Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (29 page)

Now, it didn’t matter what your beliefs were, what vantage point you gazed from or what your role in this brave new world was, or how it viewed
you
; from catharsis of the soul to the crushing of it; in little over four years, the world had turned the other cheek, or looked and watched and then fought too late, to stop merciless power from unleashing its tyranny of racial and ideological persecution, treacherous diplomacy and military aggression, pitiless malice, blasting the libertarian goodness into oblivion with the roar of bombs and bullets.

Naomi’s day could not have been better, up until that point.

Leeds was radiant, glowing green. The bomb damage at the Woodpecker Pub on her tram line leading into the city centre had ceased to be of interest to anyone, let alone a saddening sight, and it seemed people were finally beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel. Even Naomi was hopeful. She’d been teaching unimpeded for five weeks without interference, and the sight of German uniforms was a rarity.

With the resistance underground, and the sparse battles – more isolated ambushes now, was the rumour – were situated so far past the city’s northern outskirts that by this stage, nobody in Leeds could hear the sounds of bombardment. Nothing of the wartime reality existed in this present, and the sun, bizarrely, continued to shine with a continental European summer’s heat, with the English autumnal chill having not yet struck.

So it was with a spring in her step that she skipped into the headmaster’s office to see Mr Clifford, who had summoned her for a meet after the day’s lessons were at an end.

The old dandy of a headmaster was perusing some notes at his desk; a sheaf of some quality, thick paper that looked bizarrely out of place in the immediate aftermath of wartime. Naomi couldn’t make out the unfamiliar seal. Though she rapped the door before entering, Mr Clifford took his time as he leisurely inspected his papers before deigning to raise his head to the striking young woman he’d summoned. When he finally did, she noticed the distracted, discomfited look in his eyes. He was unsettled. The man’s usual steely composure had been affected in some way.

“Do come in, Naomi, and take a seat…” his voice trailed off, uncertain.

“Thanks.”

Mr Clifford sighed. Young for a head at 41, his eyes were only just beginning to betray his age, with crow’s feet adoring the smooth skin around them that he’d managed to carry into his late thirties. A thick but sleek mop of wavy hair split in a centre-parting so equidistant she suspected it had been measured with a ruler, and high cheekbones set on a stern but boyish face, Clifford was a dandy, though he could quickly become a rather forbidding figure. But the older man had always had a good rapport with the amiable, witty Naomi, and his deep, stentorian voice was softer than usual when he addressed her, though he quickly recovered and maintained his typical lack of any modicum of hesitance.

“Look Naomi, I’m going to get straight to the point. We’ve received a letter from something called the
Race & Resettlement
office, of all things… what that office has to do with employment or the education system in this country, I have no idea, but unfortunately it seems to supersede any existing legal framework and our dear friends from the continent seem to have enforced it with some success from London.”

She continued to look puzzled. Noting it, he hurried to explain.

“In the letter –
this
letter,” he said, holding one of the pages aloft of the high quality paper, so she could see the two hated lightning runes at its base. The seal had been an eagle, she saw now, with the swastika held in its talons. “They have made a direct enquiry about, well… I’m very sorry to say this, but they’ve highlighted your
ethnic
background… which in the system to be imposed…
hopefully
only while the governments arrange a deal, but nonetheless in the
here and now
… means that your presence in this school in itself contravenes these new rulings.”

Naomi’s mouth fell open. After all these weeks, just as things were starting to look up, her world was to fall apart like a paper shack in a storm. She had been waking up and enjoying the pale sun on her face again, walking through the park filling her lungs with fresh air, relishing the continuance of some semblance of
normal life
. That was now over. Mr Clifford made no effort to provide her with a honeyed explanation, but his voice was notably tinged with regret.

“As you can imagine, Naomi, I’m not in a position to lie about such matters. This race office is part of the SS machine; teachers and educational authorities start lying to them and all hell’s liable to break loose. So…” for the first time, he dropped his gaze, absentmindedly shuffling the sheaf of stacked papers. “After serious deliberation, I have concluded that the only way forward is – and it really does pain me to say this, it
pains
me to say this – I’m going to have to ask you to leave St Mary’s.
For the time being
, at the very least, just until this thing clears. Which it hopefully will, sooner than later. I am so sorry, but I really have no choice.”

