Nazi Germany

Hitler’s Last Gamble Brought to Life

Tiger Tank

The Battle of the Bulge is one of the most legendary actions of WW2.  It might not be up there with the D-Day landings, The invasion of Poland, the Siege of Stalingrad or the attack on Pearl Harbor, but it’s definitely in the second tier, and, like all the rest, many misconceptions about it survive.  I know I certainly didn’t know all that much about the details–to me it was always just about German Tiger tanks in a snowy forest demolishing numerically superior allied forces.

The truth is more complicated, of course, so we return to WWII to have a look.  Now, for those who’ve been following this blog over the years, WWII means film and excerpts from Stacy Danielle Stephens’ excellent novel-in-progress, but today we turn to a nonfiction book that aims to be the definitive record of the Battle of the Bulge.

Ardennes 1944 - The Battle of the Bulge - Anthony Beevor

Now, whenever someone says the phrase “definitive history” in my presence, I’m immediately assaulted by a sense of utter ennui.  Definitive means exhaustive and authoritative, and that usually corresponds to boring.

But Anthony Beevor’s book Ardennes 1944: The Battle of the Bulge, is anything but boring.  It’s a nonfiction book–an exhaustive, authoritative nonfiction book–that reads like a thriller.  The real people depicted are shown in much the same light, with their strengths and weaknesses, heroism and foibles, as would be the characters in a novel.  The effect it electrifying, and keeps you turning the pages to find out what happened next.

Of course, there is a lot of detail.  Anyone reading this will learn a lot that they never knew–or didn’t remember–about these cold days in 1944.  You’ll also be reminded that war wasn’t just about soldiers prancing around in armored vehicles–civilians were often caught in the crossfire, and played ambiguous roles as well, both as victims of atrocities and willing or unwilling accomplices to one side or the other.

Finally, the book places the battle of the bulge in strategic context with regards to the rest of the war and explains how events on the Eastern Front, as well as in the Pacific Theater created the conditions for a tremendous battle.

It is a complete book – history and entertainment in one convenient package.

Recommended.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine author.  He is the author of Incursion, a novel of interstellar war played out over centuries.  You can see the novel here.

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City of Light, City of Magic

Today we have something different: a thought piece by one of our contributors.  Longtime readers will be familiar with Stacy Danielle Stephens’ monumental historical novel about WWII, of which we’ve run excerpts here quite often (if you haven’t seen those yet, just search for her name in the little box on the top right.  Trust me on this one).  In this post, she brings together two very disparate elements: baseball and Nazi segregation of Jews.  It should make you think.

Star of David in 1930s

Is this couple offended by those stars they’re wearing? Of course not. When Hitler became Chancellor of Germany, no Jew on earth was so far removed from Tsarist pogroms or from Martin Luther’s “On the Jews and Their Lies” as to assume the privilege of being personally offended by anything an otherwise polite and civilized society might arbitrarily inflict upon them. So, these stars they’re wearing–are they offensive? Yes, of course they are.

Upon pronouncement of that word, “offensive” Libertarians in particular like to throw up their hands in mock horror, and shriek in a sort of Mickey-Mouse-impression voice, “Heavens to Betsy! We can’t have anyone being offended.” And even your average conservative likes to downplay the subtextual attack quietly yet forcefully contained in offensive terms, symbols, or statements by immediately repackaging incidents surrounding them as public instances of a personal offense which the offended party ought to keep to themselves.

But what made those stars offensive was not any personal feeling of the people required by law to wear them; rather, it was the harmful attack not merely symbolized by those stars, but carried out through them. And the impact of that attack was further compounded by the complacency of a society willing to construe them as small, inoffensive details in the natural order of everyday life. Who, after all, was hurt by a simple star bearing a single simple and absolutely true word? Where is the harm in an accurate label, Jew, being applied to a Jew? The harm of it, of course, was not in the label itself, but in the fact of it being applied.

Now there are a few things I should tell you about myself. First, I hope to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature one day. And once I do, my childhood hero, Mister Peabody, is sure to visit me. Then I can borrow the WABAC and start going places.

Mr Peabody and Time Machine

Well, alright, he’s a cartoon character, so I’d better plan on building my own time machine, unless I can rent one. Either way, the first place (and time) I’d go to is Frankfurt, Germany, in June of 1936, so I could book a trans-Atlantic flight on the Hindenburg the year before it exploded.

Chief Wahoo - Cleveland Indians

And then I would go to Cleveland, Ohio, in October, 1948, to see them win two world series games at home the last time they won the series. Because I’ve been a Cleveland Indians fan for most of my life. Why? Chief Wahoo. He won my heart at an early age, in much the same way Tony the Tiger convinced me that Sugar Frosted Flakes were GR-R-REAT! He did exactly what a logo was supposed to do, and he did it perfectly well. I’m telling you this because I want you to understand that I’m not a Social Justice Warrior, whose only angst is meticulously striking that razor’s-edge balance between a Draconian principle and its Procrustean application. Although when I heard that this season will be the last in which Chief Wahoo will be appearing on the team uniforms, I did not hammer out an impassioned letter imploring the front office to rethink their decision, which, after all, was a carefully considered action by a professional corporation, fully aware of their club’s historical significance in both their league and their city. They have been an important part of each for more than a century. The franchise not only predates the Cleveland Orchestra, it predates the New York Yankees. When the franchise owner wanted to change the team name, Naps, to something else, a poll of local sportswriters settled on “Indians” which went into effect with the 1915 season. The name was allegedly chosen as an homage to Louis Sockalexis, a Penobscot Indian, and popular outfielder for Cleveland’s long-defunct National League team, the Spiders. He had passed away on Christmas Eve 1913. Chief Wahoo first appeared as a logo in 1947, later taking on his more stylized, cartoonish features. Neither the name nor the logo were intended to be disparaging of Native Americans any more than the St Louis Cardinals intended to disparage either the Catholic Church or the Audubon Society. Other than a lawsuit in Canada, whose courts have limited jurisdiction because the Indians play a few of their games in Toronto each year, there has been no legal action against Chief Wahoo, and the only organized protest is a relatively small annual event on Opening Day. There has never been an organized boycott, nor a denunciation from a guilt-ridden white celebrity. And, to be honest, no member of the Cleveland Tribe has ever come forward to complain about Chief Wahoo. So what has compelled the front office to make such a decision? Why remove this popular logo from the team uniform?

Because it’s the right thing to do. Duh.

