alternatehistory.com
Chapter LXII
"The Body of Christ"
"Amen"
Peter Klompf paused for a moment to bless himself before returning to his seat in the small room allocated for Catholic Mass within the Reichswehr base deep within the Soviet Union.
In some ways it was an island within an island, Peter was one of the few members of the little diocese amongst his predominantly protestant peers and they were only allocated a dusty room inside the base gynasium with which to hold Mass. Peter wasn't sure he believed in God any longer, he had been having doubts for quite some time, but he attended Mass regularly anyway. It was good to make Father Weissberg, the attendant Standortpfarrer, feel like he was a helpful and necessary presence amongst the suspicious Prussian elites that made up the Reichswehr leadership. Even if Peter didn't necessarily tell the man everything when it came to confession, he sympathised with him all the same.
Peter's father had missed the Great War, a lung affliction as a consequence of a particularly bad case of gout had made sure of that. Peter had been too young to really notice the bitterness it had helped to generate in the man but it had festered all the same, and as he grew up he began to be aware that whenever his father would punish him disproportionately for whatever trouble he had gotten into, or go off on a rant about the Communists, or the Jews or both, that there was something lacking in the man that couldn't quite be healed by providing for his wife and only son. As Peter had neared the age of military service his father had increasingly mentioned the heroism of those who had fought and died for Germany in the Great War, as well as those who had saved Munich from those who had filled their house with vagrants during the brief life of the Bavarian Soviet. It was transparently leading towards an inevitable outcome, Peter knew he was destined to have his father live through him vicariously. He was going to be an officer in the Reichswehr.
His father had nearly lost their family business amidst the hyperinflation of 1923-24 but his friends in the world of Munich's wealthy had allowed him to get back on his feet. Those same contacts had now gotten Peter an officer's candidacy for the army of the Republic that most in those rich circles despised.
"We'll need good men like you and your father, young Klompf, when the time comes." Peter had been assured. When it came to seeking out volunteers for the tank school in Kazan he had put his name down gladly. It was much easier not to be patronised in a place that did not officially exist.
Germany's inferiority in armoured warfare had been a major reason for their defeat in the Great War, and whilst the far-right prattled on about their country having been stabbed in the back there were enough sober minds in the Reichswehr to know that if Germany was ever to reassert herself on the European stage, she would need to learn from the real causes of her defeat. It was thus crucial that the Reichswehr keep abreast of all the new innovations in armoured warfare, even when the peace terms dictated to Germany by the victors officially forbade them from having any armoured vehicles whatsoever.
The Soviet Union had provided a solution to the problems of zealous foreign observers keen to uphold the Versaillies treaty, the Bolsheviks had made the news coming from Russia more enigmatic than ever, and even as Germany's flaunting of its rearmament became increasingly transparent the Reichswehr and the Red Army had continued their cooperation. The two forces worked well together, even if there were those in the Reichswehr who would rather the cooperation end, feeling that emnity between the German army born out of Prussian nobility and one made of workers and peasants was the natural state of affairs. .
Peter had cultural exchange on his mind as he walked towards the canteen, the officers who were wary of their Soviet ally had tried to restrict as much contact as possible with Soviet citizens who weren't directly involved in the military cooperation, however their food was locally sourced and the German chefs had gone native, to great acclaim. A rich, welcoming smell greeted him and Peter was relieved that there were several trays of Chebureki pastires left. Taking his fill Peter sat with his colleagues and bit into the warm dough before savouring the combination of blood sausage and peppers that made up the Russo-German fusion food. It wasn't the only recent collaboration being hatched.
"That new British tank has some speed to it, even Ivan seemed to grasp it." One of his comrades commented jovially, and whilst the others nodded along enthusiastically Peter could only sigh in exasperation.
"I wish I could have come along but Hacher's still seeing Bolsheviks in his borscht." His friend's laughed nervously whilst looking around themselves to check no-one else was listening in too closely. "Hacher" was Major Joseph Harpe, unofficial director of a tank school that didn't officially exist, Peter supposed such a shadowy existence lended itself to paranoia and he would single out individual members of the school who he felt he could trust to report on any activity they suspected to resemble communist infiltration.