Naomi was stunned. After all the initial fears, time had deadened her senses and the comparative calm of the period had led to her believe that things were on the way up. The outrageous anti-Semitic materials had been quietly shelved by the teachers, and no one had bothered to check them. Even the persecution of her people, if you could call them that, now seemed abstract, a distant nightmare. Something
other than real
, like an urban myth or a bedtime horror story to teach children; a grotesque cautionary tale, to be sanitised and packaged as future entertainment. But now it touched
her
. This madness, whatever it was.

She found her voice, which to her surprise had a choked quality.

“But… how can they? How? They’ve only been here a matter of weeks?

“I know, they’re awfully efficient aren’t they?” He chuckled without humour. “On things such as war and matters of race and ethnicity, this new breed of German seems to be quite formidable organisers. They’re more robot than human.

“They’re not human,” Naomi said lowly. He nodded in sympathy, but evaded the point.

“I believe they are working with the Inland Revenue. Unfortunately, with a Jewish name such as yours you stick out like a sore thumb. It’s a perishing shame… you have been an excellent member of our team.”

“What, and that’s it?” she cried, suddenly flaring up. “I’m meant to just grab my stuff and leave? Who’ll take my classes? What about my kids?”

But Mr Clifford’s face lost its increasingly avuncular look, and in his more familiar deadpan expression Naomi saw no hope for pleas to prevail upon his better nature. Nor could she charm him, she knew; he alone of the male staff had never so much as cast an admiring glance in her direction. He was utterly devoid of lust, it seemed. And in this case, of true empathy.

“We’ll manage, Naomi. You’ve not had them for half a term, anyway, children can cope. I really
am
sorry. We will of course pay you until the end of term, and provide you with a small settlement – off the record – but alas, beyond that, I really must insist on your resignation.”

She left his office in a daze.

Outside, the walked outside the school gates, fighting the urge to throw up, until finally she succumbed, half-stumbling into one of the rhododendron bushes on a grass verge at the edge of the school grounds. She got back to a level-footing, shakily, and began tottering away in the direction of Hyde Park for the tram.

“Naomi, Naomi wait!”

Paul ran several hundred feet to catch up with her. Naomi was embarrassed to be seen in a state, and would have preferred to lick her wounds privately. But Paul was Paul.

He reached her, not yet out of breath but with a slight catch in his voice.

“I’ve just heard the news. It’s awful Naomi, simply awful.”

She murmured something indistinct. He shrugged, helplessly, and then added with vehemence.

“No, it’s
bloody
awful. Jerry
bastards
.” He bit into the latter word with venom, the Leeds accent spitting it in the phonetically blunt Yorkshire style.

“I feel like I’m dreaming, Paul,” she said weakly. A gust of wind blew a great tuft of hair over her face as she looked around, as though panicking. “What have I done? What is it with these people? Who are they?”

“Come ’ere, you,” he told her gently.

He held her tightly to him, and despite her best efforts, tears welled up in her dark eyes. She blinked furiously.

“What am I to do?” she asked quietly, from his armpit. He felt, more than heard her sigh, and quickly suppressed the resulting train of thought.

“Well… first thing is to get you somewhere safe. I know this might sound off, but you shouldn’t go back to your parents. If they need help I’ll get it ’em, if they need a new roof over their ’eads. You shouldn’t stay at yours, either, just in case. If–” and as his voice rose, she looked up at him in alarm as the words sank in, her eyes pleading for clarification. He spoke soothingly. “Relax… relax. I just mean, in case this got worse, if they were trying to slowly tighten the noose without drawing attention to it, gradually…”

She started to sob again, and he cursed himself inwardly.
Bloody
hell,
Paul
.
Think man
.

“We just don’t know enough yet to feel completely secure, do we? So it’s best to play things safe. You can stay at mine until we think of something more long term.”

