AH Fiction - An Ordinary Germanic
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THREE – TELESKOP
The third time we meet is a week later. She phones me and we arrange coffee (of course) at a place near Westminster Cathedral.
Coffee is ordered, conversation begins.
“I read some of your articles about Germany.”
We’re off to a good start, I think. “Oh? Which ones? What’d you think?”
She makes a face. “They’re too – ach, what is the word? – focused. Like to look at stars?”
“Telescope?”
“Yes, teleskop. Too teleskopped. You focus on unusual people. Foreigners. Movie stars. Factory managers.”
I don't point out that as a defector, she’s a little unusual herself. I admit – I’m slightly annoyed. I thought the train piece was some of my better work.
“I am not saying they are not important,” Therese continues as she folds and unfolds a napkin for no discernible reason. “But there are other kinds of Germanics.”
“Like you.”
“Yes, like me. Like two hundred million of us! But here I am, so why not talk about me?”
“I would love to talk about you, Miss Lohmeyer.” Out comes the recorder. “Where do you want to start?”
* * *
Her full name is Sif Therese Lohmeyer, and I’m later told if I ever call her Sif, she will beat me to death with a beer bottle.
(I recommend breaking the bottle and stabbing the jugular, myself, but it’s probably less cathartic.)
Her father’s name was Walther Lohmeyer and her mother was Elke Lohmeyer. Both of them were good, solid Germanics. Germanics is the word Therese uses, probably without thinking of the often brutal homogenization it implies.
Walther and Elke belonged to all the (many) good Germanic groups – DAF, KdF, WHW, NSKK, RGuPB. “A list of acronyms as long as your arm.” They met during university (he studying law, she domestic science), fell in love, married, had only one child.
Therese smiles bitterly. “I was trouble, even before I was born. It was not an easy pregnancy. After that, my mother, she could not have any more children.”
In Germany, it’s allowed, even expected, for a man to leave his wife under those circumstances, but Walther stayed with Elke.
“After that, it was not so easy for them. Father could not get promoted. Mother lost some of her friends. You have to close the door to someone who cannot contribute to the Reich’s future, you see?”
“Was it easy for you? Being an only child?”
“No. Sometimes only, though. In my parent’s times, it would have been very hard. Now, it is not so uncommon. Most of my friends had brothers and sisters, but not all of them. For me, at home, it was very good, though. We had a big house on Ostweg, right next to the lake, and I had all the roof storey for myself. Here, let me show you how it was.”
She tugs some napkins out of the dispenser and draws both her town and her house.
The house is a simple one. Three storeys, kitchen, living room, study on the first, bedrooms on the second, extra large bedroom on the third (or attic or roof storey).
The town, at least in Therese’s depiction, is fairly simple, too. Arrows point NE and SW to Bromberg and Posen. A lake, Rittausee, lies at the center with light pencil mark roads to the west, south and east. The roads, and thus the town, have a vague U shape.
(Later, after consulting an atlas made by the Polish Historical and Remembrance Society, I find out that Eichenbrück, Warthegau used to be Wągrowiec, Poznań Voivodeship.)
The streets Therese draws, which I assume aren’t the only ones – then again, in the East, you never can be sure – are named Ostweg, Reichsadlerstraße, Stephan-Rittau-Straße, Fritz-Steuben-Straße, Heinrich-Claß-Straße, 9.-November-Straße and, heading off to the southwest, Gnesenstraße. Little arrows point off to Kolmar, Markstädt and Rogasen.
She draws a star on Ostweg near the lake. “Here, 7 Ostweg. The big white house by the lake. Everything important I remember happened there.”
The third time we meet is a week later. She phones me and we arrange coffee (of course) at a place near Westminster Cathedral.
Coffee is ordered, conversation begins.
“I read some of your articles about Germany.”
We’re off to a good start, I think. “Oh? Which ones? What’d you think?”
She makes a face. “They’re too – ach, what is the word? – focused. Like to look at stars?”
“Telescope?”
“Yes, teleskop. Too teleskopped. You focus on unusual people. Foreigners. Movie stars. Factory managers.”
I don't point out that as a defector, she’s a little unusual herself. I admit – I’m slightly annoyed. I thought the train piece was some of my better work.
“I am not saying they are not important,” Therese continues as she folds and unfolds a napkin for no discernible reason. “But there are other kinds of Germanics.”
“Like you.”
“Yes, like me. Like two hundred million of us! But here I am, so why not talk about me?”
“I would love to talk about you, Miss Lohmeyer.” Out comes the recorder. “Where do you want to start?”
* * *
Her full name is Sif Therese Lohmeyer, and I’m later told if I ever call her Sif, she will beat me to death with a beer bottle.
