Uncommon Enemy (11 page)

As Claus von Stauffenberg stood to make his reply a hush fell over the crowd.

“This is it,” murmured Stuart, watching the tall, youthful, dark-haired figure move towards the rostrum. From underneath heavy black eyebrows his gaze slowly took in the crowd.

“At least he’s not in military uniform,” muttered Brendan.

In careful English von Stauffenberg began by thanking the mayor and his councillors for their warm welcome. He then continued by painting a picture of a prosperous future for the nation that would benefit all its citizens. Although he went on to point out that these benefits would be available only to those who joined the partnership offered by the New Order his speech contained no hint of anti-Semitic rhetoric. At its conclusion Mayor Davis stepped forward and handed von Stauffenberg a large key. Both men then stood together facing the crowd as the band played God Defend New Zealand followed by Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alles.

“All very civilized, I’m sure,” was Stuart’s comment. They had returned to university and were walking down the corridor towards his office.

“True,” replied Brendan. “Apart from the special police in the crowd, the Gestapo has kept its profile very low. Maybe that’s the way the Germans are going to rule New Zealand.”

“And maybe not,” replied his friend unlocking his office door and pushing it open.

A letter was lying on the floor at his feet. He picked it up and immediately recognized the handwriting. It was Carol’s. 

“Ach, watch what you are doing!” The German-accent, like the trench coat, Homburg hat and black tie had become an increasingly familiar feature of the city crowds since the end of the war. Touted by the press and radio as ‘plain-clothes officers recruited to assist the New Zealand police’, the special police were regarded with increasing suspicion by the population, well aware of the Nazis’ penchant for using security police to suppress dissension.

“Sorry,” muttered Stuart. Hardly glancing at the large German he continued to peer down the platform. The station loudspeaker had announced the imminent arrival of the overnight train from Wellington and he wanted to savour every moment of Carol’s return.

The hand on his right shoulder was deliberate and heavy.

“Sorry, are you! Your heavy foot, it was sitting on top of mine.”

In spite of the man’s obvious anger and his own anxiety, a brief smile flitted across Stuart’s face at the inappropriateness of the verb. The man’s reaction was instant.

“You are thinking this is funny. Ha! Ha! Ha! Is that what you are thinking?”

“No, of course not,” responded Stuart. The sound of a train whistle echoed through the station and he instinctively turned towards it. The heavy hand fastened on his shoulder and spun him round. The man then seized the lapels of Stuart’s student university blazer and thrust his face forward. His bulbous nose was heavily veined, his breath smelt of beer, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“To you I am talking, man. Do not, your back turn on me when to you I am talking!”

“OK, I’m sorry. I heard the train coming and I am here to meet a friend. I meant no offence.” Although becoming angry at the man’s behaviour, Stuart was seeking to resolve the situation as rapidly as possible.

“Then why did you smile when my foot you hurt?”

“I wasn’t smiling at you. It was just that, well you used the wrong word. You should have said ‘standing’ not ‘sitting’. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve said I am sorry.”

The noise of the train increased as it approached the far end of the platform.

“Sorry. You think you can just say sorry for insulting a German official. Ach! You must realize that you are conquered. That we are the masters of you stupid Kivis.”

“Kiwis”, said Stuart instinctively, and instantly regretting it.

“Ach so, you are the clever one with the English. You laugh because I do not speak it as good as you. Do you know-----?”

The rest of the man’s sentence was drowned in the noise of the engine as it hissed and churned its way past them. Stuart, turning to look as the carriages came into view, pulled against the grip that the German was still maintaining on his coat lapels. The effect was immediate.

“So, you make the fun of me and now you try to escape.” In a swift and expert movement he spun Stuart round forcing his arm up towards his shoulders. Instinctively Stuart cried out in pain.

“Ach, so it hurts! That is good!”

Thrusting his foot forward the man hooked Stuart’s legs from under him sending him sprawling forward. He crashed into a group of people partially breaking his fall, but he was still winded by the force of his sudden connection with the concrete platform. Immediately he felt his other arm seized and his wrists tugged together. Moments later a pain shot through them and he heard the metallic click of handcuffs.

“Now get up you dirty Kivi!” shouted the German hauling him to his feet. Dazed by the fall and shocked by the pain, Stuart staggered upright trying to maintain his balance. He noticed the crowd had rapidly drawn back, distancing themselves from him and his tormentor.

“See, you Kivis!” shouted the German, holding his swaying prisoner with one hand. “You will learn, all of you, that conquered you have been! That the war you have lost! That we Germans are in charge and that you will obey us at all times!”