He wondered if it sounded vulgar, even – God forbid – opportunistic, like some kind of perverted act upon her recently increased tenderness towards him. But to his relief, some happiness shone through the misery in her eyes.

“Of course.”

~

They took the car Paul shared with his increasingly frail old father, and drove east to Chapeltown North Street where Naomi had decamped; ironically enough, more part of the Jewish community than was her parent’s house in the terraces towards Harehills. Paul chose the inner-city route, avoiding the city centre due to the possibility of random German stop and search. Not that either of them were actively working against the Reich’s fragile – or was it? – hold on Great Britain, at least north of the capital. But with the onset of anti-Semitic laws reaching the north of England, neither trusted in blind optimism any longer. Clearly, it was Quixotic and foolish to believe in any collective altruism in the near-future.

The people were eating as well as they had two years prior. The resistance was stubbornly clinging on, in hidden countryside bunkers and fortified zones; without foreign support their supplies, and then time, would run out. The rest were either in factories, foreign POW camps or living quietly. They had all suffered, to some degree. No one would wage further war for the sake of a few unemployed Jews.

They reached Naomi’s flat, and she kicked off her shoes, mental exhaustion showing as she fell into the couch. Paul took the armchair, looking around.

“Well, to finally reach your inner sanctum. Not the best circumstances, mind.”

She smiled weakly in response. They sat in companionable silence for some time.

Finally, she sighed. “It’s like a bad dream. It doesn’t feel real.”

“
All that we see or seem
, is
but a dream within a dream…” Paul murmured smoothly and she smiled, recognising Poe.

“Dark path to go down. I wonder what Hitler would make of old Edgar Allan?”

Paul snorted. “Love the bastard. A yank mongrel, racially impure and all that, but exempted as an
Aryan descendent
somewhere along the way, hundreds of years back.” He snorted, and began to tick an invisible list with his fingers. “Wears a ’tache. Neurotic. Morbidly obsessed with death. A morphine addict, like the Führer’s own beloved Prime Minister. Yeah, Poe is fine for Hitler.”

“There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell…” Naomi offered. He grinned, a little forced.

“Right, old girl,” he said loudly, rising to his feet. “Time we move thy bloody stuff, eh? No use moping about.”

“I know.”

He hesitated.

“Go on,” she exhorted.

“Well… I’m just thinking, this is a preemptive measure. A precaution, like. You don’t have to, y’know… sell this place, or anything. Or, it’s only rented, eh? Even better. Just leave it empty. Don’t worry about money on it, or anything… if you wanted, I could stay here while you stay at mine. And I’ll keep for both places, put my name down on this place… and mine’s only small it’s not much at all, no trouble…”

Embarrassed, Paul started arranging items for his friend to bring with her. She spared his feelings by leaping to it, nudging him playfully, and she set about collecting that which she could not bear to leave behind. Within a minute, she had all she needed. Bare essentials, and some items of sentimental value, enough to fit between one bag and a single box.

“I’ll come back book for your books,” he offered, lamely. She shrugged.

“Not much to show for a life on the run, is it?” she tried to laugh. “Bonnie Parker probably had a more exciting inventory for her travels.”

“Charming. That would make me Clyde, a murderous nihilist.” Paul did a parody of mock-celebration. “From lowly teacher to
dangerous romantic felon
of international renown. Today marks an advancement up the social ladder, aye?”

Naomi laughed, as she always did at the way Paul’s words often sat at odds with the Yorkshire accent. While herself born and bred of Leeds, her own was tinged with family heritage. As with all wanderers and descendents of the diaspora, the slight Semitic bite of Hebrew still edged its way into the pronunciation of the adopted tongue.

“And a harbourer of a
partisan of assimilation
and
enemy of the German Reich
,” she quoted, even managing a genuine grin to accompany it. He whistled.

“My credentials are through the roof. I’ll be on wanted posters next; Paul Heggerty a.k.a Clyde,
Dead or Alive
. Now then, let’s be ’aving you, Bonnie. To the criminal lair.”