Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) (5 page)

He cleared his throat.  “The facts and figures make it clear, gentlemen, that we need to make some adjustments in our budget,” he warned.  “We are spending more than we earn.”

“Then print more money,” Holliston said.  “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“That’s what Weimer tried,” Hans reminded him.  “And what happened to Weimer?”

Silence fell.  Very few of the men in the room had been old enough to understand what was going on, back when they’d been children, but they remembered how the Weimer Republic had collapsed into chaos.  And yet, Hans knew that most of them didn't understand just how desperately Hitler had
needed
to keep adding new conquests to the
Reich
.  It had taken years, after the end of the war, to put the
Reich
on a sound economic footing.  Now, all that hard work was being wasted. 

“The war in South Africa, alone, is costing us billions of
Reichmarks
,” Hans said.  “Both directly, in weapons and equipment lost during the fighting, and indirectly, in taking care of the wounded.  The economic lifeline we’ve tossed to Pretoria is worse, in a way; we’re simply not getting enough back from the mines in South Africa to pay for the war.  But that isn't the worst of it.  Our total military budget is sucking up far too much money...”

“We have to prepare to fight the Americans,” Voss said.  He tossed a sharp look at
Grossadmiral
Cajus Bekker.  “Don’t we need to build more ships?”

“We can't afford many more ships,” Hans said.  “A single nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, Field Marshal, costs over
ten
billion Reichmarks
.  Building enough to fight the Americans on even terms, which leaves the British out of the equation, will cost
two hundred billion Reichmarks
!”

“The Americans seem to be able to afford it,” Holliston said.  “Are you sure you’re not mismanaging our money?”

“The Americans have several advantages,” Hans growled.  “First, they have a larger GNP than ourselves.  They can afford to build more carriers, missiles and spaceships without straining their economy.  Second, they have a smaller budget for their other governmental functions.  Third, their weapons production is standardised, not just between the different services, but also between their allies.  A British soldier can fire American bullets from his gun and vice versa.  Fourth, and perhaps the most important at the moment, the Americans offer much less social benefits than ourselves.”

“A mother’s benefit packet is less than a hundred
Reichmarks
per week,” Holliston said, tightly.  The SS had been a big supporter of the scheme, although Holliston had been a lowly trooper at the time.  “It is hardly a problem.”

“It mounts up,” Hans said.  “There are roughly 1.5 million mothers in Berlin today.  If each of them has two children, they can claim 160
Reichmarks
each week from the government - and, I assure you, almost every mother in Berlin
does
.  That means, each week, we spend somewhere around 240 million
Reichmarks
in Berlin alone.”

He looked around the table, willing them to understand.  “That’s a very rough figure,” he said.  “Right now, the average family size is four children; six in Germany East, despite the endless insurgency.  Every single one of those mothers can claim eighty
Reichmarks
per child,
per week
.  The cost is staggeringly high and
we can't afford it
!”

“We need it,” Holliston said, into the silence.  “The
Volk
must not be allowed to vanish from the earth!”

“The
Volk
are in no danger of fading away,” Hans said.  “Indeed, our population is expanding rapidly.  But every year we delay in dealing with this crisis, the worse it will be when it finally explodes.  I can paper over the cracks for a while, but not for very long.  Creative accounting will catch up with us sooner or later.”

He cursed under his breath.  Holliston wouldn't understand, of course.  The SS was obsessed with children, to the point where it encouraged fine young German men to marry more than one wife.  Hell, it had been Himmler himself who had started the original scheme.  He’d noted, correctly, that cost was a major factor in bringing up children and come up with a simple idea to reduce the costs.  But, like all such schemes, it had snowballed out of control and turned into a nightmare.

“We cannot make cuts,” Holliston said.

“We must,” Hans said.  “Ending the war in South Africa alone would save a few billion
Reichmarks
per year.”

“We could sell more weapons,” Voss suggested.