I realize, as I’m sure you do, that there’s no more of a parallel between a caricature on a ballplayer’s jersey and a star on a Jewish woman’s overcoat than there would be between a training camp and a concentration camp. Obviously, the two things are very different, even though they have an identical formal operation; that is, each is a patch sewn onto a garment to visibly communicate a simple fact, but more than this, to also create a vivid impression at a preconscious level. Chief Wahoo tells us the wearer is a Cleveland team member in exactly the same way the yellow star tells us the wearer is Jewish. However, the impression each creates is created by an operation which is the inverse of the other. Without that star, our impression of the Jewish couple would be very different from what it is. But a simple geometric figure with a single short word inscribed upon it forces us to wonder if that couple were still alive a year after the picture was taken. Without Chief Wahoo on his uniform, we only wonder which team the man is playing for. This is the profound, inescapable power of a simple logo attached to a human being, that it can create such widely dissimilar feelings while doing nothing at all, purely in the nonverbal impressions it prompts, the subtle feelings it engenders through a graphic depiction of a particular image. And it does that regardless not only of what its designer may have intended it to depict, but with very little regard for what we might have supposed it depicts. When we think of a star of David on an Israeli flag, or cast in silver suspended on a small chain and hanging just below a person’s collarbone, our associations are not at all what they are when we see that picture. We might insist that it represents pride or devotion, rather than condemnation, but when we see it sewn on a person’s coat, we know better than to argue that it represents anything else.

So in evaluating this decision by Cleveland’s front office, we must also evaluate the impressions Chief Wahoo creates, and not simply the impression the ball club wishes him to create, or the impression of him so many fans, myself among them, have cherished. For most, throughout a lifetime. For many, across three generations.

Ride Great Trains Through a Great Country

We will ask, reasonably, what harm is done by a cartoon Indian. In considering a similar question in 1954, Chief Justice Earl Warren noted that we have to look beyond tangibles in measuring damage done when vestiges of racism are enforced as if they were valid realities. Even so, we must begin the assessment with something tangible, like a yellow star, to establish context for the very consequential impact of intangibles.

MLB Baseball Team Logos

In this case, we must examine Major League Baseball team names and logos.

In listing and categorizing them, I find twelve are Mythic or Legendary characterizations. (Angels, Braves, Brewers, Dodgers, Giants, Mariners, Padres, Phillies, Pirates, Rangers, Twins, and Yankees) Of these, only the Braves have a blatant ethnic connotation, visibly reinforced by their Tomahawk logo. The Padres and Yankees each have a fairly clear ethnic connotation, and the Brewers a very subtle one. These teams’ logos avoid any ethnic associations. I find seven teams are named after abstractions. (Astros, Athletics, Mets, Nationals, Reds, Rockies, Royals) Among these, the Royals might be thought to have racial associations, since Kansas City was home to the Negro League Monarchs. Such association, if it exists, has never evinced any negative expression. I find three teams are named for birds, (Blue Jays, Cardinals, Orioles), two for mammals (Cubs, Tigers) two for fish (Marlins, Rays) two for sox (Red Sox, White Sox), one for a reptile (Diamond Backs) and one–the Indians–for an ethnic group.

As an aside, two points must be mentioned. First, that Cleveland alone carries the name of an ethnic group validates Commissioner Manfred’s insistence “that the logo is no longer appropriate for on-field use in Major League Baseball”. Second, the Braves, although essentially the same issue, are another discussion entirely. I’m not a fan, and leave it to those who are to work that problem. So it would appear that we have reached a dead end. Other than pirates, Major League Baseball offers us no semblance of an equivalent group of human beings for comparison. There’s no avoiding the fact that Chief Wahoo places real live people on a par with fish, birds, snakes, and sox.

“So,” you may ask, “a team that celebrates Native-American heritage with a cartoon character featuring a big smile has to discontinue using its mascot?” Rather than answer this rhetorical question, I will suggest a pair of thought experiments. First, let us suppose you commemorate New Year’s Eve by firing a pistol into the air. If, when that bullet returns to earth, it strikes someone, they will be harmed by it, and no argument based on your intention to celebrate something, anything, will undo that harm. You cannot reasonably expect anyone who might be struck by such a bullet to have a greater respect for the innocence of your intentions than you have for their well-being.

Evita Cartoon for the Cleveland Argentines

Or imagine the Cleveland Argentines, with this caricature of Evita as their mascot. Now perhaps you can tell me how well this celebrates Argentine heritage. Honestly, with the possible exception of Donald J Trump, I doubt that anyone would want to explain how an exaggerated depiction of a former prostitute married to a dictator is a celebration of Argentine heritage, or an image which will innately foster a positive, charitable opinion of Argentina or anyone from Argentina. So if the question here is whether Chief Wahoo represents affectionate and respectful celebration, or bigoted derision, the answer can only be that, at best, he encapsulates a misplaced affection without respect for the human dignity of a very large number of people. Just as this unflattering presentation of Evita Peron imparts to you a negative perception of the archetypical Argentine, so Chief Wahoo tacitly inclines you to a narrow and unkind view of the average Native-American.

Having demonstrated that Chief Wahoo doesn’t merely offend a few people, but is the embodiment of a harmful insult characteristic of attack, I hope you will not be disappointed by my forbearance in refraining from what might appear to be the next logical step, but I have no intention of discussing whether the franchise name, “Indians”, is also offensive, although stopping short of that will surely seem to be a case of hacking at the branches of an evil while leaving the root to flourish. I will say that whenever the front office discards and replaces that name, I intend to express my support for their decision just as I am doing now for their first step, at once both abysmally small and abhorrently huge, finally taken. It is, of course, long overdue for those to whom it is due, and yet seems much too soon for far too many of us.

 

At Least a Favorable Reference to the Devil

Today we present a new excerpt from Stacy Danielle Stephens monumental work-in-progress about WWII and the events that led to it.  Those of you who’ve been following along at home know that these pieces never fail to deliver – and now we’re reaching the war’s endgame… and one of its most mysterious episodes.

 

May 6th, 1945. London–As his capitol was overrun by the Red Army, Adolf Hitler appears to have sought asylum in the one location from which there can be no extradition. Although reports of a German surrender were only optimistic speculation, news of Hitler’s suicide has been confirmed. He named as his successor neither of the obvious candidates, Himmler or Goering, but the less widely known commander of the German Navy, Admiral Donitz. How the Admiral intends to prosecute the war is unclear. What is clear is that, regardless of the Admiral’s intentions, Germany lacks the means to continue any meaningful opposition to United Nations forces.

If there is no surrender soon, surrender itself will become a moot formality. The Royal Air Force, as well as the US Eighth and Fifteenth Air Forces, ceased all bombing of Germany two weeks ago for lack of targets. There is no traversable length of railroad still intact, no refinery still operating, no factory able to produce any usable weapons, no aggregation of rubble large enough for a group of desperate soldiers to hide behind.

And there is still no surrender.

Perhaps this reckless determination to fight on is nothing more than a desire to die in combat with a semblance of honor rather than face responsibility for what is increasingly clear. That crimes and atrocities which only one month ago would have been dismissed out of hand as too incredibly heinous be be seriously countenanced have undeniably occurred.

There has never been a military man more even-tempered or fair-minded than General Eisenhower. What he has personally observed at concentration camps in Germany is so far beyond description that it need not be described. It is sufficient to say that it has sickened and angered him to such an extent that every German, in uniform or not, knows better than to anticipate any mercy from their conquerors.

by Stacy Ketcham, Omaha Chronotype-Mercury

* * *

Bloodstains in Hitlers Bunker

 

The stuffiness of the room had grown more oppressive, and the shrill insistence of the slightly inadequate ventilation fan more penetrating. Or perhaps Eva had nothing better to hold her attention.