(I recommend breaking the bottle and stabbing the jugular, myself, but it’s probably less cathartic.)
Her father’s name was Walther Lohmeyer and her mother was Elke Lohmeyer. Both of them were good, solid Germanics. Germanics is the word Therese uses, probably without thinking of the often brutal homogenization it implies.
Walther and Elke belonged to all the (many) good Germanic groups – DAF, KdF, WHW, NSKK, RGuPB. “A list of acronyms as long as your arm.” They met during university (he studying law, she domestic science), fell in love, married, had only one child.
Therese smiles bitterly. “I was trouble, even before I was born. It was not an easy pregnancy. After that, my mother, she could not have any more children.”
In Germany, it’s allowed, even expected, for a man to leave his wife under those circumstances, but Walther stayed with Elke.
“After that, it was not so easy for them. Father could not get promoted. Mother lost some of her friends. You have to close the door to someone who cannot contribute to the Reich’s future, you see?”
“Was it easy for you? Being an only child?”
“No. Sometimes only, though. In my parent’s times, it would have been very hard. Now, it is not so uncommon. Most of my friends had brothers and sisters, but not all of them. For me, at home, it was very good, though. We had a big house on Ostweg, right next to the lake, and I had all the roof storey for myself. Here, let me show you how it was.”
She tugs some napkins out of the dispenser and draws both her town and her house.
The house is a simple one. Three storeys, kitchen, living room, study on the first, bedrooms on the second, extra large bedroom on the third (or attic or roof storey).
The town, at least in Therese’s depiction, is fairly simple, too. Arrows point NE and SW to Bromberg and Posen. A lake, Rittausee, lies at the center with light pencil mark roads to the west, south and east. The roads, and thus the town, have a vague U shape.
(Later, after consulting an atlas made by the Polish Historical and Remembrance Society, I find out that Eichenbrück, Warthegau used to be Wągrowiec, Poznań Voivodeship.)
The streets Therese draws, which I assume aren’t the only ones – then again, in the East, you never can be sure – are named Ostweg, Reichsadlerstraße, Stephan-Rittau-Straße, Fritz-Steuben-Straße, Heinrich-Claß-Straße, 9.-November-Straße and, heading off to the southwest, Gnesenstraße. Little arrows point off to Kolmar, Markstädt and Rogasen.
She draws a star on Ostweg near the lake. “Here, 7 Ostweg. The big white house by the lake. Everything important I remember happened there.”
Look up where the first two were born
(https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephan_Rittau https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fritz_Steuben)As for Claß, he seemed appropriate without being cliche. There's an Adolf-Hitler-Platz somewhere in town, of course.
Famous local boys I see.Look up where the first two were born
As for Claß, he seemed appropriate without being cliche. There's an Adolf-Hitler-Platz somewhere in town, of course.
Did Henry Wallace lead some sort of Brown Scare ITTL, complete with grilling conservative intellectuals, businesspeople, celebrities, and politicians on whether they ever had ties to (insert Fascist group here)?
Sure!
Queen Elizabeth remains the monarch (ad multos annos!). There will be a bit more information about them down the road.
No, he didn't.
Insider
Banned
Actually daily life isn't that bad topic. How much the usual wage can put on the table? Is there rationing or shortages, and if yes what is short? What is well polished and shiny and where budget is short? How is education and health care? Where people go for vacation? How long the military service takes? How all these compare with rotten West?
Also where Lufthansa flies and what planes they use. Is it British Airways standard of reliability and service or rather Air Kazakhstan?
Also where Lufthansa flies and what planes they use. Is it British Airways standard of reliability and service or rather Air Kazakhstan?
Deleted member 94708
It'd be interesting to see where and how amorphous the boundary between the state and the Party is in the Reich. That is to say, while all government officials are Party members, what about high Party members who aren't? What positions do they wield, what real powers do they have?
That topic is hugely interesting in OTL's PRC and I imagine it is no less so in TTL's Reich.
That topic is hugely interesting in OTL's PRC and I imagine it is no less so in TTL's Reich.
At The French House they don't actually serve pints of beer. You can certainly drink pints, but they have to be served in half pint measures. So the narrator would have said "after a couple of half pints of beer".
I am thinking of changing my username to Nitpicking Pedant.
In the UK we say ground floor (= US first floor), first floor (= US second floor), and so on.
That's correct.
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All right, I'll see what I can do to address them!
This might be harder to work in (then again, Therese was a Luft Hansa (as they style it in this world) stewardess, so maybe not so hard after all). Their route map covers most of Europe for obvious reasons. Overseas destinations are more limited (there are a few flights to North America, some to India and China); those few Germans who can afford intercontinental vacations usually take connecting flights with Commonwealth Air out of London or Turkish Airlines from Istanbul.
