Clint Beastwood
Banned
Were these Jewish ancestors Converted Jews? Also, did the SS have you prove you were Jewish free in your family tree?
[AH Fiction] Murder in Hitlerstadt
- Thread starter varyar
- Start date
Were these Jewish ancestors Converted Jews? Also, did the SS have you prove you were Jewish free in your family tree?
Jews who had converted to Christianity was still Jews in the eyes of the Nazi, but they did "Aryanised" some based on political expediency. Non-Jews who had converted to Judaism was seen as race traitors and was treated as Jews. Jewish ancestry had to be proven, but there was examples of Mischlings, where their non-Jewish mothers "confessed" that they had affairs and the Mischling was a result of that affair. It was seen as better to be a bastard than a Mischling. The was also example of the SS being forced giving up arresting Jewish spouses of non-Jews thanks to protests from their non-Jewish spouses.
We need to remember that the Nazi Regime was far weaker than the Communist regime. The only thing which allowed the Nazi to get away with the Holocaust was the fact that the population was forced to unite behind it because of the War. But even in that position there was a lot of actors, which the Nazi couldn't afford to alienate. Hell even in occupied Denmark popular protest forced the Nazi to back down (the Danes pretty much feed Germany under the War, and the Germans was terrified that the large strike in Copenhagen would spread to the countryside).
A historical example of "hidden" Jews would be the "marranos" of Spain, basically Jews who converted to Catholicism to avoid expulsion or worse but who secretly maintained some Jewish practices. After a few generations these practices had degenerated to things like lighting a candle inside a pot (so the light is not seen by outsiders) on Friday night etc. The problem with Jews in this scenario is that Germany in particular, and most of Europe is by the 19th and 20th centuries a highly bureaucratized state with all sorts of written records. There would be ways for Jews to acquire false identities and survive, but in terms of maintaining any sort of Jewish tradition or even finding other hidden Jews this would be extremely difficult, if not impossible. IMHO any Jews who manage to hide behind a false identity would keep their heads down until such a time as they could find a way out of Reichs territory. For Jewish males, a false identity would also need to have a medical certificate documenting why they were circumcised and when - there are medical reasons for this. Ironically, the easiest way for a Jew to deal with this would to claim to be a Muslim.
I think hidden Jews would give up on circumcision. Also I think hidden Jews would be the most likely among the Germanised inhabitants of the East, but I think they would have a incredible hard time keeping any but the most superficial traditions going.
Surprise! This is actually a period drama!
ELEVEN
Ziska stared blearily at the clock on the office wall.
5:15 AM on a seemingly endless and thoroughly dull midnight shift. Nobody had died in Hitlerstadt tonight – or at least nobody had died in a way to attract the attention of the Kripo.
That wasn’t bad, of course. What was bad was that Ziska had no leads, no information, no nothing on any of her open cases. That was bad. That gnawed at her.
She knew the right witness, the golden key that would open the case, was out there, waiting to be found. One of Giraud’s neighbors, one of her co-workers, someone.
Ziska smiled bitterly. There were only six million people in the city. How hard could it be?
She ignored the TV in the background – some stupid war movie was on, as the boys in the squad insisted – and flipped through the Giraud file once again, forcing herself to actually read each word instead of letting her eyes lazily roam from page to page.
“ – breaking news from America,” a voice said in some sort of British accent. In English.
Ziska looked up, frowning. “What is that?” she asked, turning towards the TV. The war movie was gone, replaced by a South Asian woman in a smart suit behind a desk. All the detectives were staring at the TV in confusion.
“We now have confirmation that the state of Michigan has been won by Federalist candidate Lena Fanning, sealing her victory in the election, and making her the first woman to be elected president of the United States.”
Three homicide detectives (Dahm was off for the night) looked at the TV and then each other.
Flügel was the first one to speak. “A woman? Thor and Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ll do anything.”
Ziska said nothing. America. A woman president.
There had been some vague mentions of the American election in Reich media over the last few months, of course. Mostly sneeringly contemptuous in tone, of course. Letting the (Jewish-influenced) masses blunder their way into choosing from a pair of mediocrities? Of course. Let the mongrels delight in their directionless democracy! The Reich, even with the
gracious recognition of the petty parties, was unified in purpose and voice alike.