“Would you like me to go first, Princess?” Adi asked.

He had never called her Princess before.

“No,” she replied, suddenly overcome with tears. She put her head on his shoulder. Silently, she told herself that she was not afraid, and realized what an abominable lie that was. The truth? She was more afraid of living an hour longer than of dying in another minute. She recovered her nerve. She had to be steady for him. Steely. She lifted her head.

“We agreed,” she resumed. “You should wait to make sure that I am–” Her breath seemed to congeal in her throat. “–safe,” she concluded.

“Do you know, Eva,” Adi suddenly said, “when I was a child, I wanted to be a priest?”

“I’m not surprised by that.”

“No?”

She picked up the brass capsule containing the bit of serious business.

“Hold out your hand,” she said. He did. She unscrewed the capsule and pulled the two pieces apart so that the ampule dropped into his palm. Tossing the shell aside, she opened her mouth, the tip of her tongue resting on the edge of her teeth, just inside of her lower lip.

He smiled, the same shimmering smile he’d displayed so shyly the day they met for the first time. He took the ampule gingerly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Tenderly, he placed it onto her tongue.

One could not but wonder what that moment of transcendence would comprise. Of course, death would not be like anything. There was nothing in life that could serve as a simile for it.

She knew she should repent of this madness, and spit the thing out. Yet she knew just as well that she was able to do this with a clear conscience, because her conscience was improperly formed by years of compromise. Her faith, once white hot, had gone lukewarm and then stone cold, and was now already dead, although still as strong as it had ever been. She and Adi had never been to Mass together. In sixteen years, neither of them had said a single Hail Mary, or even once made the sign of the cross over themselves, and yet, if pressed on the point, each of them would have insisted that they were Catholic.

Smiling at Adi, she bit into the glass. He heard it cracking between her teeth. Then she was translated. She slumped over the arm of the sofa, and he saw the discolouration around her nose. That quickly, sixteen years had passed.

His pistol–the 7.65 mm Walther–was on the table. Like a chalice on the altar, he thought. He remembered the many times as a child when he stood on a chair at the kitchen table, wearing an apron as his vestment, celebrating the Mass.

Fondly recalling his first communion, he knelt at the table, then lifted the pistol to his lips. As his finger settled on the trigger, he was reminded of the delicate silver bells jingling during the Mass, announcing the descent of the Holy Spirit as it settled on the unleavened wafers and they became the resurrected Body of Christ. As an altar boy, he had held those bells, and beckoned to the Holy Spirit with this very finger. Now, as this profligate finger curled more tightly, summoning his own spirit in another direction entirely, he strained to remember the gentle sound of those tiny bells, softly resonating in the hushed stillness of the church, but could not. He only heard the harsh chirping of the distant ventilation fans, and trapped in his ears, echoing in his mind, the brutal cracking of the glass in Eva’s mouth.

The trigger at last succumbed to the pressure of his finger. He felt the action release the firing pin, and heard the shot rushing from the chamber. With it, he received no absolution, but only abrogation[1].

* * *

How does one make sense of Adolf Hitler, a peculiar but heroic soldier who earned the respect and admiration of comrades and commanders alike, then went on to take his country to the brink of annihilation with much of Europe close behind? How do we understand this little boy who wanted to be a priest, but instead became the eponym of evil at its most absolute by leading his nation in their effort to exterminate an entire people?

Millions of words have been written in pursuit of Hitler’s presumed hatred for Jews, with no evidence of his ever being so much as rude to even one Jew, let alone the discovery of a fury intense enough to bring about ten million deaths.

In the early days of the Nazi Party, another Party leader asked Hitler what the Nazis’ program would be. Hitler replied that the program was unimportant, it was only power that mattered. When this same leader argued that power must always be wielded with purpose toward a goal, Hitler dismissed the argument as pointless intellectualism.

Every Jew who met Hitler personally found him to be kind and courteous. Every Jew who knew him was convinced that the anti-semitism he espoused was nothing more than agitprop, palaver poured out to get himself and his party elected and into power, and Hitler is known to have said that everyone in Germany would recognize Jews as a common enemy, if they were arbitrarily selected by the Nazis to serve as a focus for national unity.

But if Hitler’s vaunted anti-semitism were only a ruse, why, then, the final solution?

More so than soldiers of any other nation, Americans were infused with the righteousness of their involvement in the war. From the noble clarity of their goals there followed an expected purity in their actions. They were not engaged in a war of vengeance, but a holy crusade to restore the world to justice. Yet there were occasions when these righteous crusaders would physically abuse or shoot prisoners of war. A disinterested observer could ascribe most of these incidents to anger or frustration in the heat of a few horrible moments. Some justification may be found for excusing these violations of the Geneva Convention. But the fact remains that even the best of soldiers may become murderers when circumstances permit murder.

It has been said that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

If it seems preposterous to you to suppose that a man might send millions of innocents to their deaths simply for the pleasure of doing so, then you have probably never walked among armed combatants seeking battle, and you have certainly never noticed that every word of the United States Constitution is about restraining the exercise of power.

By the time of the Final Solution, it was clear that the Soviet Union would not be defeated as easily as France had been, and evident that it might never be defeated. When the United States entered into the war, Hitler had little reason to hope that Germany would ever win. Frustrated and angry, he could console himself easily enough by exercising absolute power while it was still his.

This is not to suggest that Hitler’s decision to have eleven million[2] people put to death was made on the spur of the moment, or that the Ka-tsets would have been shut down and all the prisoners inside them released if Germany had won the war. Hitler had written about his proposed Entfernung of Jews as early as 1919.

When speaking of tattoo removal, a German will use the word Entfernung. There can be no doubt what becomes of the tattoo. How could there be any doubt what Hitler intended for the Jews of Europe as early as 1919?

When Bertold Brecht was deported from the United States, German newspapers reported his Entfernung. There could be no doubt that Bertold Brecht was alive and unharmed.

It would be both naive and asinine to assume that Hitler had not carefully chosen that word for its ambiguity. While it cannot be proven that Hitler had begun to plan, as early as 1919, for the extermination of all European Jews, neither can it be denied that this eventuality was among the possibilities he had considered at that time.[3]

* * *

As early as 1937, President Roosevelt had decided that in the event of war with The Empire of Japan, Japanese-Americans on the West Coast would be interned. It was only after this decision was made that the rationale for it was formulated. Internment, it was said, would be necessary to ensure that any disloyal individuals among these people did not escape detection, and in order to protect them from their suspicious white neighbors.

Adolph Hitler claimed that German emigrants remained citizens of his Reich, and that their children and grandchildren were German citizens as well. He insisted that all persons of German ancestry owed their loyalty to him and no one else. He believed that German-Americans were entirely German, and not at all American. The existence of the German-American Bundt would suggest that a number of German-Americans shared his belief.