"He handed me a copy of Unser Kampf and asked me if I knew anyone who had a Russian girlfriend." Peter went on with the story in a questioning tone, still not quite able to take it seriously.
"What a load of nonsense, honestly, the Russians won't even print the damned thing anymore, let alone in German!" Peter's friend Klaus' knowledge of such a fact raised a few eyebrows, the young man seemed to acknowledge that he'd gone too far.
"And besides...Franz's girlfriend can't read!" The group burst out laughing once more as their comrade Franz's face reddened.
"I'm here to ride tanks, that's all. If any of you upstarts had served in the war then you..."
The tankers began to rise in the effort to cut out a rant from their older friend that they had heard far too many times. His experiences in the First World War had taught him that Germany needed to be the best in the world at tanks for when the next war began. The thought was worth scoffing about, that's why they were all here. Anything else picked up along the way was purely incidental.
As the group strolled out of the canteen, Peter felt Klaus stroking his hand.
"Are we still on for tonight?"
Peter gave a barely noticeable nod, before squeezing Klaus' wrist.
---
It didn't happen every night, but it was an increasingly common occurance. Peter would lay awake in the communal barracks waiting for the rest of the camp to settle down for the evening, then, slowly, the creep of footsteps would be heard, followed by another pair, and another, until Peter himself slid out of bed and took his place in the circle, as Klaus adjusted the paraffin lamp to emit as little light as possible before he unveiled tonight's reading. The discussion group's loss of Unser Kampf was no great shame, Peter hadn't found it to be a particularly fascinating read, and with election's approaching in the Fatherland there was more than enough KPD literature going around.
The group sat silently, intent on picking up on Klaus' hushed revolutionary tones. All around them the Reichswehr's leadership sat soundly, unaware that the outside world was red.
---
Sorry for the wait on this, my Barbarossa series over at SLP has been a bit of a distraction.
"The East knew and to the present day knows only that One is Free; the Greek and Roman world, that some are free; the German World knows that All are free."
~ F. W. Hegel, The Philoshophy of History
~ F. W. Hegel, The Philoshophy of History
"The Body of Christ"
"Amen"
Peter Klompf paused for a moment to bless himself before returning to his seat in the small room allocated for Catholic Mass within the Reichswehr base deep within the Soviet Union.
In some ways it was an island within an island, Peter was one of the few members of the little diocese amongst his predominantly protestant peers and they were only allocated a dusty room inside the base gynasium with which to hold Mass. Peter wasn't sure he believed in God any longer, he had been having doubts for quite some time, but he attended Mass regularly anyway. It was good to make Father Weissberg, the attendant Standortpfarrer, feel like he was a helpful and necessary presence amongst the suspicious Prussian elites that made up the Reichswehr leadership. Even if Peter didn't necessarily tell the man everything when it came to confession, he sympathised with him all the same.
Peter's father had missed the Great War, a lung affliction as a consequence of a particularly bad case of gout had made sure of that. Peter had been too young to really notice the bitterness it had helped to generate in the man but it had festered all the same, and as he grew up he began to be aware that whenever his father would punish him disproportionately for whatever trouble he had gotten into, or go off on a rant about the Communists, or the Jews or both, that there was something lacking in the man that couldn't quite be healed by providing for his wife and only son. As Peter had neared the age of military service his father had increasingly mentioned the heroism of those who had fought and died for Germany in the Great War, as well as those who had saved Munich from those who had filled their house with vagrants during the brief life of the Bavarian Soviet. It was transparently leading towards an inevitable outcome, Peter knew he was destined to have his father live through him vicariously. He was going to be an officer in the Reichswehr.
His father had nearly lost their family business amidst the hyperinflation of 1923-24 but his friends in the world of Munich's wealthy had allowed him to get back on his feet. Those same contacts had now gotten Peter an officer's candidacy for the army of the Republic that most in those rich circles despised.
"We'll need good men like you and your father, young Klompf, when the time comes." Peter had been assured. When it came to seeking out volunteers for the tank school in Kazan he had put his name down gladly. It was much easier not to be patronised in a place that did not officially exist.