Good question. It's a topic I'm not all that familiar with - I have the vague idea that Hitler's successor, or else his successor, tried to merge the two completely for purposes of efficiency (instead of the rather demented system of overlapping and competing authority Hitler enjoyed).
She draws a star on Ostweg near the lake. “Here, 7 Ostweg. The big white house by the lake. Everything important I remember happened there.” Then she produces an old photograph, something like a Polaroid. A man and a woman, obviously a couple, the woman holding up a baby, presumably Therese. Relatives in the background. In front of the couple and the child, an SS officer in a sharp grey uniform.
“My baptism into the Volk,” Therese says with a bitter look on her face. Judging by the small gold crucifix she’s wearing now, her induction into the SS-cult wasn’t the most successful one. “No priest. Just this horrible fat man from the Volksglaubehauptamt. Later, you know, my oma, my grandmum, I mean,” she says and I don’t quite have the heart to point out how nobody says ‘grandmum’, “she gave me a real baptism. Like this.” She licks the tip of one finger and traces a cross over her forehead. Among other, less sanctified things, it reminds me of Father Pierre on the Breitspurbahn.
“Was she religious? Your grandmother?”
“Oma Karin? Oh yes. Very religious. And Opa Horst, too. Good people. The old-fashioned kind, you know? Evangelical. Not the Reichskirche, definitely not Volkschristlich.” She says it with the white-hot contempt of a believer. It’s not my war and I barely know the warring sides, so I just nod. “In school, there is not time for any of that. It is all the volk, the blood. Boys must be brave and strong. Girls must be pretty and, ach, what is the word? Häuslich. Homely?”
If that was the goal, the Reich failed on that front with Therese, too. “To be a good little hausfrau?”
“Yes! A good wife and mother and nothing else.”
“Domestic.”
“Domestic. Yes. The gold prize is to be a kinderreich mother. You know? All the time babies like a factory. Not because children are special, because they are...” Here she pauses and mutters to herself in German. “Innerlich? Nein, nein, was ist... intrinsisch! Ja!” Then comes a sunny smile. “Intrinsic good, you know? Not that. Not in the Reich. Boy babies are soldiers and workers. Girl babies are cooks and to make more babies. Just pieces in the machine. Not people. There are no people in the Reich. Just little pieces of the Volk. A machine with two hundred million screws holding it together. It is like in the movies.”
There follows a long and pleasant digression into the relative merits of British and American science-fiction films.
Four – Muttertag
Our next meeting is on Mother’s Day, just coincidentally two days after Princess Mary has her baby. The papers, naturally, are full of pictures of little Martha (who is, admittedly, rather photogenic in a wrinkly sort of way), as well as Princess Mary (very photogenic despite just bringing 8 lbs of royal wrinkles into the world) and Lt. d’Audemer. The Telegraph has a list of all the heads of state and dignitaries offering their best wishes on the royal birth. The Reich, gracious as always, has nothing to say on the matter, not even from “Prince Albert” and the pretenders at Palais Strousberg.
I’m looking at a picture of Lord Barchester holding his granddaughter as if he’s afraid he’ll drop her (a feeling I remember when my brother finally let me hold my niece at
the age of 7 weeks) when she comes in.
“Good morning, Herr Teleskop.”
“Good morning to you, too, Miss Lohmeyer.”
She smiles, sits down, smiles again. “Congratulate me, please!”
“Congratulations, Miss Lohmeyer. What’ve you done? Will I need to hide any bodies?”
Therese opens up her purse and produces a small book, dark blue leather with a gold-colored lion and unicorn coat of arms and the words BRITISH PASSPORT – UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND on it. “Look! It’s real!” She opens it up and slides it across the table of the coffee shop.
I clear my throat and read aloud. “Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State Requests and requires in the Name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary."
On the third page, a picture of Therese with a very serious, very German, look on her face. And after that:
Type/类型 P
Code/国家码 BR
Passport No/护照号码 3053292017
Surname/姓 (1) LOHMAYER
Given names/名字 (2) SIF THERESE
Nationality/国籍 (3) BRITISH CITIZEN
Date of Birth/出生日期 (4) 17 MAY 90
Sex/性别 (5) F
Place of Birth/出生地点 (6) EICHENBRÜCK GERMANY
Date of Issue/签发日期 (7) 23 MARCH 17
Authority/签发机关 (8) FO
Date of Expiry/有效期至 (9) 23 MARCH 27
Holder's signature/持照人签名 (10) Therese Lohmayer
“Well, Miss Lohmayer, well well.” I smile and hand the passport back. “Congratulations, my dear,” I say. It’s possible I let my hand linger near hers for a moment. “... Sif?”
