for all that it was and his dreams of rising up the service gone for good. Hildebrandt decided there was just one thing to be done and that was they had to report the incident and hope they got a sympathetic doctor who would testify the Baron had a weak heart and would have died soon in any case. He didn’t really care about Gruber but he knew he would be guilty by association and he was only too aware of what fate awaited them.

  Fortunately the doctor on duty was the alcoholic Dr Feuchardt and he was already well in his cups by the time he stumbled down the stairs and into the cell. Hildebrandt handled the situation; Gruber was incapable of speaking and just stared morosely into the distance as Feuchardt mumbled some fairly incoherent questions at them. He signed the papers, stressing that the Baron had died of natural causes owing to a weak heart, and it was left to Hildebrandt and Gruber to confirm this to their superiors while the body was to be handed back to the family on the express orders of von Ribbentrop, who also vowed that the two incompetent officers would be assigned to other duties, preferably on the Eastern Front.

  Von Ribbentrop, of course, didn’t attend the funeral as that would have been going too far and might have cast doubt on his loyalties, but several of the Baron’s intimates from the Foreign Ministry did come, while the remainder of the mourners were made up of the usual suspects – von Helldorf, von der Schulenburg and even Nebe. However, compared to the numbers that had gleefully fed off his hospitality at the wedding it was a pitiful turnout, though it had to be said many were either dead or engaged in combat on the respective fronts. However, of Goering there was no sign, there again there was little sign of his “invincible” Luftwaffe any more either, while Eric’s parents-in-law, the von Rieckenbacks, were also conspicuous by their absence as their ambitions to rise even further in what was clearly a dying regime got the better of their judgement and instead it was just Henrietta and her new beau Beckmann who came. Sebastian was cast in the unenviable position of organizing the funeral service, as Victoria proved once again her organizational powers lay in festive occasions but when the chips were down she was incapable of summoning up the ability to perform similar feats. He was also by proxy now the man of the house, which made him smile darkly that he an Englishman was now the scion of one of the most famous families in Germany and had to lead Victoria up the aisle and sit with her in the front row.

  “Oh darling, just think, this could be a dress rehearsal for a more cheerful occasion,” she whispered into his ear as they took their seats. He seethed but knew that he might very well have to do that if he were not to impose the same bastard origin on his second child as he had done to Mirabelle, and his father had perpetrated on him. Victoria was at pains to show off the bump, as well as usual her breasts, but at least this time she had worn a relatively conservative black outfit topped off by a veil, though the dabbing of her eyes during the service didn’t cut much ice with Sebastian, who well knew that she had never loved the Baron but had adored the station it had brought her.

  Indeed, she had lost nothing as her relations with Eric had been cool at best and now she still had the title and a good-looking lover who had given her a child and hence the heir to the title and the lands that would come with it. Sebastian had tried to convince her that she was deluding herself if she thought the Soviets would gladly allow her and the child to settle on the estate which was in their line of fire but she just laughed and teased him for his defeatism, adding that he had spent far too long talking to the old fogey who lay in his coffin just yards from them.

  Afterwards they held a wake back in the house but it was an even more gloomy affair than it had been after Eric’s because the Baron’s demise and the fashion it had happened in brought home to the assembled crowd of aristocrats and resistants that rank and standing held no divine immunity from arrest or death under this regime. They had given it a certain faux respectability by aligning themselves to it but now it had become apparent that they were no longer needed and indeed were being held to blame for the defeats on the battlefield and for weakening morale back home.

  “Ach, they haven’t the Jews to blame any more so Goebbels has to find another enemy at home to hold up to the people as the reason for the destruction of the cities and their farms. Why not those monocled aristocrats, what a von-derful idea, Reichsminister,” joked von Helldorf sardonically. The people gathered round him laughed but once it had subside
d it was von der Schulenburg, as ever playing the straight man to von Helldorf’s clown, who brought the brief moment of levity crashing down. “I see the Baron’s death as a symbol of what is happening to this once great country. The old Germany and the decent souls who built it is dying at the hands of a brutal nihilistic regime, who couldn’t care less if we all go with it. A state built on hate can never thrive unless there is a target for their vitriol, and gentlemen and ladies we have become that group. To be honest with you, we deserve it, as we allowed ourselves to be sucked into this vortex of evil because of our weakness at not wanting to miss out on power and medals and more titles. We succumbed to that most simple of temptations, greed. And now we are about to become the feast for the goons at the top,” he said gently.

