Vigil (38 page)

Chapter 2

Berlin

Early 1944

     Newly promoted Standartenführer Von Struck marvelled at the grandeur and pretentiousness of his surroundings. After three years of virtually constant fighting, three years of mud, horror and atrocity, he felt almost affronted by the luxurious opulence of the building he was in. The marble flooring and collection of busts and statues were a world apart from the stark and unforgiving hell of the Eastern Front.

     Chic young secretaries walked briskly up and down the spotless corridors, themselves dressed in uniforms so smart and clean that they could have been hospital whites. The hours he had spent pressing his tailor made uniform and polishing his boots counted for nothing in their eyes, and they treated him with the polite disdain office personnel affect when dealing with the blue-collar soldiers of the front. Even the Iron Cross pinned to his tunic was just one of many.

             
How does a desk jockey get an Iron Cross?
he wondered idly.

     Opposite him a tall, effeminate looking Luftwaffe officer flirted with a giggling, young secretary. The same giggling secretary he’d asked a quarter of an hour before where he was to report to. He had waited long enough and decided to ask again. The Luftwaffe officer whispered something quickly into the girl’s ear as Von Struck approached them and the secretary tittered again before looking up.

     "Excuse me,” he smiled politely, “but I’ve been waiting a good fifteen minutes now. I just need to know where I should report to and seeing as you don’t seem too busy at the moment, could you make a couple of phone calls to find out?” He smiled to make a friendly impression as he had learnt a long time ago that ordering Party bureaucrats around doesn’t always deliver the desired results, especially with the ladies.

     The tall Luftwaffe officer stood up and looked down his nose at Von Struck. Pressed and polished to the point of fetish, hair oiled tight to his skull, he screwed his face in thea
trical disgust, “Do you mind?” he demanded, “We’re talking here.”

     Looking Von Struck up and down, his eyes lingered on the Knight’s Cross before moving on. "Is it normal in the Waffen SS to interrupt a superior officer while he’s talking official business? Is it Standartenführer…?” He started to take a pen and
paper out of his tunic pocket, "…Name?”

     The secretary sniggered audibly and the tall officer glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Von Struck wasn’t sure which was more annoying, the joke of an officer using his rank to try and intimidate him or the girl egging him on with her adolescent smirking.

     ”Come on man, what is your name? Are you deaf or just plain stupid?”

     Von Struck saw red. The combination of his three years in the East and the unspoken derision he’d felt since entering the building boiled over into a reflex action. He calmly took a step forward, grabbed the other man’s jacket and pulled his face down to his knee. Gristle crushed against thigh and the immediate warmth on his leg told him the nose was broken.

     The girl screamed and stood up. Von Struck dropped his now limp opponent and moved to the girl, slapping her once before grabbing her hair. The smack abruptly stopped her screaming and he pushed her back down in her chair. ”Now start phoning” he hissed in a barely suppressed rage.

    The black uniformed guards of the Chancellery security were on him within two minutes.

                                                                     
*                                    

     The cell was in the basement of the Chancellery. The door opened and the tall, imposing figure of SS Brigadeführer Holaf stormed in. “What
in the name of Stalin's organ do you think you were doing?” he shouted. “You’re not in Russia anymore, this is Berlin damn it. Are you out of your mind, man?”

     Von Struck stood up. He had no answer; he found it hard to believe he’d done it himself. He had acted on impulse and instinct, as he had for the last three years. In the East his reactions had always saved his life but here in
Berlin they just marked him for the front line animal that he’d been made to feel. He had been in the cell for three hours and the talk was already of court-martials and firing squads. The man that he’d knocked out was the son of a affluent businessman who had friends in high places. The wealthy executive was not happy, the son was not happy and Brigadeführer Holaf was not happy.

     “I’m not joking Markus, if it wasn’t for your record in combat and your proven loyalty to the party, you would have been shot already,” Holaf snarled
.

“Jawohl” was all he could think of as an answer.

     The Brigadier’s face softened as his anger waned. “You can’t just go slapping people around, Markus. It just doesn’t wash here in civilisation.” He wanted to be angry but he saw too much of himself in his quick tempered protégé. “It doesn’t pay to make enemies here in Berlin, I know from personal experience,” he growled and turned his back to Von Struck to hide his grin. ”Come on then, let’s go meet Heini,” he said over his shoulder.

                               
                                  *

     Looking like a joke schoolmaster, Heinrich Himmler, the second most powerful man in the Third Reich, tsk-tsked over the report of the incident. “Not good Standartenführer
,” he said. “Not good at all. These aren’t Bolshevik peasant girls. They are future mothers for the next generation. We can’t just strike out at them when we wish, it’s not civilised; not to mention Erich Frohmann’s eldest son. Frohmann has a lot of friends in the party, Standartenführer, a lot of friends. God alone knows how I’m going to satisfy him without your blood.” He sighed, “Don’t let it happen again, let that be the end of the matter.” With that he threw the report into the wastepaper basket.

     Von Struck and Holaf both stood ramrod straight in front of his desk. Although Holaf was a very senior high ranking officer, Himmler still insisted tha
t military courtesy be observed and that meant that everyone stood to attention in front of the Reichsführer SS, just so everyone knew their place.

    “Brigadeführer Holaf, have you briefed your man?”

“No Herr Reichsführer. Standartenführer Von Struck came straight from the front and we didn’t have time to meet.”

“
No time for the niceties, eh? I like that in a man Von Struck; directness, no indecision. That’s why Holaf here has offered your services for a very delicate mission. You’re a proven soldier who hasn’t failed yet in any mission. But if you fail on this one, then I’m afraid we’re all lost.”