“Yes. And if you ever tell anyone, I will beat you to death with a beer bottle.”
“Understood. Why don't we celebrate with something a bit better than coffee?”
“My sir, I think this is a very good idea.”
“My baptism into the Volk,” Therese says with a bitter look on her face. Judging by the small gold crucifix she’s wearing now, her induction into the SS-cult wasn’t the most successful one. “No priest. Just this horrible fat man from the Volksglaubehauptamt. Later, you know, my oma, my grandmum, I mean,” she says and I don’t quite have the heart to point out how nobody says ‘grandmum’, “she gave me a real baptism. Like this.” She licks the tip of one finger and traces a cross over her forehead. Among other, less sanctified things, it reminds me of Father Pierre on the Breitspurbahn.
“Was she religious? Your grandmother?”
“Oma Karin? Oh yes. Very religious. And Opa Horst, too. Good people. The old-fashioned kind, you know? Evangelical. Not the Reichskirche, definitely not Volkschristlich.” She says it with the white-hot contempt of a believer. It’s not my war and I barely know the warring sides, so I just nod. “In school, there is not time for any of that. It is all the volk, the blood. Boys must be brave and strong. Girls must be pretty and, ach, what is the word? Häuslich. Homely?”
If that was the goal, the Reich failed on that front with Therese, too. “To be a good little hausfrau?”
“Yes! A good wife and mother and nothing else.”
“Domestic.”
“Domestic. Yes. The gold prize is to be a kinderreich mother. You know? All the time babies like a factory. Not because children are special, because they are...” Here she pauses and mutters to herself in German. “Innerlich? Nein, nein, was ist... intrinsisch! Ja!” Then comes a sunny smile. “Intrinsic good, you know? Not that. Not in the Reich. Boy babies are soldiers and workers. Girl babies are cooks and to make more babies. Just pieces in the machine. Not people. There are no people in the Reich. Just little pieces of the Volk. A machine with two hundred million screws holding it together. It is like in the movies.”
There follows a long and pleasant digression into the relative merits of British and American science-fiction films.
Four – Muttertag
Our next meeting is on Mother’s Day, just coincidentally two days after Princess Mary has her baby. The papers, naturally, are full of pictures of little Martha (who is, admittedly, rather photogenic in a wrinkly sort of way), as well as Princess Mary (very photogenic despite just bringing 8 lbs of royal wrinkles into the world) and Lt. d’Audemer. The Telegraph has a list of all the heads of state and dignitaries offering their best wishes on the royal birth. The Reich, gracious as always, has nothing to say on the matter, not even from “Prince Albert” and the pretenders at Palais Strousberg.
I’m looking at a picture of Lord Barchester holding his granddaughter as if he’s afraid he’ll drop her (a feeling I remember when my brother finally let me hold my niece at
the age of 7 weeks) when she comes in.
“Good morning, Herr Teleskop.”
“Good morning to you, too, Miss Lohmeyer.”
She smiles, sits down, smiles again. “Congratulate me, please!”
“Congratulations, Miss Lohmeyer. What’ve you done? Will I need to hide any bodies?”
Therese opens up her purse and produces a small book, dark blue leather with a gold-colored lion and unicorn coat of arms and the words BRITISH PASSPORT – UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND on it. “Look! It’s real!” She opens it up and slides it across the table of the coffee shop.
I clear my throat and read aloud. “Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State Requests and requires in the Name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary."
On the third page, a picture of Therese with a very serious, very German, look on her face. And after that:
Type/类型 P
Code/国家码 BR
Passport No/护照号码 3053292017
Surname/姓 (1) LOHMAYER
Given names/名字 (2) SIF THERESE
Nationality/国籍 (3) BRITISH CITIZEN
Date of Birth/出生日期 (4) 17 MAY 90
Sex/性别 (5) F
Place of Birth/出生地点 (6) EICHENBRÜCK GERMANY
Date of Issue/签发日期 (7) 23 MARCH 17
Authority/签发机关 (8) FO
Date of Expiry/有效期至 (9) 23 MARCH 27
Holder's signature/持照人签名 (10) Therese Lohmayer
“Well, Miss Lohmayer, well well.” I smile and hand the passport back. “Congratulations, my dear,” I say. It’s possible I let my hand linger near hers for a moment. “... Sif?”
“Yes. And if you ever tell anyone, I will beat you to death with a beer bottle.”
“Understood. Why don't we celebrate with something a bit better than coffee?”
“My sir, I think this is a very good idea.”
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