The FBI, conducting the largest investigation of its kind, determined that there was no similar belief held by the government of Japan or by Japanese immigrants in the United States, or by any of their children or grandchildren. The Japanese government had never made any effort to recruit even a single spy or saboteur from among the Japanese-Americans, nor had any Japanese-American, whether resident alien or United States citizen by birth, ever made any effort to further the interests of Japan to the detriment of the United States, even by peaceful and legal means, let alone through any attempts at espionage of any kind.

Tule Lake Japanese Internment Camp

Sociologists engaged by the State Department determined that no immigrant group was more loyal to the United States than the Japanese-Americans, and no group was more truly American. In Japanese culture, emigrants are not merely transplanted into their new country, they are grafted onto it. They will retain a Japanese appearance, and they may retain the Japanese language, but they are not Japanese. Among any other nationality, as many as one-third of immigrants arriving in the United States would, within twenty years, return to live in their native country. Japanese who came to America rarely went back to Japan.

Investigating the question of conflicted loyalties, the State Department learned, as had the FBI, that Imperial Japan had no wish or intention to use Japanese-Americans as spies, recognizing first that they had no loyalty to Japan, and secondarily that they would be of no use, since white Americans would not trust them. Instead, Imperial Japan chose to rely on the already existing German and Italian spy networks.

Although he was fully aware of all these facts, President Roosevelt did not allow himself to be dissuaded by them. In 1942, he ordered the internment of Japanese-Americans, precisely as he had planned to do all along. Today, it is profoundly disturbing to see how easily that order could be given, and to see the docile facility with which it was carried out. Without investigation or probable cause, without trial or arraignment, with no semblance of due process, all persons of Japanese ancestry abiding in California, Oregon or Washington State, whether resident aliens or citizens of the United States, were simply removed in just a few days.

However plausible the justifications for this relocation may sound, whatever explanation one might wish to accept, a single photograph of any white American standing proudly beside his sign–WE DON’T WANT ANY JAPS! EVER!–looking exactly like a German standing beside his sign–JUDEN RAUS!–makes clear that this arbitrary corralling of an ethnic minority by a racially prejudiced government was, in fact, Entfernung.

* * *

Because the internment of Japanese-Americans happened in Twentieth Century America, every fact and detail of it is utterly harrowing. With each paragraph one reads about it, with each story one hears, there is a renewed desire to scream, because it was a heinous injustice perpetrated by Americans against other Americans. Yet there is one inescapable facet of the whole picture that transcends expression, a realization so horrible that one can only see it and turn away.

Of all military construction in the United States during the Second World War, only Los Alamos was more remote than the internment camps. The Manhattan Project was the only war-related activity of their government about which the American public was told less than the internment of Japanese-Americans. While one simply cannot imagine President Roosevelt authorizing a final solution to the Japanese-American problem, one must–if one is honest–recognize from the placement of the camps and the silence surrounding them that this eventuality was among the possibilities considered within the War Department.

 

 

[1] In his movie, Little Nicky, Adam Sandler supposes Hitler gets a pineapple shoved up his ass every day, but that would be letting him off easy. Hell? The Russians are approaching, Eva is dead, and the pistol won’t fire. Every day, over and over. The Russians are approaching, Eva is dead, and the pistol won’t fire. He spends the day, every day, alone in the bunker, remembering the face of every young man whom he sent to an early and horrible death, remembering every conversation with Himmler, remembering the footage of unreleased documentaries he watched with Goebbels. Then it’s morning again. The Russians are approaching, Eva is dead, and the pistol won’t fire.

[2] The Wannsee Conference planned to “involve” eleven million European Jews in the Final Solution, but the precise number of deaths that occurred in the Ka-tsets cannot be known. Although an estimate of twenty million is the largest number which cannot be discredited, it staggers the imagination. The estimate generally considered to be an accurate minimum is ten million. In either case, six million of these are known to be Jewish.

Although Common Criminals and Prostitutes were sent to the Ka-tsets with the expectation that they might die, and Gypsies, Homosexuals, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Politicals were sent with the expectation that they would die, only Jews were sent specifically for the purpose of extermination. The death of a Jew was not merely expected, it was intended.

In the moral sense of the word, each of these deaths–whether of a Jew or a Gentile–was a murder, but in the strictest legal sense of the word, they were not. Pragmatically, the millions of Germans and other European nationals who participated to some degree in every one of these deaths could not all be hanged, so it was held that these deaths occurred within the jurisdiction and under the authority of the German government. Individuals who had given orders were guilty of war crimes; those who obeyed these orders were presumed innocent, and every murder that was committed became only a death which had occurred.

[3] A plausible argument can be made that the Wannsee Protocol, Section Three, Paragraph Seven: “jews should be put to work in the East. . . . Any final remnant that survives… will have to be dealt with appropriately” was a precise enunciation of Hitler’s long-intended Entfernung.

Viewed in retrospect from this conclusion, Hitler’s actions can be generally seen as a series of planned steps moving toward that goal. Militarily, the sole object in this scenario was the conquest of Soviet Russia as a repository for Europe’s Jews, in which they could “be dealt with appropriately.” This conquest required that the bulk of the German army be deployed from Poland. The necessary encirclement of Poland required the occupation of Czechoslovakia, which was itself first encircled through the Anschluss of Austria. That France and England became combatants in opposition to Germany was an inconvenience anticipated and prepared for with the occupation of the Rhineland.

When realization of the expected repository failed, concurrent with the failure of the Soviet Union to be conquered, the Nazis adapted the plan to an accelerated schedule, intending to “involve” as many Jews as they could apprehend before the war ended.

For this argument to be valid, Hitler’s anti-semitism would have to be a profoundly irrational, superstitious variety of prejudice. Precisely that sort of anti-semitism can be found throughout the world, and is particularly virulent in Eastern Europe even today.

Who needs Rosebud? We’ve Got Nazis!

Orson Welles in The Stranger

When Orson Welles set out to direct The Stranger (1946), he did so under unfavorable conditions.  Saddled with a well-deserved reputation for being constitutionally unable to complete films on time or anywhere near the budget, he simply agreed to everything and got down to it.

How much of the result was actually his fault is open to discussion, but the bottom line is that, though this film has a certain Wellesian nightmare quality, it is far removed from his more atmospheric work.  It’s definitely not terrible, but there’s a reason Citizen Kane is a household name and this one isn’t.

Let’s start with the good.  The tension in this film is constant and constantly ratchets.  It is mainly driven by concern for the wellbeing of the young bride and her family as opposed to any sense of mystery as to what is really going on.

And therein lies my major complaint about this movie: there’s no mystery, about whether the protagonist is the bad guy or not.  That’s pretty much cleared up in the first five minutes of the movie (contrast that with the Rosebud mystery), so we’re pretty much left with a melodrama of a thriller.  That’s fine for some audiences, I suppose, but one expects better of Welles.