“The world’s buyers prefer British or American weapons,” Luther Stresemann said.  The Head of the Economic Intelligence Service looked concerned.  “Our reputation for producing weapons took a pounding when the Royal Navy sank the Argentinean ships during the war.”

“The brown-skinned grafters didn't know how to use them,” Holliston snapped.

“It doesn't matter,” Hans said.  Oddly, it was one of the few points where he found himself in agreement with Holliston.  “All that matters is that sales of weapons are falling and unlikely to stabilise any time soon.  The only people who buy exclusively from us are our captive markets and we don’t
want
to sell
them
the most advanced weapons.”

“Of course not,” Holliston said.

Hans sighed and glanced at the wall-mounted clock, silently resigning himself to another long and acrimonious meeting where nothing would be decided.  If he could convince the military that eliminating Pretoria’s government was a potential disaster, he told himself, at least that would be something...

... But, as the meeting finally drew to an end, no decisions were taken at all.

Chapter Four

Wieland House, Berlin

17 July 1985 (Victory Day)

“And where have you been all day, young lady?”

Gudrun grimaced as her mother’s voice echoed out of the kitchen.  She might be eighteen years old and a university student, having passed the hardest set of exams in Germany, but her mother still talked to her as though she was a little girl.  It just wasn't fair, particularly when her thoughts kept returning to Konrad’s broken body.  But she had no choice, but to swallow it and stick her head into the kitchen.

“I’ve been with Hilde, watching the parade,” she said.  Her mother was bent over the oven, cooking something that smelt heavenly.  “Watching the soldiers trooping by...”

“You should have been here to help,” her mother said, straightening up.  “I don’t recall saying you could leave the house.”

“I’m
eighteen
, mother,” Gudrun said.  When
she
was a mother,
she
was not going to keep her daughters locked in a gilded cage.  “And...”

“And as long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules,” her mother said, sternly.  “I have told you, many times, that you are to
ask
before you go out, particularly this week.”

Gudrun sighed as her mother turned to face her.  Adelinde Wieland was tall and blonde, but her hair was slowly shading to grey after bringing up four children on a policeman’s salary and what little she could claim from the government.  It had often baffled Gudrun how people could compare her to her mother, although Grandpa Frank had been heard to claim that Gudrun was the spitting image of
his
wife.  Her mother’s face was very different from Gudrun’s and her hair a shade or two lighter before it started to go grey.

“I have a boyfriend, mother,” she said.  She felt an odd pang at the memory.  Adelinde had never really approved of Konrad, but her husband had approved the match.  “I’m not going to get into trouble.”

“That’s what they all say,” her mother said.  “A soldier in a pretty uniform, perhaps a glass or two of beer... who knows what will happen?”

Gudrun felt her face heat.  Her mother could be uncomfortably blunt at times; she still cringed at the memory, years ago, of having her mother explain where babies came from and why she should be very careful until she was actually married.  There was a black market in contraception, she’d been told, but condoms and American-made pills couldn't be purchased unless the user already had three children.  University student or not, Gudrun had no idea where she might obtain any condoms, let alone how she might convince her boyfriend to use one.  Men could be such idiots at times.

She shuddered.  Konrad wasn't going to recover.  It was unlikely, the nurse had said, that he could survive without the machine.  And even if he did, he’d be unable to do
anything
with her.  Part of her even wished she’d pulled the plug on him before leaving, even though it would probably have set off alarms.  Her boyfriend deserved better than to remain a vegetable for the rest of his life.

“I’m glad you’re thinking about it,” her mother sneered.  It took Gudrun a moment to realise that her mother had seen the shudder and misinterpreted it.  “Go take Grandpa Frank his dinner before your father comes home.  He’ll want to eat as soon as he arrives.”

Gudrun groaned.  “Mother, can’t Johan do it...”

“Go,” her mother ordered, pointing at the tray.  “Now.”