  Several nodded in agreement, others looked shocked at the vehemence of his opinions, particularly Nebe. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot and despite his SS uniform he looked anything but assured and confident, the dark black of the tunic contrasting sharply to his pale pinched features. If he had looked nervy a few months ago, he looked positively on the verge of a nervous breakdown now. Even though it was a cold day he was sweating and his hand trembled every time he lit a cigarette or raised his glass to his lips. “Fritz, I would be careful of what you say. Even if defeat is in the offing, the goons are even more keen to hang those who proffer such pessimistic opinions and you are one of those they are especially interested in,” Nebe said. Von der Schulenburg smiled warmly at Nebe, his eyes lighting up with excitement at the thought he was one of the most wanted in Germany.

  “Oh Artur, you are such an old woman. If we are not now brave enough to speak out, what sort of example does that set for our children and the young people who will have to clean up the effluence and shame left behind. You can keep your counsel and your fine uniforms and ranks and privileges but I am done with all that,” he replied. Von Helldorf nodded his assent and slapped him on the back. Nebe grimaced and downed the dregs of his drink and bade the group farewell.

  “We can’t count on him any more,” growled von Helldorf later when the group had been reduced to Sebastian, von der Schulenburg and Beckmann, conspirators all. They understood that Nebe by his behaviour was now no longer part of the plot and would be better off kept at arm’s length just in case his nerves forced him into a switch in loyalties and he betrayed them. In any case, what was probably their final throw of the dice was just days away and Nebe was not aware of their plans.

  While the Baron’s death was tragic, his funeral had provided them with the perfect opportunity to meet and go through their parts in it and thus they were settled in the study discussing for the final time how the day should proceed. It was von der Schulenburg who took centre-stage and issued the orders while the other three listened in awed silence at the commanding presence he gave out and wondered what sort of role he would play when they took over. “Sebastian, you and Beckmann will stick to the Bendlerstrasse, i.e. in your headquarters of the Home Army and carry out arrests of high-ranking Nazis and shoot anybody who dares to resist. The more the better,” he grinned. “Once von Stauffenberg has alerted you to the successful resolution of the matter, then you are to go into overdrive and as Wolf here will have ordered his men to stand aside should they see such acts being carried out, and indeed they will be helping you in some cases, you shouldn’t have too many problems. In any case, the majority of the units based here or near Berlin are believed to be loyal to us and not to the regime. We need them to take control of the city as soon as possible and that I will leave to you, the military men. Most important of all is to seize control of the radio and propaganda machine so we can put out our messages across the fronts and hopefully provoke a complete collapse, save for the diehard SS units. You never know, even von Kluge might jump on board!” to which all laughed as “Clever Hans” had been playing the same cat and mouse game even after he had been transferred to the Western Front.

  Once von der Schulenburg had finished, they all had a final drink together and toasted their fellow conspirators: “To the new Germany! Let us hope that we will be here in a week’s time toasting the aftermath of a glorious final chapter in a shameful episode of our history,” said Beckmann. “And if we’re not, let us at least take satisfaction that we will die with honour and not ashamed we never lifted a finger to stop this hateful and grotesque regime,” added von Helldorf. Yes, that will be a fine epitaph for me, mused Sebastian, England will really hail me for my role in it, the two-time traitor who could never keep a long-time allegiance. He could just see his body being transported back, not for a glorious interment in Westminster Abbey but to be strung up again at the Tower of London and just for good measure disembowelled as the English just loved their traditions and traitors weren’t above such customs. The thought of that made him feel even more pessimistic than he did about the whole plot. They were all inherently decent men but leaving the actual assassination to a one-armed, one-eyed army officer for him was much more symbolic of Germany than the Baron’s death – the last despairing act of a dead ruling class.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was chaos in the Bendlerstrasse – the headquarters of the Reserve Army – as orders were issued then countermanded as the conspirators reacted to the news that von Stauffenberg had succeeded at last in getting rid of the madman. However, the euphoria felt by all was soon dampened as news leaked out that another of their circle back at Rastenburg, General Fellgiebel, had lost his nerve and not shut down all communications with the outside world.