The Stranger DVD cover

Perhaps what got this film its place on the 1001 movies list (apart from the name of its director) is that it was the first hollywood film to use images of the Holocaust at a time when many Americans were either unaware of what had transpired, or simply didn’t believe it.  They are strong scenes which, perhaps, have lost a little bit of the effect on modern audiences that they would certainly have had on period viewers–making the job of reviewing it just a tad more difficult.

So, even though it’s certainly not a bad movie, it certainly wasn’t the best thing Welles produced, but as a document of its time… definitely worth watching.

Our unusual note returns today with the fact that one of the actors went on to play Mayor Linseed in the 1960s Batman series.  Not sure what that might mean, but it has to mean something, right?

BTW, don’t forget we have a Facebook page you can hit like on!

 

 

From Chancellor to Führer – Part 2

Nuremburg Rally

Today brings the conclusion of our excerpt from Stacy Danielle Stephens’ historical novel charting the rise of Adolf Hitler from Chancellor to Führer.  Those who missed Part 1 can read it here.

Near the end of May, 1934, German President Hindenburg returned to his estate at Neudeck, leaving Berlin for what no one doubted would be the last time. Before he left, he remarked to Vice Chancellor von Papen that things were going badly, and asked him to see what he could do about the Nazis.

* * *

Hitler and von Papen

“Only weaklings tolerate no criticism,” Vice Chancellor Franz von Papen said in a speech he gave at the Landgrafenhaus of the University of Marburg on June 17, 1934. Not by coincidence, his speech was highly critical of the Storm Detachment, of the Nazi Party, and of Hitler’s repressive policies. His audience was very much surprised, because it was von Papen who had persuaded President Hindenburg to appoint Hitler Chancellor of the coalition government. His audience was also delighted[1]. If von Papen were no longer supporting Hitler, a new, less repressive, government might be formed. That his speech that day was the last public criticism in Germany of Hitler’s government by anyone in a position of authority for more than ten years indicates how very much mistaken they were.

* * *

On June 21st, 1934, Hitler and General Blomberg, the Defense Minister, met with President Hindenburg, at the president’s request, to discuss the growing friction between the Nazi Storm Detachment and the Reichswehr.

“Your man Roehm,” the President said to Hitler, “says he’s responsible for the defense of the country. Says the Reichswehr is just a training camp.”

“He spoke out of turn, Sir,” Hitler replied. “I’ve set him straight on that.”

“If you had,” the President said, “we wouldn’t be here now. You’ll have to do more than lecture him. Or I’ll have to call for Martial Law.”

“The Reichswehr stands ready to do as you wish, Sir,” General Blomberg replied. How he intended to subdue two million Brownshirts with a force of one hundred thousand men, he did not explain.

“I will do what must be done,” Hitler said, “for the sake of Germany.”

Of course, Hindenburg and Blomberg both knew that Hitler would be unstinting in his efforts to further his own interests; as it happened, civil war would be as hard on him as it would on Germany. He could therefore be depended upon to resolve this crisis decisively and in short order.

Careful inquiries made over the next several days established the understanding that Hitler’s loyalty to the Reischwehr in this crisis would be rewarded with an army oath of loyalty to him; further, the SS, under Heinrich Himmler’s control, would stand with Hitler and the Reichswehr against Ernst Roehm and the Storm Detachment.

On June 25th, the Reichswehr was put on alert.

* * *

In Essen on June 28th, 1934, Ilse Stahl, who had previously been Josef Goebbels’ secretary and mistress, married Gauleiter Josef Terboven. Goebbels, Goering, and Hitler flew in from Berlin to attend the wedding. Goering flew back to Berlin immediately afterwards; Hitler stayed in Essen. On the 29th, he inspected a Reich Labour Camp, then spent the night in Bonn.

Völkischer Beobachter

Also on the 29th, the Völkischer Beobachter[2] published an article by General Blomberg, expressing the Reichswehr’s support for Hitler and the Party. This was a good indicator of which way the wind blew and how soon the ax would fall.

* * *

Early in the morning of June 30th, 1934, Hitler flew to Munich, and shortly after 6 AM, personally placed Ernst, who had just been woken up, under arrest, informing him that he was considered a traitor and instructing him to get dressed at once. Hitler left, and when Ernst had his clothes on, a pair of ordinary police detectives took him to Stadelheim prison.

That afternoon, finally willing to accept the evidence Heinrich had collected and which Hermann had acquainted him with, Hitler uttered the code word, “hummingbird,” to Josef, allowing the purge of Brown Shirt leaders to begin. It would include from one hundred to two hundred men, most of them homosexual.

* * *

By July 2nd, it was complete. That same day, Hitler received a telegram from the German President, which read: From the reports which had been brought to me, I see that by your decisive initiative and by your brave personal activity you have nipped all the treasonable activities in the bud. You have saved the German people from a grave danger. For this I express to you my heart-felt gratitude and my sincere respect. With best greetings, von Hindenburg.

On July 3rd, Chancellor Hitler’s Cabinet met, officially asking the Reichstag to issue retroactive carte blanche; on the 13th, by a unanimous vote, the Reichstag sanctioned these murders (referenced as “events of June 30th, and July 1st and 2nd”), writing them off legally as emergency defense measures undertaken in the best interests of the nation. Officially, seventy-four conspirators had, by an imperative necessity, been summarily brought to justice, but just as officially, it was made known that there would be no accounting, no review, and no further explanation either requested or offered for what had happened in the course of those three hot summer days.

An irrevocable precedent was established on July 13th, 1934. From that date onward, it was clear to everyone that Adolf Hitler now uniquely and absolutely embodied the legitimate and freely elected government of Germany, and that if he felt a certain number of murders were in the best interests of Germany, there would be no questions. Not from the Reichstag. Not from the courts. Not from the public. There would be no questions from any industrialists or bankers, nor from the church in Germany, whether Lutheran or Catholic. Not even if the number of murders were in excess of ten million.

In 1933, no one had asked why a new special detention facility, a Konzentrationslager, or Ka-tset, was needed at Dachau. In 1934, no one asked why three more Ka-tsets, at Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald and Mauthausen, were also necessary. By the summer of 1934, it was universally understood in Germany that because difficult questions would no longer be asked, they would simply be set aside in these Ka-tsets. What was not understood at that time was that in every Ka-tset, terrible answers would eventually be found.

* * *

On August 2nd, 1934, German President Paul von Hindenburg died. Hitler had been waiting for this patiently, but not idly. He’d already made arrangements to combine the offices of Chancellor and President into a single office he would hold, with the title Führer.

[1] Hitler’s popularity was always equivocal. While very few Germans were dissatisfied with HItler’s accomplishments, even fewer were at peace with themselves about the price at which these things were achieved.

[2] People’s Observer; the Munich-based newspaper of the Nazi Party.

From Chancellor to Führer – Part 1

Hitler's Brownshirts

Today we present a new excerpt from Stacy Danielle Stephens monumental work-in-progress about WWII and the events that led to it.  What makes this particular piece fascinating is her imagining of how Hitler would have spoken to his inner circle at a key point in his political ascent.  Stacy’s willingness to look beyond the monsters and try to study  the humans beneath is what makes her novel so attractive to us – after all, our manifesto does state that we enjoy a multi-disciplinary approach to things… and few works look beyond the obvious in history as insightfully as this one does.