There was no point in arguing with her mother when she was cross, Gudrun knew from bitter experience.  There were two younger boys in the house, yet
they
never had to do any cooking or washing up.  It didn't seem fair, somehow; she picked up the tray, swallowing the curse that came to mind when she saw the bottle perched next to the covered dish, and headed for the door.  She’d once dumped the beer down the sink, hoping it would make Grandpa Frank more pleasant, but her mother had been furious.  Gudrun had never dared do it again.

She walked slowly up the stairs, stalling as long as she could.  Grandpa Frank’s room was at the far end of the corridor, forcing her to walk past the room shared by Johan and Siegfried and her own door before she reached her grandfather’s door.  Johan had complained, loudly, that he hadn't been allowed to move into Kurt’s room, now that his elder brother spent most of his time in the barracks, but their father had flatly refused to allow him to take the empty room.  Gudrun smiled at the memory.  There weren't many advantages to living in a patriarchal household, but watching her brothers forced to share a room was definitely one of them.

“Come,” an imperious voice bellowed.

Gudrun flinched - she’d never worked out how Grandpa Frank could tell when there was someone waiting outside his room - and pushed the door open, wrinkling her nose at the stench.  As always, the room was an odd combination of orderly and disorderly; the bed looked neat and tidy, but there were beer bottles lying on the floor and the remains of a snack sitting on the bedside table.  Grandpa Frank himself was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper and drinking from a half-full bottle of beer.  Gudrun’s stomach turned at the thought of helping the disgusting old man to the toilet, although - to be fair - he’d never seemed to have any problems staggering out of bed and doing his business as far as she knew.

“Victory Day,” Grandpa Frank said.  “You must be very proud.”

“Yes, Grandpa,” Gudrun said.  She’d never been sure just who Grandpa Frank thought she was, half the time.  Half of what he said made no sense at all.  “But my boyfriend...”

Her voice caught.  Grandpa Frank was... a cripple.  No, not quite a cripple, but he needed a wheelchair if he wanted to leave the house.  And Konrad wouldn't even have that, if by some dark miracle he survived.  He...

“The paratrooper,” Grandpa Frank said, darkly.  “I heard he was planning to become a policeman.  It’s no place for a young man.”

Wonderful
, Gudrun thought.  The paratrooper-turned-policeman was her father. 
He thinks I’m my mother
.

She eyed her grandfather carefully as she placed the tray on the table beside him.  Grandpa Frank’s mood changed rapidly; she’d seen him go from maudlin, mourning his long-dead wife, to angry and raging at the world within seconds.  Only his daughter could talk sense into him when he was angry; Gudrun honestly didn't understand why her mother allowed the old man to stay in the house.  Grandpa Frank had come alarmingly close to clobbering Johan’s brains out when the younger boy had snuck up on him for a dare.

“My boyfriend didn't take part in the parade,” she said, flatly.  It was honest enough, to be sure.  “I miss him.”

“Just stay faithful to him,” Grandpa Frank advised.  “It’s no service to a decent lad to trade him in when another one comes along.” 

Gudrun felt her cheeks heat.  The idea of Grandpa Frank, of all people, giving her relationship advice was horrifically embarrassing.  She honestly had no idea
what
he’d done in the war, but he’d had enough nightmares to make it clear that it had been
something
thoroughly unpleasant.  Maybe he’d been in Stalingrad, during the brutal house-to-house fighting, or invaded Moscow towards the end of the war.  He was certainly old enough...

But mother won’t let us ask him any questions
, she thought. 
And she slapped Johan when he tried
.

“I’ll do my best,” she said.  She stepped back from the older man, never taking her eyes off him.  “I hope it’s good food.”