The platform echoed with the hissing of the engine and the opening and closing of the carriage doors as the passengers disembarked. No sound came from the cluster of expressionless faces staring at Stuart and his captor.

The large German grunted. “I see that you have nothing to say! That is good! You look and you listen and you learn, ja?” He chuckled at his own eloquence. “Now I take this man with me. He will be a lesson learning, ja? And you will all be a lesson learning. Ja, I am thinking so!” He tugged at Stuart’s shoulder. “Come, you stupid Kivi. Now I will take you to the Stationmaster’s office. I wish to start your lessons soon!”

As Stuart reeled back he saw a movement in the otherwise still and silent crowd. For a moment he was able to focus and gasped as he saw Carol’s face staring at him in horror. Their eyes met. Instinctively he slowly shook his head before a rough hand spun him round and sent him staggering towards the station exit.

The Stationmaster’s office was located squarely in the middle of the main entrance area. The high ceilings and tall stone pillars had been designed by the original architects to create a powerful, imposing building befitting its location at the hub of Auckland’s transport system. As rail was still the principal means of moving goods and personnel from Auckland to other parts of the country the station was the focus of daily transport activities.

The solid, imposing architecture of the railway station had immediately appealed to the German authorities who, conveniently ignoring its British colonial heritage, dubbed it People’s Station One. On the basis that thousands of citizens passed through its portals each day, the conquerors had wasted no time in making it a showpiece of the New Order. The stone exterior was treated to a full refurbishment and on a huge flagpole erected at the centre of the structure hung the New Zealand New Order flag. Their obsession with symbols, badges of rank and flags had prompted the new government, on direct orders from Dr Joseph Goebbels’ Ministry of Culture and Information in Berlin, to swiftly ‘revise’ the New Zealand flag by replacing the Union Jack in the top right hand corner with a black Hakenkreuz – the Nazi swastika. The rest of the flag, with its blue sea and symbolic Southern Cross had been left intact. Most of the population, still coming to terms with their new situation appeared to have mutely accepted the change although incidents of ‘desecration’ appeared to be on the increase, in spite of the new penalties imposed for ‘unpatriotic acts’.

The interior of the railway station had been similarly treated with large New Order New Zealand flags, suspended side by side with their red and black Nazi counterparts. Wisely the authorities had located them high in the roof, thus preventing their being ripped or torn down by ‘unpatriotic’ persons. Moving gently in the draughts created by the arrival and departure of the trains, they cast shadows on the upper parts of the walls. The effect could have been interpreted as picturesque but for any who cared to look upwards, the slowly undulating shapes created patterns of disquiet.

Stuart, still dizzy from his fall and heartsick at seeing Carol, paid no attention to the gentle fluttering over his head as his captor pushed him towards the Stationmaster’s office.

“In here!” ordered the German, pushing the door with his foot. “Stationmaster!” he shouted as they entered the deserted waiting area. “Where are you? For you I have an important visitor!”

A weedy man, hastily buttoning up his regulation jacket and expelling a lungful of smoke, appeared from the office at the side. His ingratiating smile matched his obsequious bearing.

“Good morning Mr. Schroeder. You are well I hope.”

Ignoring the servile greeting Schroeder pushed Stuart to a chair in the corner of the room. “Sit!” he ordered and, turning to the official, barked, “This man is my prisoner. He is a subversive. He attacked me! Such behaviour will not be tolerated!”

“No, Mr. Schroeder. Of course not.” The official, having completed the final button at his jacket throat, after a cursory glance at Stuart, stood to attention in front of the large German.

“I will go for a piss. Then I will phone for a car to take this man away. For that time he will be your prisoner. You will watch him. You will not let him get away. If you do, you will be my prisoner. Then I will have two prisoners, ja?” He chuckled mirthlessly and, with a final glare at Stuart, exited.

The slam of the door echoed through the office. Stuart looked up and stared at the stationmaster who quickly looked away. Angered at the man’s obsequious attitude to the German, he said quietly, “Scared of that bastard, aren’t you?”

The man looked shiftily at Stuart and made an awkward attempt to square his shoulders. “Scared? Me? You’re joking, mate.”

“Maybe, mate,” responded Stuart sourly. “All I did was accidentally stand on his foot. Bastard went off his rocker. Threw me on the ground, handcuffed me and shoved me in here.”

The stationmaster shrugged but shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“Got a cigarette?” asked Stuart after a long pause.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said the man, glancing uncertainly at the closed door.

“I’d appreciate it,” Stuart said. “My head hurts and these bloody handcuffs are cutting into my wrists. Can you do anything with them?”