  Worse was to follow, just as Sebastian was leaving the building with around 30 men to march over to the Propaganda Ministry he was recalled and told to stay put as he would be better used there and they would send a larger body of men under a Major Ernst Remer to take the building. Sebastian didn’t like it one bit, believing it was a slight and denying him one piece of glory he yearned for which would stand him in useful stead once the war was over. For a while he lounged around one of the offices on the first floor while other officers charged around looking busy, but to all intents and purposes they had so few troops actually under their control that they were leading a phantom army and needed officers such as Remer to step up to the plate, without really having sounded them out prior to the revolt. That is why they had so badly needed Fellgiebel to have performed his part of the deal but he had let them down and now they were awaiting the return of von Stauffenberg, the hero of the hour to tell them what to do next. Sebastian laughed inwardly that once again they had proved they couldn’t think for themselves and this inability could have fatal consequences because the initiative could swing the other way. Hitler might be dead, along with several of his cronies, but Goebbels remained alive and defiant in Berlin and now his capture had been entrusted in a man that was not 100 per cent with them instead of himself, who had risked much to be part of their group and was prepared to break the rule of a lifetime and remain loyal to the end. He sat smoking in the deserted office which belonged to some adjutant of Fromm’s with his feet up on the desk while keeping the door open so he could survey what was going on in the passageway. Fromm himself entered at that moment and demanded what he was doing there and did he know what was going on. The prissy stern Fromm had lost his usual calm exterior and was sweating and looking flustered. Good, thought Sebastian, serves you right, you indecisive little prick, as he had shown himself to be even less trustworthy than von Kluge and at least Clever Hans was a reasonable battlefield general whereas this pallid little creature was a timeserving bland unimaginative and cold son of a bitch. Sebastian eyed him coolly and drew his Luger from his holster, prompting Fromm to back away towards the door. “What the hell are you doing, Murat?” he demanded angrily, though Sebastian could sense the panic in his voice. “Placing you under arrest, General,” he replied. “Though that, of course, can be changed if you swear to join us and order all the units under your command into battle for us. It’s a stark choice but there again it is about time cowards like you were forced to come off the f
ence and it can only come at the end of a gun.”

  Fromm glared back at him and then laughed dismissively. “You can’t arrest me, you idiot. Who is going to replace me in giving the orders? Certainly not you, as no one in the city will obey you, a mere Major, and as for the rest, huh, they haven’t got the balls for it,” he sneered. Sebastian shrugged and replied: “General, I have little to lose now that the plot is under way. Hitler is dead and it is up to you to decide whether you want to be on the winning side or face similar consequences as Goebbels and the rest of the regime in Berlin will suffer once they are arrested. It’s simple, General, even for a man of your limited intelligence and imagination. You have the chance to earn the undying gratitude of the German people as being the Commander of the Army that liberated them from the dictator and five years of war – you will be ranked alongside Bismarck the politician, but if you decide otherwise then I am afraid your reputation will sink as fast as the battleship of the same name and you will not survive that.”

  Fromm clicked his tongue in disgust at being spoken to like this by a junior officer but Sebastian could see he was mulling over the options. Their stand-off was interrupted by the entrance of Beckmann, who was looking even more flustered than his commanding officer. “Rupert, you better come quickly. You’re needed urgently,” he said, before finally remarking that his friend was holding a pistol to Fromm’s stomach. “What are you doing?” he asked incredulously. Sebastian waved him away furiously. “The General and I were just discussing the future and I was awaiting his response,” replied Sebastian drily. Fromm looked to Beckmann for help but received no satisfaction. “Look, I’ll get two guards to hold him here if you will come with me, all right?” said Beckmann. Sebastian nodded and having relieved Fromm of his Luger and ensured there were no weapons in the office he left with Beckmann, giving the two guards express instructions to keep the door open just in case the General tried to jump from the window, though he doubted his fervour extended to risking his life by attempting such a risky venture.