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Authors: Christopher Reich
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the case. The conversation was more concerned with the state of the economy than any military objective. Confused, he was left with the same question as when he’d jumped into the back of Egon’s Mercedes nearly twenty-four hours earlier. What did they have in store for him?
“Rumor has it they’re going to flood the coal mines,” Weber was saying. “Send our soldiers to France as forced labor.”
“A permanent end to our war-making ability,” lamented Schnitzel. “Germany is to become a pastoral state, an agrarian economy.”
“Think of Denmark,” said Egon. “Without Tivoli Gardens.” Standing, he walked to a side table where a scale model of Grosse Gertie the Bachs’ monstrous 200-mm cannon, rested. He picked up the field gun, admiring it from every angle as if it were a Fabergé egg. “The Allies have confiscated our weaponry. It is against the law for a German to possess so much as a side arm. We’re not even allowed to keep the grease from our stoves, lest we use it to manufacture explosives. We will be left nothing with which to defend ourselves.”
Weber plucked the monocle from his eye. “And that, Herr Seyss, is our problem. We haven’t gathered here today to bemoan our financial losses. We have larger issues at heart. Look around you. The Americans are withdrawing their troops from our country and sending them to the Pacific in preparation for the invasion of Japan. The war has bankrupted the British. There’s an election in a few weeks’ time and talk is Churchill is for the dung heap. You can imagine where that will leave us and our agrarian economy.”
Seyss nodded, quick to draw his own inferences.
“You’ve fought against the Russians,” said Egon. “What do you think Mr. Stalin will do with the tanks and cannons that now line the Elbe? Do you think he will send them back to Mother Russia? Of course not. He will move them to our border and he will wait. He will wait for the Americans to go home and for the British to withdraw. He will wait until our factories are no more and our presses are dismantled and the lot of us are in the fields milking Holsteins and tending flocks of sheep with our thumbs up our agrarian asses. That is what he will do. And then he will attack. I give him two days until he is at the Rhine.”
Weber lectured Seyss with the butt of his monocle, his voice crackling with a fevered intensity. “Today we live as a conquered people. But the Americans are like us. They are not an evil race. Each day, they work to make sure we have enough to eat and that our sewers no longer back up and that we can have a few hours of electricity. The Bolsheviks are not cut from the same cloth. They are from the East.
Untermenschen.
Subhumans. The descendants of Genghis Khan. It would be better to die than to submit to their will!”
Weber sounded like an editorial from
Der Strumer
, thought Seyss. Unfortunately, everything he said was true.
“I agree that Stalin is a bastard,” burst Seyss, no longer able to bottle his frustration. “I agree that the dismantling of our industrial capacity poses a grave threat to our nation’s ability to defend itself. And that we cannot permit our mines to be flooded. But, gentlemen, what do you wish me to do about it? I am a soldier, not a politician. Tell me to take an enemy ridge, I can assemble my men, put together a plan, and attack. Ask me to convince the Americans not to make Germany an agrarian state, I don’t know how I can help.”
“The two aren’t as far removed as you might think,” said Weber, eyes bright.
Egon Bach lifted a calming hand. “We understand your confusion. Just hear us out. At first we, too, were skeptical as to our ability to color the final outcome. But the situation is too important to let fate run its course unchallenged.”
“Then tell me what you want me to do.” Despite its size the room was beginning to close in upon him. A pallor of smoke hung in the air. Even with bulbs burning in four lamps,
“Rumor has it they’re going to flood the coal mines,” Weber was saying. “Send our soldiers to France as forced labor.”
“A permanent end to our war-making ability,” lamented Schnitzel. “Germany is to become a pastoral state, an agrarian economy.”
“Think of Denmark,” said Egon. “Without Tivoli Gardens.” Standing, he walked to a side table where a scale model of Grosse Gertie the Bachs’ monstrous 200-mm cannon, rested. He picked up the field gun, admiring it from every angle as if it were a Fabergé egg. “The Allies have confiscated our weaponry. It is against the law for a German to possess so much as a side arm. We’re not even allowed to keep the grease from our stoves, lest we use it to manufacture explosives. We will be left nothing with which to defend ourselves.”
Weber plucked the monocle from his eye. “And that, Herr Seyss, is our problem. We haven’t gathered here today to bemoan our financial losses. We have larger issues at heart. Look around you. The Americans are withdrawing their troops from our country and sending them to the Pacific in preparation for the invasion of Japan. The war has bankrupted the British. There’s an election in a few weeks’ time and talk is Churchill is for the dung heap. You can imagine where that will leave us and our agrarian economy.”
Seyss nodded, quick to draw his own inferences.
“You’ve fought against the Russians,” said Egon. “What do you think Mr. Stalin will do with the tanks and cannons that now line the Elbe? Do you think he will send them back to Mother Russia? Of course not. He will move them to our border and he will wait. He will wait for the Americans to go home and for the British to withdraw. He will wait until our factories are no more and our presses are dismantled and the lot of us are in the fields milking Holsteins and tending flocks of sheep with our thumbs up our agrarian asses. That is what he will do. And then he will attack. I give him two days until he is at the Rhine.”
Weber lectured Seyss with the butt of his monocle, his voice crackling with a fevered intensity. “Today we live as a conquered people. But the Americans are like us. They are not an evil race. Each day, they work to make sure we have enough to eat and that our sewers no longer back up and that we can have a few hours of electricity. The Bolsheviks are not cut from the same cloth. They are from the East.
Untermenschen.
Subhumans. The descendants of Genghis Khan. It would be better to die than to submit to their will!”
Weber sounded like an editorial from
Der Strumer
, thought Seyss. Unfortunately, everything he said was true.
“I agree that Stalin is a bastard,” burst Seyss, no longer able to bottle his frustration. “I agree that the dismantling of our industrial capacity poses a grave threat to our nation’s ability to defend itself. And that we cannot permit our mines to be flooded. But, gentlemen, what do you wish me to do about it? I am a soldier, not a politician. Tell me to take an enemy ridge, I can assemble my men, put together a plan, and attack. Ask me to convince the Americans not to make Germany an agrarian state, I don’t know how I can help.”
“The two aren’t as far removed as you might think,” said Weber, eyes bright.
Egon Bach lifted a calming hand. “We understand your confusion. Just hear us out. At first we, too, were skeptical as to our ability to color the final outcome. But the situation is too important to let fate run its course unchallenged.”
“Then tell me what you want me to do.” Despite its size the room was beginning to close in upon him. A pallor of smoke hung in the air. Even with bulbs burning in four lamps,
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