Grandpa Frank ignored her as he took a long swig from the bottle and started to mutter to himself in a dialect Gudrun didn't recognise.  Careful to breathe through her mouth, she looked around the room, picked up the used plates and cutlery and headed back downstairs to the kitchen.  Her mother was waiting, hands resting impatiently on her hips.  Gudrun rolled her eyes as her mother pointed to the sink, then emptied the plates into the bin, put the dishes in the water and washed them hastily.  Grandpa Frank never seemed to finish a meal.

Too busy drinking
, Gudrun thought, as her mother started to hand out more tasks before she could make her escape. 
And trying to drown his sorrows
.

She looked at her mother, who was just taking a tray of sausages out of the oven.  “Why do we keep Grandpa Frank here when we could send him to one of the veteran homes?”

Her mother turned and gave her the look that generally preceded a hard slap.  “When your father and I are old and grey,” she said coldly, “will you look after us or will you send us to a home?”

Gudrun flinched.  “Of course I’ll look after you...”

“My father practically raised me since my mother died young,” Adelinde said.  “Whatever his flaws, and he has many, he managed to raise a daughter despite never remarrying.  I cannot put him into a home to die, young lady, and you’re being
thoroughly
unpleasant to suggest it.”

“Yes, mother,” Gudrun said, feeling tiny under her mother’s gaze.  “I’m sorry.”

“And we get an extra stipend from the government for taking care of a veteran,” a new voice said.  Gudrun turned to see her father standing there, wearing his policeman’s uniform.  “It isn't to be sniffed at, you know.”

“Herman,” Adelinde said, tightly.

Gudrun gave her father a hug.  “How was work?”

“Your daughter was out with a friend half the day and your eldest son has yet to return,” Adelinde said, before her father could say a word.  “I expect you to speak to them both after dinner.”

“Yes, dear,” Herman said, as he let go of Gudrun.  “Gudrun, speak to me after dinner.”

Gudrun nodded, hoping he couldn't see the amusement on her face.  She'd been taught, in school, that a wife was to be obedient to her husband, cook his dinners, have his children and treat him like a king.  Whoever had written the stupid textbooks she’d been forced to read, she was sure, was either a man with a female penname or a woman who’d never actually married anyone.  Adelinde didn't even
pretend
to be obedient to her husband.  The household was her realm and God help anyone who questioned her right to rule.

“There was the usual run of pickpockets and other trouble-causers,” her father added, picking up a biscuit from the jar while his wife’s back was turned.  “A group of children ran riot in the square, but someone very high up ordered that they were merely to be sent back to school rather than face punishment.  It was quite strange.”

“Poor kids,” Gudrun said.  She’d been lucky to escape a full Victory Day parade while she’d been at school, but she’d had to stand for hours for smaller parades and, by the time they were finally dismissed, she'd been aching and sore.  “Are they going to be all right?”

“Probably,” her father said.  “They...”

“Gudrun, take the potatoes and put them on the table,” her mother interrupted.  “Herman, if you’re going to stand around here, take the bottles of beer and put them by the plates.”

“Yes, dear,” her father said.  “Shall I give Johan the big mug?”

“Probably not,” Adelinde said.  She normally banned alcohol from the table, save for Grandpa Frank.  But this was Victory Day.  “I don’t want him drinking too much and winding up being sick over my nice clean carpet.”

Gudrun winced inwardly as she carried the potatoes out.  Johan and Siegfried were already sitting at the table, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.  They might as well be twins, she’d often thought, although Johan was blonde while Siegfried was brown, taking more after their father.  He was growing up quickly too, she noted; he was the baby of the family, at twelve, but he'd already lost his childlike appearance.  Like everyone else at school, he’d been forced to exercise on the playing fields until he’d shed every last trace of fat from his body.

“That looks good,” Johan said, eying the potatoes with interest.  “You think mother cooked them in gravy?”

“Go ask her,” Gudrun snapped.  Johan needed to learn, the sooner the better, that she wasn't there to answer his every whim.  It was a service to his future wife.  “And seeing you’re just sitting there, why don’t you put out the knives and forks?”