     Von Struck raised a inquiring eyebrow but remained silent.

“Are you aware how far-reaching the Germanic culture is, Standartenführer?” he asked. They both remained silent, as decorum dictated. “We have colonies who trace their roots back to Germany all over the world. Whole populations of people have turned their back on their host countries to stay pure and Germanic, did you know that Standartenführer?” Himmler stood up and walked around his massive polished desk. Pacing up and down, he carried on with his oratory.

“
We can find little bits of Germany from Russia through to France. Sometimes only a small town with a modest percentage of German speakers, other times a whole area that uses German as its first language. Whatever the scale, it doesn’t matter. The fact is these peoples have kept up the struggle to keep our culture alive. They have suffered. They have been persecuted for their beliefs, but they have fought on. We owe it to these people, these crusaders, to give them every support they desire. Don’t you agree?”

“Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer”, they replied in unison. The Reichsführer was famous for his melodramatic outbursts, so they listened in stoical silence, giving the required answers as and when they were called for.

     ”Have you heard of the Siebenbürger Saxons, Herr Standartenführer?”

“Nein, Herr Reichsführer“

“They come from the ancient colony of Siebenbürg, also known as Transylvania.” He pointed to a map of Europe.

“There, in the land between
Hungary and Romania, they built their towns and made their lives. They held the German language sacred and carried on with German traditions and culture.”

     The Reichsführer’s face took on a dreamy nature as he envisaged these pioneers of Deutschtum, carving out a Teutonic paradise in the midst of the Slavic barbarians.  An idealist by nature, he dreamt of a racially uncontaminated, Germanic utopia. The misery and the deaths of millions of Untermenschen were, to him, minor details.

     “…And now”, he continued. ”As we face one of the darkest chapters in our Thousand Year Reich, these people have come to us with an offer of their help.” Himmler picked up a letter from his desk.

     “I received a letter from a Romanian Count, a Count Dracyl Blestamatul to be precise. In it, he offers the services of his Siebenbürger regiment.”

     Von Struck’s mind was racing. One regiment! The Reichsführer was popping his cork over one regiment? The Soviets were throwing up armies left right and centre and all we can manage is a regiment?

“
I see from your troubled expression that you are confused Standartenführer. I understand your consternation but let me put your mind at rest. With this one regiment, we could possibly win the war. On the Eastern front, definitely.” He started to pace again, “…and if we win in the East, I have no doubt the West will seek peace terms.” He turned to the map on the wall and searched for something.

     “Ah, here it is, Klausenburg,”
he pointed to a place on the map. “You will go there with your best men, and there you will meet up with this Count,…err Count Blestamatul and discuss terms with him. Well not you personally, but you will be there when terms are discussed. Are you religious Herr Standartenführer? I know that we in the SS are not meant to be religious but sometimes a man can weaken, especially a man who has seen as much action as you have.” He waited for an answer.

     “Nein Herr Reichsführer, not in the slightest”, he responded. The fact was that his three years on the Eastern Front had made it clear to him that there is no God. Religion is for the weak, reality is man and death.

     “Are you superstitious, do you believe in myths and legends, Standartenführer?”

“Nein Herr Reichsführer.”

“Then you are our man. This deal,” he continued, ”involves Vampires…
.
” He waited for a reaction and seemed disappointed when none came.
“The Count has soldiers that can see in the dark, or so it seems,” he carried on in a businesslike manner. “The night is the weakest time for any army and if you have soldiers that control the night, then the war can be fought on a twenty-four hour basis. Do you understand?”

“Vampires, Herr Reichsführer?”

“That’s right Standartenführer. Well, that’s what they call themselves. Whether they’re the bloodsucking beings of legend, I don’t know. But it seems that they have developed a method for fighting at night though I’m not sure how. It might be new tactics or special training methods, I don’t know, but they’ve been very successful. There is at the moment only a company, but he’s swelling the ranks to make a regiment. If all goes well, we’ll put more men into this regiment to make it into a Division. SS Division Vampyr, with this Count as its leader and you, Standartenführer, will then become the liaison officer. However, we must be sure that he is reliable. Therefore, you and your handpicked team will come under the command o
f a specially appointed officer of my choosing, and you will go and see if all is in order. Is that clear, Standartenführer?”

     “Jawohl, Herr Reichsführer
,” he answered with a click of his heels.  One of Himmler’s goons, he thought to himself, who’d earned his position by toadying to other party officials, just what he needed. Nine times out of ten they were always the first to shit their pants when the lead started flying. Baggage.

     Himmler concluded the meeting by handing von Struck a blue folder. “Your orders are all here.  Read them and report to Brigadeführer Holaf for a further briefing on movements and timings. Is that all clear Standartenführer?”

“Jawohl,” he answered with a snap.

“Good luck Standartenführer. Bring these Vampires into the SS and you w
ill have a regiment of your own." With that, Heinrich Himmler dismissed him with a wave of his small, rather effeminate, hand.

    
Outside, he turned to Holaf, “Is he mad, what’s this nonsense about Vampires? Why can’t we have sensible, down to earth allies? Vampires, what kind of name is that? And Politicals, I’ve never let a political survive yet.”

     “I know, and it’s worse. The political is a doctor. He worked his way up through the ranks in the Concentration Camps, doing experiments on the inmates.”

Von Struck grimaced, ”experiments?”

“Don’t think about it, he’s probably a decent chap. After all, he is a doctor.” The Brigadier laughed.

“God, I need a drink,” Von Struck said, pulling at his tunic collar.