After the torchlight procession and public acclamation when Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany on January 30th, 1933[1], he had a private supper with his closest friends; Hans, Rudolf, Hermann, Josef, and, of course, Ernst, in a small room of the Chancellory.

“I think Hindenburg will come around,” he told them. “Perhaps even join the Party. He liked it very much today when I told him I intend to serve him as loyally as his Chancellor as I did when I was his soldier, and he was my hero.

They all smiled at this.

“We must have the co-operation of the Army,” Hitler went on. “To secure it, the Brown Shirts will have to be scaled back.” Ernst was obviously angry about this, perhaps even hurt. “Officially, they will be a sports organization, and responsible for political education of young people.”

“Officially?” Ernst asked.

Adi – as everyone around the table knew him – nodded. His smile satisfied Ernst.

“Dornberger’s rocket program must cease at once,” he continued. “We can’t squander money on wonder weapons when we need to build a real army.” Adi brought the point of his index finger down on the table to emphasize the importance of basic necessities. “Tanks, artillery pieces,” he said, thumping his fingertip at the mention of each item, “rifles, boots, even uniforms.” He paused, gazing at his fingertip pressing against the table cloth. “Rockets?” He lifted his finger suddenly as he made a fizzling noise with his tongue, teeth and lips. “Champagne corks.” The others laughed. “Beer first,” Adi summarized, “then champagne.”

“Quite so,” Hermann said as the others nodded. Adi now turned his bright blue eyes toward him.

“We must have control of the Prussian State Secret Police,” he seemed to insist. “Find one of our men to take charge of it. He will expand it into a national force. And that reminds me,” he paused a moment, not so much gathering his thoughts, the others knew, as allowing them to take shape in audible words. “We have to begin seizing control of local governments. Bavaria first. It’s the birthplace of our movement, and most threatened by the Reds.”

“We’ve cleared them out before,” Ernst happily reminded him.

“Let’s all have a walk in the garden,” Adi suggested, suddenly quite cheerful. Perhaps he’d forgotten that he now had a garden. It was all so new, this dream come true. They’d pursued it for more than a decade, and tonight it was no longer a dream.

As they all rose from the table, Adi resumed speaking, going on at some length as they walked, enumerating the problems of eradicating the communists without precipitating any violent reactions. He stopped and glanced around at the diminutive garden.

“This Chancellory,” he sighed. “Like a cigar box, isn’t it? We’ll change all that. Make it impressive.”

* * *

1933 Reichstag fire

Om February 27th, 1933, while dining at the Herrenklub in Berlin, President Paul von Hindenburg and Vice Chancellor Franz von Papen noticed the sky glowing red, and heard shouts. Rising from their table and going to a window, they saw the dome of the Reichstag brilliantly lighted, shimmering and wavering as sheets of flame and billows of smoke contended in a wild sacrificial dance, engulfing and consuming it.

Even as it burned, Hitler, Goebells and Goring were on the scene, denouncing the fire as an obvious communist crime against the new administration[2]. The next day, the Prussian State Police issued a public statement that evidence in their possession indicated that the Reichstag fire was part of a Communist conspiracy to overthrow the German government. On the strength of this statement, President Hindenburg issued the “Decree of February 28th” suspending seven articles of the German Constitution. The extent to which this decree allowed police to disregard individual civil liberties was never made explicit, although it became increasingly clear.

* * *

In the elections of March 5, 1933, the Nazis won 44 percent of the popular vote, and 288 seats in the Reichstag; their anti-Communist hysteria had failed to free them of their coalition, let alone bring them the two-thirds majority necessary to alter the constitution. To obtain the majority he could not secure at the polls, Hitler resorted to the flagship in his arsenal of chicanery: brute force applied with sleight-of-hand and masked by eloquence.

The decree of February 28th allowed Hitler to authorize the arrest of a number of Communist and Socialist Reichstag members. With only one hundred such arrests, the Reichstag would still have a quorum, and Hitler’s coalition would have a two-thirds majority. Further, by making these arrests sporadically over the course of two weeks, the Nazis leant credibility to the allegations of a conspiracy while obfuscating their real purpose.

* * *

Hindenburg and Hitler

“May the German imperial war which we have carried through with such renown be followed by a peace for the Empire no less glorious,” the First Kaiser Wilhelm had said on March 21st, 1871, at the opening of the first German Reichstag, “and, from now on, may the German people confine their efforts to winning victories in the field of peaceful enjoyments. May God so ordain!”

There could be no doubt that feelings of unease and disquiet were prevalent in the weeks following the Reichstag fire. Aside from the anxiety of possible revolution, Hitler’s unabashed willingness to use such dictatorial powers as were already at his disposal, without hesitation and without remorse, had caused profound, widespread concern. In choosing to open the newly elected Reichstag on March 21st, Hitler hoped the nation and the world would infer that Germany had passed through a formative, solidifying turmoil, and that he would now lead the country through an indefinite period of peace and progress. In choosing to convene the Reichstag opening at the Garrison Church in Potsdam, Hitler intended that both the Army and the vestigial remnants of the glorious former Empire would infer that he held them in reverence.

“May the old sprit of this celebrated shrine permeate the generation of today,” President Hindenburg said, addressing the members of the Reichstag. His speech was broadcast to all of Germany, as well as the world, by radio. “May it liberate us from selfishness and party strife and bring us together in national self-consciousness to bless a proud and free Germany united in herself.”

After responding to this, Hitler bowed low before the President, grasping his hand. With few exceptions, the world believed Hitler to be everything he pretended to be, and nothing else. With even fewer exceptions, Germany also believed.

On March 23rd, the Reichstag convened at the Kroll Opera House, in Berlin, to consider “The Law to Remove the Distress of the People and the State,” five concise and carefully worded paragraphs which conferred upon the Reich Cabinet, under Hitler’s guidance and control, the equivalent of dictatorial powers, nominally until April 1st, 1937. Hitler, speaking in the same restrained manner with which he had revered President Hindenburg, promised to “make use of these powers only insofar as they are essential for carrying out vitally necessary measures.”

[1] Hitler was Chancellor of a coalition government. The Nazis never received a majority of the popular vote, and never had a majority of seats in the Reichstag. However, they had the largest share of seats, and could prevent the formation of any coalition which excluded them.

[2] Marinus van der Lubbe, a Dutch Communist with prior arson convictions, was arrested in the Reichstag that same evening, and later found guilty of setting the Reichstag fire. He was executed on January 10th, 1934. In 1967 and 1983 his conviction was upheld by West German courts. In 2008, the German Federal Court of Justice overturned his conviction on the grounds that it was politically motivated. While there is every reason to suppose that van der Lubbe acted with much encouragement and material assistance from the Nazis themselves, any evidence supporting the supposition has proven to be contrived.