Germany's inferiority in armoured warfare had been a major reason for their defeat in the Great War, and whilst the far-right prattled on about their country having been stabbed in the back there were enough sober minds in the Reichswehr to know that if Germany was ever to reassert herself on the European stage, she would need to learn from the real causes of her defeat. It was thus crucial that the Reichswehr keep abreast of all the new innovations in armoured warfare, even when the peace terms dictated to Germany by the victors officially forbade them from having any armoured vehicles whatsoever.
The Soviet Union had provided a solution to the problems of zealous foreign observers keen to uphold the Versaillies treaty, the Bolsheviks had made the news coming from Russia more enigmatic than ever, and even as Germany's flaunting of its rearmament became increasingly transparent the Reichswehr and the Red Army had continued their cooperation. The two forces worked well together, even if there were those in the Reichswehr who would rather the cooperation end, feeling that emnity between the German army born out of Prussian nobility and one made of workers and peasants was the natural state of affairs. .
Peter had cultural exchange on his mind as he walked towards the canteen, the officers who were wary of their Soviet ally had tried to restrict as much contact as possible with Soviet citizens who weren't directly involved in the military cooperation, however their food was locally sourced and the German chefs had gone native, to great acclaim. A rich, welcoming smell greeted him and Peter was relieved that there were several trays of Chebureki pastires left. Taking his fill Peter sat with his colleagues and bit into the warm dough before savouring the combination of blood sausage and peppers that made up the Russo-German fusion food. It wasn't the only recent collaboration being hatched.
"That new British tank has some speed to it, even Ivan seemed to grasp it." One of his comrades commented jovially, and whilst the others nodded along enthusiastically Peter could only sigh in exasperation.
"I wish I could have come along but Hacher's still seeing Bolsheviks in his borscht." His friend's laughed nervously whilst looking around themselves to check no-one else was listening in too closely. "Hacher" was Major Joseph Harpe, unofficial director of a tank school that didn't officially exist, Peter supposed such a shadowy existence lended itself to paranoia and he would single out individual members of the school who he felt he could trust to report on any activity they suspected to resemble communist infiltration.
"He handed me a copy of Unser Kampf and asked me if I knew anyone who had a Russian girlfriend." Peter went on with the story in a questioning tone, still not quite able to take it seriously.
"What a load of nonsense, honestly, the Russians won't even print the damned thing anymore, let alone in German!" Peter's friend Klaus' knowledge of such a fact raised a few eyebrows, the young man seemed to acknowledge that he'd gone too far.
"And besides...Franz's girlfriend can't read!" The group burst out laughing once more as their comrade Franz's face reddened.
"I'm here to ride tanks, that's all. If any of you upstarts had served in the war then you..."
The tankers began to rise in the effort to cut out a rant from their older friend that they had heard far too many times. His experiences in the First World War had taught him that Germany needed to be the best in the world at tanks for when the next war began. The thought was worth scoffing about, that's why they were all here. Anything else picked up along the way was purely incidental.
As the group strolled out of the canteen, Peter felt Klaus stroking his hand.
"Are we still on for tonight?"
Peter gave a barely noticeable nod, before squeezing Klaus' wrist.
---
It didn't happen every night, but it was an increasingly common occurance. Peter would lay awake in the communal barracks waiting for the rest of the camp to settle down for the evening, then, slowly, the creep of footsteps would be heard, followed by another pair, and another, until Peter himself slid out of bed and took his place in the circle, as Klaus adjusted the paraffin lamp to emit as little light as possible before he unveiled tonight's reading. The discussion group's loss of Unser Kampf was no great shame, Peter hadn't found it to be a particularly fascinating read, and with election's approaching in the Fatherland there was more than enough KPD literature going around.
The group sat silently, intent on picking up on Klaus' hushed revolutionary tones. All around them the Reichswehr's leadership sat soundly, unaware that the outside world was red.
---
Sorry for the wait on this, my Barbarossa series over at SLP has been a bit of a distraction.
- The Red
- Word Count: 1.3k