A woman in charge of the second most powerful country on Earth.
Ziska scratched the skin above her lips to hide her smile, a gesture and a cover she’d long since mastered.
Here in the Reich, things had changed – slowly, painfully, and only under the utmost necessity – since the days of Kinder, Küche, Kirche. Children, Kitchen, Church, the ideal focuses of a woman’s attention in Nazi ideology. There had always been mavericks like Leni Riefenstahl or Melitta von Stauffenberg, of course (hadn’t there been another female pilot in the war years? Ziska was sure there was, but she struggled to remember the woman’s name), but over the last generation or so, the Reich had grudgingly loosened the bonds. A little. Female detectives, female lawyers, female military officers, yes, yes, yes. But no women in the upper ranks of the Kripo (or even the middle ranks), no women judges, no women above the rank of lieutenant.
And now the mongrels had elected a woman to lead them.
Ziska stared fixedly at the TV, ignoring the little ‘Gelb und Weiß’ in the bottom corner (the motto of some Catholic subversive group based in the UK), and wondered who this Lena Fanning was. She wondered what the Reich’s official reaction would be. She wondered what the Reich’s official reaction had been in 1980 when a Polack had been elected president. Probably nearly as contemptuous as its reaction had been in 2000 when a Negro had been elected president. Ziska remembered that all too well. The infantile minds and hands at Der Stürmer, still the most blatant and tawdry of the Reich’s numerous national papers, had run wild with ugly images, some drawn, some made by computer, during all eight years of the curiously named Fury Nolan’s presidency.
Suddenly, the British woman disappeared, replaced by completely excessive gunfire as Hans Haas and Meinhard Gerber mowed down a small army of degenerate drug dealers – blackbirds, of course.
The detectives looked at each other for a few seconds and then went back to whatever they’d been doing before the pirate broadcast shone some light into the Reich.
It was the only safe response, of course. In Germany, so many of the walls had eyes and ears.
Eventually, the 8:00 relief showed up. Ziska went home and thought about women – powerful American women and dead French ones in equal measure.
ELEVEN
Ziska stared blearily at the clock on the office wall.
5:15 AM on a seemingly endless and thoroughly dull midnight shift. Nobody had died in Hitlerstadt tonight – or at least nobody had died in a way to attract the attention of the Kripo.
That wasn’t bad, of course. What was bad was that Ziska had no leads, no information, no nothing on any of her open cases. That was bad. That gnawed at her.
She knew the right witness, the golden key that would open the case, was out there, waiting to be found. One of Giraud’s neighbors, one of her co-workers, someone.
Ziska smiled bitterly. There were only six million people in the city. How hard could it be?
She ignored the TV in the background – some stupid war movie was on, as the boys in the squad insisted – and flipped through the Giraud file once again, forcing herself to actually read each word instead of letting her eyes lazily roam from page to page.
“ – breaking news from America,” a voice said in some sort of British accent. In English.
Ziska looked up, frowning. “What is that?” she asked, turning towards the TV. The war movie was gone, replaced by a South Asian woman in a smart suit behind a desk. All the detectives were staring at the TV in confusion.
“We now have confirmation that the state of Michigan has been won by Federalist candidate Lena Fanning, sealing her victory in the election, and making her the first woman to be elected president of the United States.”
Three homicide detectives (Dahm was off for the night) looked at the TV and then each other.
Flügel was the first one to speak. “A woman? Thor and Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ll do anything.”
Ziska said nothing. America. A woman president.
There had been some vague mentions of the American election in Reich media over the last few months, of course. Mostly sneeringly contemptuous in tone, of course. Letting the (Jewish-influenced) masses blunder their way into choosing from a pair of mediocrities? Of course. Let the mongrels delight in their directionless democracy! The Reich, even with the
gracious recognition of the petty parties, was unified in purpose and voice alike.
A woman in charge of the second most powerful country on Earth.
Ziska scratched the skin above her lips to hide her smile, a gesture and a cover she’d long since mastered.