Kristallnacht, the Untold Story

Warsaw - 1938

The last post of 2014 brings another excerpt from Stacy Danielle Stephens’ amazing historical novel, we get yet another glimpse into WWII.  This time, we stare the horror of the Holocaust in the face by going into the details that not everyone is aware of regarding its early days.  Can you tell we love these little slices of history? (you can read some of the earlier ones here, here, here and here – highly recommended!).

On March 31st, 1938, the Polish Senate passed The Expatriates Act, a law which had already passed the Sejm, the lower house of Poland’s parliament. The intent of this law was to prevent those European Jews who were nominally Polish citizens from entering Poland.

* * *

On October 15th, 1938, the Polish Government announced that effective October 31st, 1938, all persons holding Polish passports and wishing to return to Poland must first obtain a special stamp at the Polish Consulate in their country of residence. It went without saying that Jews would not be given the stamp.

* * *

Jews Boarding Trains for Deportation

At eight o’clock on the evening of October 27th, 1938, Herschel Grynszpan’s parents, brother, and sister were taken into police custody in Hanover. They were among approximately 17,000 Polish Jews residing in Germany who would be taken in cattle cars to the Polish border, then driven like cattle across the border, arriving in Sbenszyn on October 29th, 1938. Because they had valid Polish passports, the Polish government could not refuse them entry; however, they were housed in the stables of a military installation.

On the morning of Sunday, October 30th, the Red Cross brought food to the camp in Sbenszyn. The detainees there hadn’t eaten since their arrest on Thursday.

On Thursday, November 3rd, Hirschel, now living in Paris, received a letter from his father, telling him what had happened to his family, and urging him to go to America, if he could, and to attempt to help them from there.

Herschel had hoped to study in Paris, once his immigration status had been rectified. Although he could not legally remain in Paris, French authorities were unable to deport him. His German visa had expired, and because he was Jewish, neither Germany nor Poland would issue him a new visa. There was no possibility of his emigrating to America.

On Monday, November 7th, he purchased a revolver and a box of ammunition, then went to the German Embassy.

“I am a German citizen,” he told the receptionist, “and wish to speak with the ambassador.”

“On what business?” she asked. He did not answer. “Do you have your passport with you?” Again, he did not answer. She pressed an electric signal to summon assistance from the Embassy staff. Legation Secretary Ernst vom Rath responded. When he entered the reception area, Herschel rapidly fired six shots. Three slugs went wide, embedding themselves in the wall. One struck Rath’s foot and another his shoulder, and one struck his spleen[1].

* * *

On November 8th, 1938, the Völkischer Beobachter’s front page banner headline screamed HEINOUS JEWISH ATTEMPTED MURDER while a smaller front page headline spoke of a CRIME AGAINST THE PEACE OF EUROPE. Neither of these articles concerned the ruthless deportations which had recently occurred, but were about the Embassy shooting in Paris, as were six more articles on the inner pages. Other newspapers in Germany were clamoring for justice, punishment, and consequences. To heighten the drama, Hitler sent his personal physician, Karl Brandt, to Paris to monitor vom Rath’s condition, and quietly promoted the Legation Secretary to Counselor. Newspapers were instructed to use the new rank when referencing vom Rath, and to say nothing about the promotion. In Munich, party Gauleiters were gathered to commemorate the anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch, and not wanting to be outdone, each of them phoned his local with instructions that plans be made at once for spontaneous demonstrations against the Jews.

Funeral of Ernst vom Rath

On November 9th, Counselor Ernst vom Rath died[2].

By the morning of November 10th, with few exceptions, every synagogue and Jewish-owned business in Germany had been vandalized or burned. By that evening, 30,000 Jewish men had been arrested[3].

[1] Although the crime took place in the German Embassy, Grynszpan was arrested by Paris police and remained in French custody until July 18th, 1940, when he was extradited to Germany under the terms of the armistice. He never went to trial, and the last person known to have seen him alive, in 1943, was Adolf Eichmann.

[2] He would be given a state funeral on November 17th, with Hitler present.

[3] They would spend two to three months in concentration camps, then be released, only to be arrested again within three years.

The German V2 Rocket – Part 2

V2 Launch Site

Today we present the second half of Stacy Danielle Stephens’ V2 segment of her Historical novel about WWII.  If you like what you see here please remember that Stacy’s Bismarck series is also available here, as are many other parts of her hugely ambitious novel – just look for stories tagged WW2.

They came first to the labour camp at Trassenheide, where unskilled Soviet prisoners were housed, if one used the term as a euphemism. A number of the barracks had been damaged. A prisoner detail was flinging objects of various shapes and sizes onto the bed of a large truck. As he came closer to the work, Dietrich recognized that the objects were bodies and body parts. He marveled for a moment at the indifference with which the living dispatched the dead, then remembered that these were prisoners of war who had little hope and less expectation of leaving any differently than their comrades were leaving now.

“A thousand dead[1] there, you suppose?” Zanssen asked him.

“Five hundred, at least.”

Dietrich realized then that neither of them had broken step while observing this. They turned toward the left, knowing from memory the course of the road which was no longer there. As they approached Karlshagen, the residence area for German scientists and technicians, Dietrich saw that it was no longer there, either. Timbers, both limbs of trees and structural beams, were strewn like chopped vegetables in a stew. Not one building remained standing, nor had any piece large enough to recognize been left lying about. Fragments, at best, were surrounded by jots and tittles of what had been.

“God in heaven,” Zanssen said, stopping in his tracks. Dietrich stopped, too, thinking that no one could have survived that mélange. They stood there, perhaps a minute, perhaps two, before they saw a Hitler Youth detail[2] collecting bodies. These were not being flung onto trucks, but were placed neatly and covered with tarps until they could be identified.

* * *

Albert Speer and Adolf Hitler

At seven o’clock that morning, Luftwaffe Chief of Staff Jeschonnek was informed that all of Peenemunde was in flames. He had been severely reprimanded by Field Marshall Milch and Reichsmarschall Göring in rapid succession via telephone earlier that day, and scolded by Hitler, in person, the day before. Shortly after nine, Jeschonnek’s secretary found his body on the floor of his office, dead of a single shot from the revolver in his hand.

* * *

Several minutes had passed before Dietrich realized that Colonel Zanssen had continued ahead without him. Perhaps an hour later, Dietrich had drifted past what remained of the residences and saw the Colonel again, talking with Reichsminister Speer outside the ruins of the rocket factory.

“Only one hundred and twenty of our people were killed,” Zanssen was telling Speer, “but more than ninety per cent of our housing is gone. That’s the worst of it.”

It seemed to Dietrich that putting up new shelters should be considerably less trouble than replacing sophisticated machinery, but he kept silent until he saw Ludo. Even then, he only shrieked a shrill gasp of excitement before lighting out at a run toward Ludo, who heard his approaching footfalls soon enough to welcome him with open arms.

“You survived?” Dietrich asked even as they embraced.

“Yes, most of us did. We thought the attack had ended, and came out to see the damage. It was the final wave, which came when most of us were outdoors, that pulverized the houses and barracks.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“And when that attack had ended, the director himself began screaming that we must save the important documents. The offices were hardly more than smoke and flame, hotter than hell, but he led a group of us in, sending us out in relays with armfuls of papers as quickly as he could grab them. Everything important was saved that way.”