“Sorry,” said the stationmaster, “but I don’t have a key. Here.” He reached into his pocked and extracted a packet of Capstan. Putting one between his lips he lit it, drew it from his mouth and placed it between Stuart’s lips. “Have a good draw, mate.”

Stuart drew on the end of the cigarette and felt the soothing effect flow through his body. The man took the cigarette from Stuart’s mouth allowing him to expel the smoke with a long sigh. “Again?” he asked. Stuart nodded and the process was repeated. Feeling marginally better he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The phone rang and the stationmaster hurried behind the counter to answer it.

Carol’s letter from Wellington had been brief but friendly. She’d explained that in three week’s time she would be returning alone to Auckland by train and asked him to meet her at the station. She had concluded with ‘I have a very important matter to talk to you about’. ‘Returning alone’ was promising, but the ‘very important matter’ had left him speculating by the hour. And now, just as he was on the point of finding out he’d been arrested.

He sighed, opened his eyes and looked around. On the walls were three New Order posters. The first depicted a muscular blonde male in lederhosen striding side by side with a Kiwi farm worker. The single word ‘Together!’ was writ large. The second featured the New Zealand New Order flag with the caption ‘Kiwis, at last your own flag!’ Stuart had found them uncomfortable before. Now his circumstances made his lip curl with distaste. The final poster provided him with wry amusement. It showed a young man in a traditional lemon squeezer military hat looking towards a far horizon. Underneath was written, ‘Join Up! Discover Adventure! Gain Promotion! Join our fight against the Communist enemy!’

The New Order government’s recruiting drive sought to appeal to New Zealand men motivated by adventure and to a lesser extent by the concept of defending the nation against the threat of international Communism. The pay was generous and although cynics pointed out that the increasing promotional opportunities were probably due to the continuing casualty rates, there was a steady supply of volunteers. An increasing portion of recruits were coming from the ranks of disillusioned ex-servicemen who had found that home and hearth brought with it a plethora of responsibilities for which the occasional unsatisfactory wrestle under the blankets in the dark with the wife was insufficient compensation.

Stuart looked down. Next to him, on a small table was a pile of newspapers on top of which, with its distinctive pink cover page, was the latest copy of the Weekly News. The photo on the front bore the bold caption, ‘The Führer salutes the New Order in London’. The setting was the familiar balcony at Buckingham Palace. Five figures were waving at an unseen crowd. On the right was Sir Oswald Mosley former cabinet minister and British Union of Fascists leader and now the newly appointed British Prime Minister. Next to him stood his classically beautiful wife, the former Lady Diana Mitford. Adolf Hitler, who had been a guest at their 1936 wedding in the Berlin apartment of Dr Joseph Goebbles, stood next to them. On his left in a medal-bedecked uniform was the former Duke of Windsor, now reinstated as King Edward VIII, and his wife Wallis Simpson. Stuart noted wryly that the American divorcee was not referred to as ‘Queen Wallis’. Clearly the authorities had decided to try and woo the great British public a few stages at a time.

He had already heard that as part of the peace settlement Britain’s wartime Prime Minister Winston Churchill had been branded as a warmonger by Mosley and taken into custody. Some had speculated that he’d been held in the Tower of London but no one was absolutely sure. Stuart had also read that Adolf Hitler was seriously considering re-locating Britain’s capital to Oxford. As a vindictive preliminary move he had already decreed that Churchill’s nearby ancestral home, magnificent Blenheim Palace, would be compulsorily acquired and used as Britain’s Gestapo Headquarters.

The stationmaster completed his phone call and looked back over the counter.

“It’s alright,” said Stuart sarcastically, “I’m still here.”

“Yeah, OK,” replied the stationmaster. “Just doing my job, mate.”

“Some job. ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. Jawhol, Herr Hauptman!’”

“Look, mate, a man’s got to eat and feed his family. That’s why I took this job as the stationmaster. Not my fault if they’ve taken over the country. And, anyway,” he shrugged, “the job’s reasonably well paid and most of the time they leave me alone to get on with it.”

“Except in so-called emergency cases like mine. I wasn’t looking for any trouble but when I stood on his foot, the bastard who’d obviously been drinking, just went ballistic!”

“Yeah, sorry. Most of them are reasonably decent, but Schroeder----,” the man glanced nervously at the door, “he’s got a real chip on his shoulder.”

“So what’s likely to happen to me?”

The man paused and scratched nervously at the side of his cheek. “Hard to say. Under the new laws----.”

“‘Patriotic Conduct’ laws----.”