Here in the Reich, things had changed – slowly, painfully, and only under the utmost necessity – since the days of Kinder, Küche, Kirche. Children, Kitchen, Church, the ideal focuses of a woman’s attention in Nazi ideology. There had always been mavericks like Leni Riefenstahl or Melitta von Stauffenberg, of course (hadn’t there been another female pilot in the war years? Ziska was sure there was, but she struggled to remember the woman’s name), but over the last generation or so, the Reich had grudgingly loosened the bonds. A little. Female detectives, female lawyers, female military officers, yes, yes, yes. But no women in the upper ranks of the Kripo (or even the middle ranks), no women judges, no women above the rank of lieutenant.
And now the mongrels had elected a woman to lead them.
Ziska stared fixedly at the TV, ignoring the little ‘Gelb und Weiß’ in the bottom corner (the motto of some Catholic subversive group based in the UK), and wondered who this Lena Fanning was. She wondered what the Reich’s official reaction would be. She wondered what the Reich’s official reaction had been in 1980 when a Polack had been elected president. Probably nearly as contemptuous as its reaction had been in 2000 when a Negro had been elected president. Ziska remembered that all too well. The infantile minds and hands at Der Stürmer, still the most blatant and tawdry of the Reich’s numerous national papers, had run wild with ugly images, some drawn, some made by computer, during all eight years of the curiously named Fury Nolan’s presidency.
Suddenly, the British woman disappeared, replaced by completely excessive gunfire as Hans Haas and Meinhard Gerber mowed down a small army of degenerate drug dealers – blackbirds, of course.
The detectives looked at each other for a few seconds and then went back to whatever they’d been doing before the pirate broadcast shone some light into the Reich.
It was the only safe response, of course. In Germany, so many of the walls had eyes and ears.
Eventually, the 8:00 relief showed up. Ziska went home and thought about women – powerful American women and dead French ones in equal measure.
Last edited:
Tangent - if anybody wants to make a Wikipedia page for this TL's American presidents, I'd be tremendously grateful and amused.
1940-1948 Thomas Dewey (Republican)
1952-1960 Estes Kefauver (Democrat)
1964-1968 Earl Warren (R)
1968-1972 Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. (D)
1972-1980 George W. Romney (R)
1980-1988 Roman Strzechowski (D) (Patrick Stewart)
1988-1992 Mario Cuomo (D)
1992-1996 Robert Rambin (R) (George Peppard)
2000-2008 Fury Nolan (D) (Richard Roundtree)
2008-2012 Thomas Priestly (D) (Rob Lowe)
2012- Lena Fanning (Federalist) (Diane Lane)
1940-1948 Thomas Dewey (Republican)
1952-1960 Estes Kefauver (Democrat)
1964-1968 Earl Warren (R)
1968-1972 Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. (D)
1972-1980 George W. Romney (R)
1980-1988 Roman Strzechowski (D) (Patrick Stewart)
1988-1992 Mario Cuomo (D)
1992-1996 Robert Rambin (R) (George Peppard)
2000-2008 Fury Nolan (D) (Richard Roundtree)
2008-2012 Thomas Priestly (D) (Rob Lowe)
2012- Lena Fanning (Federalist) (Diane Lane)
Wolf of Badenoch
Donor
Not to mention the difficulty implicit in tracking down and identifying those who have been non compliant or converted. Let's face it, who would have guessed that Gwyneth Paltrow had a Grandfather who was a Polish rabbi?
Wolf of Badenoch
Donor
SS Candidates from 1935-41 had very high standards to meet, not only a 'Jew-free' family tree but education, health and fitness - even in respect of dental cavities. As the war progressed, these standards dropped and SS Auxilliaries were recruited from ethnic groups previously proscribed
In addition to this hacking of a Reich network, there are probably TTL's equivalents of Radio Free Europe, BBC World Service, and so on.
I imagine that these will be subjected to heavy jamming, with penalties for being caught listening to them.
The regime would be keen to impose it's ideology on the population, and stop foreigners doing the same. So I wouldn't be surprised if the only authorised radios and televisions are fixed-reception devices, not easily tuneable to anything bar official stations.