Dietrich was pleasantly surprised to find that soup and coffee were available in the mess hall, but not so surprised to learn that this had been one of the director’s first orders that morning.

* * *

On the 19th, Reichsminister Speer met with Adi at Wolfsschanze, primarily to “correct” some “misinformation” Adi had received from General Fromm. Speer felt that by limiting repairs to essentials, Peenemunde could be operational within four weeks. Further, leaving wreckage and structural damage in plain view of British reconnaissance flights would give the impression their attack had succeeded, and thus discourage any return engagements.

In the hope of assuring London would be destroyed, Adi approved the controversial “high-pressure pump” program[3]. He also issued orders giving it top priority.

A few days later, Reichsfuehrer Himmler met with Speer and Adi, offering to put his top man, Major-General Hans Kammler, at Speer’s disposal, to help in procuring the labour necessary to repair the rocket facility, and to produce the rockets themselves[4]. Adi decided then that rocket production at Peenemunde would cease once Kammler had completed the construction of an underground rocket assembly facility[5].

* * *

She dropped her tea. Her cup shattered on the floor.

“Do you feel it?” she asked, panicked.

“What?” I asked.

“Into the closet, Love,” she said, jumping up from the table. “Now.”

I wanted to finish our supper, and relax with my tea, but it was imperative that I get into the closet at once, so I did. She was right behind me, but before I could ask another question, it all suddenly ended. My clothes simply disappeared, although I could feel abrasions on my skin, where traces of them had given way, dissolving in a moment. Then I was wrapped in all of our coats, sweaters and mackintoshes as our ceiling, floor and walls all seemed to liquify, and everything around me was either flying upward or falling away beneath me. I was sliding downward among some of it while the rest of it rushed up and over me. In a moment, dust was everywhere. It was done, whatever it was that had happened.

The closet door was in front of me, although I was reclining at an angle under it. Perhaps foolishly, I tried to open it, after wrestling my way out of the wraps that must have cushioned my descent through the wreckage. Debris, apparently, held the door in place. It had probably thus saved my life. I had room to move, and somewhat above or in front of me, there was a vague area composed of less darkness. I crawled away in that direction, burrowing through dust-coated chunks of the shattered building to the top of a heap of rubble, where I emerged, perhaps a story high, in the brilliance of the evening’s declining sun. People were gathering in a crowd, all of them wondering, as I did, what had happened. From the nature of their exclamations and the tones with which they uttered them, I knew they were seeing gruesome casualties.

“Look at that, eh?” I heard an audibly relieved man say, loud and clear. Almost jovially, he added, “But don’t stare.”

“Hello, Miss?” someone else called up to me. “Stay put. Rescue will arrive presently.”

Except for the layer of dust covering me, I was naked. The oblique sunlight played on the bright white powder coating my skin, and I was shining like a celestial being. The last thing I wanted was to sit in the chill of this September evening perched atop a heap of rubble in full view of everyone, who couldn’t help but gaze, transfixed by the vision I presented, a feminine incarnation of Siva, nesting miraculously in the midst of Chiswick. But I understood. There might be people still alive below me. If I tried to traverse the unstable wreckage, it might fall and kill someone.

I waited, wondering if Ellie was in there and still alive, perhaps unconscious, or if her body was scattered among the arms, legs, and other parts bystanders were already locating.

* * *

The dust had been carefully wiped away from my face. I was wrapped in a blanket and sitting with a cup of tea. As the rescue team continued their work, I felt relief at the sight of each hand or foot that I did not recognize, and immeasurable guilt. Somebody else would know those hands and feet, and would have to accept what I was not yet accepting; that someone they loved, who had survived five years of carnage and destruction, had stopped short of surviving the war.

I reminded myself that this had not been my war, or my city, and that I only wished each of these people dead because that was the necessary corollary to Ellie being alive.

There was speculation that a gas main had blown up, but I knew better than to believe this. Among those survivors on the scene, the observation was utterly consistent. The building instantly came apart, and then there were two rapid explosions.

What my imagination kept coming back to was something like radio-controlled atomic energy. I pictured a beam of some sort that shattered the very molecules of objects it was aimed at, releasing immeasurable forces by the sublimation of matter. Something from Buck Rogers.

I knew how crazy that was, but hadn’t this whole war been insane? Before the war, no one could have imagined a world ruled by Russia and the United States operating in tandem, but by the autumn of 1944, nobody could imagine the war having any other result. It was clear by then that for the rest of the century, at least, and perhaps for the rest of human history, Roosevelt’s easy-going variety of capitalism and Stalin’s cynical variety of communism would contend for the hearts and minds of all the earth. Nothing else was now possible.

Possible? Once, a radio controlled airplane was just a joke, a gag in a Porky Pig cartoon. Now the Germans had been using them successfully for three months.

I remembered, then, that the RAF had gotten the doodlebug’s number. They had figured out what it was, how it worked, and how to stop it. Now they were shooting most of them down above the channel. Whatever this new thing was that Hitler had thrown at us over our supper, we would figure it out. We would stop it in its tracks, even if it had no tracks, and we would throw it right back at him.

I started crying, and didn’t stop until I fell asleep at the rest centre in Hammersmith.

* * *

Swastika - Ancient Oriental Good Luck Symbol

The following morning, Ellie and I were at a table, having tea and buns at the rest center in Hammersmith, which was cleaner and cheerier than many I had seen before, perhaps because at this stage of the war, the need was less than it had been, and it was easier to keep a place clean and make it cheery. Or maybe it was just that my point of view had changed. I wasn’t visiting this time, gathering news for another column. I was simply here, like everyone else.

“Something German, you reckon?” Ellie asked quietly. I nodded. “There’s been talk around the depot,” she resumed. “Nothing official, just girls talking, piecing together the scraps of information they pick up from place to place.”

“Talk?”

She nodded, glanced around, then leaned closer.

“Hitler has rockets.”

I was actually relieved, hearing that. The Chinese had had rockets for nine hundred years. Hitler’s rockets would be bigger and deadlier, of course, but they would be nothing really new. This was what the Nazis had always done, seizing upon an old, familiar thing and twisting it, like a swastika, into some horrible thing that could terrify ordinary people. Even the swastika was not their own invention. It had been an ancient and innocent symbol of good luck and well being, but for the rest of human history it will remain the one thing that has never been wrested from Hitler’s corrupting grasp.

[1] The actual number of prisoners killed in the raid was 612.

[2] As the war progressed, the boys assigned to this work necessarily became younger.

[3] The V3. In theory, this weapon system would put a stream of artillery shells into London at six-second intervals. The launching site was destroyed by the RAF on July 6th, 1944, and the approach of Allied ground units prevented it being repaired. Further, technical difficulties with the system itself had not been resolved.

[4] Himmler’s purpose in this was to bring the rocket program under his own control.

[5] Mittelwerk-Dora.