Quite an interesting piece, with some errors noted in the comments (it's how Grundig started).
https://www.transdiffusion.org/2008/01/07/hitlers_radio
I have a British translation of Hitler's Table Talk. At one point he refers to a "wired-wireless". This does not seem to make any sense.
But in British English, particularly back then, a "wireless" was what is called in American English a "radio".
Aha! Now it makes sense! You have a "radio", but it only receives transmissions over a telephone-style line. So the Propagandaministerium controls what people can listen to.
The Volksempfänger, the cheap "People's Radio", was built to only tune in German stations and not the BBC. (Of course, it also ended up getting transmissions from Sefton Delmer's Aspidistra, but that's another story (Black Boomerang).)
Insider
Banned
They good propaganda is one when people do not know that they are afflicted by it, and while they can even label themselves as a dissenters, they still do agree with the state on majority of issues without realising it. I guess that those who buy into western philosophy would not be seen as as much criminal, or revolutionary, as downright insane, and I guess the proper Aryan citizen who suddenly develops such leanings could end up in asylum for "treatment" instead of KZL. Of course, money can make this be a treatment in Bad Ischl, or other resort.
There for, I guess there is a popular front, a democratic front, a social front and so on an so on in Nazi Party and as was mentioned, some even evolved into splinter parties. There is a degree of choice offered to Reich citizens, just enough to make them think they can change something, but not enough to change the system. Thanks to propaganda, even if the Nazis fall, the replacement, democratically elected government would be "Not-Nazi TM Fascists"
There for, I guess there is a popular front, a democratic front, a social front and so on an so on in Nazi Party and as was mentioned, some even evolved into splinter parties. There is a degree of choice offered to Reich citizens, just enough to make them think they can change something, but not enough to change the system. Thanks to propaganda, even if the Nazis fall, the replacement, democratically elected government would be "Not-Nazi TM Fascists"
It seems like the pirate TV broadcasts are a normal thing even in Hitlerstadt. My guess is that some Reich citizens tune into certain stations on purpose because they can pick up foreign broadcasts. Watching pirate TV in 2016 is probably like listening to Tokyo Rose or Axis Sally OTL. You watch the entertaining stuff and ignore the propaganda. The Nazis let some thru on purpose just to see what the other side is up too. It also adds credibility to the Nazi's own propaganda. You allow some news from the outside to come in and the Nazi government says "hey we are not making this up".
Short update tonight, sorry! More tomorrow, as well as answers to previous comments/questions.
ELEVEN
A jolt of turbulence shook Ziska out of her light, dreamless sleep.
“Dear ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our approach to Adrian von Fölkersam Flughafen. For your safety, please return to your seats, return your tray tables to their upright and locked position, and kindly fasten your safety belts,” the DLH stewardess announced in a bored tone.
The Focke-Wulf A200 banked to what Ziska, never fond of flying, considered an extreme degree as it descended over Ingermanland. Some dumb part of her made Ziska look out the window and see, at an alarming angle, rows and rows of cheap post-war housing punctuated by massive post-war factories. It probably wasn’t ironic, strictly speaking, that she was flying in a Focke-Wulf over Junkers factories, but Ziska still found it amusing. It almost made up for not coming in out of the west, not coming in over the Gulf of Finland instead of ugly working class neighborhoods south of the city.
Ten minutes later, the plane touched down at von Fölkersam. It was a dreary old airport, an unwieldy combination of a small, dingy late 1940s terminal and a slightly larger, slightly less dingy 1980s terminal. The older terminal was for Newaburg’s handful of international routes (Helsingfors, a few Balkan cities). Ziska had never been inside, but she knew a few people who had. Unanimously it was described as third-rate.
There was an Orpo car waiting for her outside the terminal. Ziska offered a weary German salute, showed her Kripo ID and then got into the back of the car.
“Heil,” the constable stuck with chauffeur duty said. “No bags?”
“Not staying long enough,” Ziska said. “Germanic efficiency.”
“No Kripo money for a hotel, huh?”
“That as well.”
The cop laughed. “Unterwachtmeister Manfred Rödl, at your service.”
Ziska nodded and sank back into the seat. She’d gotten up at 6 AM for the 8:00 flight. It had left an hour late and only reached the gate at quarter to twelve. That wasn’t so bad – early mornings and long days came with the job. But she’d had that damn nightmare with Giraud in it again, and this time there’d been nobody there when she woke up.
On top of that, it had been a rainy, dreary day back in Hitlerstadt and it was doubly so up here on the farthest fringe of the Ostsee.
“Any stops you want to make before Gießereistraße?” Rödl asked as they left the airport behind and pulled onto Reichsautobahn 95, one of the longer highways in the Reich – it ran from Newaburg all the way down to Theoderichshafen on the Black Sea. The great east-west autobahns far outclassed it, though, but saw considerably less traffic, at least once you left the settled Reich behind and got into the Reichskommissariats.
ELEVEN
A jolt of turbulence shook Ziska out of her light, dreamless sleep.
“Dear ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our approach to Adrian von Fölkersam Flughafen. For your safety, please return to your seats, return your tray tables to their upright and locked position, and kindly fasten your safety belts,” the DLH stewardess announced in a bored tone.
The Focke-Wulf A200 banked to what Ziska, never fond of flying, considered an extreme degree as it descended over Ingermanland. Some dumb part of her made Ziska look out the window and see, at an alarming angle, rows and rows of cheap post-war housing punctuated by massive post-war factories. It probably wasn’t ironic, strictly speaking, that she was flying in a Focke-Wulf over Junkers factories, but Ziska still found it amusing. It almost made up for not coming in out of the west, not coming in over the Gulf of Finland instead of ugly working class neighborhoods south of the city.
Ten minutes later, the plane touched down at von Fölkersam. It was a dreary old airport, an unwieldy combination of a small, dingy late 1940s terminal and a slightly larger, slightly less dingy 1980s terminal. The older terminal was for Newaburg’s handful of international routes (Helsingfors, a few Balkan cities). Ziska had never been inside, but she knew a few people who had. Unanimously it was described as third-rate.
There was an Orpo car waiting for her outside the terminal. Ziska offered a weary German salute, showed her Kripo ID and then got into the back of the car.
“Heil,” the constable stuck with chauffeur duty said. “No bags?”
“Not staying long enough,” Ziska said. “Germanic efficiency.”
“No Kripo money for a hotel, huh?”
“That as well.”
The cop laughed. “Unterwachtmeister Manfred Rödl, at your service.”
Ziska nodded and sank back into the seat. She’d gotten up at 6 AM for the 8:00 flight. It had left an hour late and only reached the gate at quarter to twelve. That wasn’t so bad – early mornings and long days came with the job. But she’d had that damn nightmare with Giraud in it again, and this time there’d been nobody there when she woke up.
On top of that, it had been a rainy, dreary day back in Hitlerstadt and it was doubly so up here on the farthest fringe of the Ostsee.
“Any stops you want to make before Gießereistraße?” Rödl asked as they left the airport behind and pulled onto Reichsautobahn 95, one of the longer highways in the Reich – it ran from Newaburg all the way down to Theoderichshafen on the Black Sea. The great east-west autobahns far outclassed it, though, but saw considerably less traffic, at least once you left the settled Reich behind and got into the Reichskommissariats.
re: radios and TVs, the ones built in the Berlin Pact are indeed specially constructed so no foreign broadcasts come through. As seen in the earlier scene, it doesn't always work. The BP 'Internet' is likewise completely separate from the one used by the rest of the world. GCHQ and the NSA (or whatever it's called here) are constantly trying (and sometimes succeeding) in efforts to crack into it. Listening to foreign broadcasts (and reading foreign newspapers) is still illegal, but the careful and discreet can get away with it. I like @viperjock 's idea of it being something of a safety valve, but I think it's something the Nazis would consider it too risky. Too many people might get strange ideas.
At least one of them will, I think.
Update time!
***
Looking back, Ziska could see, faintly and shrouded in smog, the hills of the Pulkau-Höhen south of the airport. Looking ahead, she could see smokestacks and high rises. Somehow, the ones here in Newaburg looked even bleaker and more depressing than the ones back home in Hitlerstadt. No wonder they’re all asocials, growing up in places like that, she thought. It was cold here, below freezing already in early November. No snow. Somehow that made it worse. A blanket of snow, even a dusting, would have been better than the greys and browns that surrounded the car.
After a few miles, the autobahn dipped slightly and was crossed by a large overpass. Ziska could see a line of dark grey SS-Küstenwache trucks rumbling along the overpass, traveling on the east-west Reichsstraße that linked Newaburg to the base in Kronestadt.
Past the Reichsstraße were factories and Hochhäuser sprouting up like mushrooms around Newaburg (the city was sprawling, even if its population was a fraction of what it had been before the war). Acker, Desch SI, HGW, IG Farben, Junkers, Konti Öl, Krupp, Siemens-Schärer – it was practically an A to Z of the lumbering, if not outright lurching, dinosaurs of German industry.
Then they left the industrial areas behind and entered a more genteel neighborhood full of Baltic style houses. What middle class Newaburg had surely lived here. There were pubs and SS-cult temples and Party offices, swastikas and statues, all the style and substance of settlements in the new East. And then the heart of the city. They crossed a canal, passed by one of Newaburg’s modest railway stations (nothing like Südbahnhof back in Hitlerstadt), crossed another canal, and turned onto a broad avenue named Carl-Gustav-Wrangel-Allee. This intersected with several busy streets – Alexander-von-Kurland-Allee, Herbert-von-Böckmann-Straße, Alfred-Rosenberg-Allee, the inevitable Adolf-Hitler-Allee. (The three Allees converged on the inevitable Adolf-Hitler-Platz.) The car turned right onto Hitler-Allee, the old Nevsky Prospect, and then left onto Erich-von-Mansteine-Straße before turning right once again onto a small street with no sign that Ziska could see. And then it reached Gießereistraße, just a little ways south of the Newa River. Ziska wondered if it was frozen over yet.
“Here we are,” Rödl said.
The building was an imposing eight-story stone structure that looked like it had somehow survived the war intact, something that couldn’t be said for much of the city. The eagle and swastika (of course) emblem of the Reichsjustizminsterium hung above the door, larger than life, and the words REICHSGERICHT HANS-JOACHIM REHSE. Reich Court, and no doubt Rehse was some hanging judge of the immediate post-war period.
As Ziska got out of the car and followed Rödl across the underground parking lot, she wondered how many communists, Slavs, asocials, subversives and degenerates had met their end under Rehse’s sentencing. Once, in a quiet, never-again-spoken-of conversation with a prosecutor back in Hitlerstadt, Ziska and the lawyer had figured out that Otto Georg Thierack, Roland Friesler and Curt Rothenberger, the Judge-Presidents of the People’s Court (the main forerunner to the modern Reich Court) during the war years, were responsible for sentencing over 12,000 people to death under what might be considered ‘expedited’ trials.
Nowadays, things weren’t quite so bad, but they certainly weren’t as ‘lenient’ as courts in the West. As far as homicide went, if your case was solid enough to actually go to trial, conviction was all but guaranteed. The only wiggle room was sentencing, an area where the law gave judges a great deal of latitude. Cop humor said a defendant had great chances in court – a chance of sterilization, a chance of a concentration camp, a chance of life in prison, a chance of life in the penitentiary, a chance of execution...
There were exceptions, though. Sometimes, rarely, politics dictated the judges show leniency, thus proving they were decent, understanding men – and they were always men. There were a few female lawyers, but no judges. And sometimes a defendant would get lucky and get assigned to a panel of judges with formalist leanings – formalism being the odd and officially disapproved of, but not-quite-censured notion that the law as written should be adhered to, or at least consulted at some point.
The judges of Newaburg had a reputation for being more in line with the Reich’s judicial orthodoxy – convict, convict, convict. And the process was hastened even more by a fact of geography. Newaburg’s central prison, home to gallows and guillotine alike, was right next door to the courthouse. Convenient, Ziska thought. Germanic efficiency at its finest.
As the elevator, a creaky old thing probably as old as Ziska’s father, climbed from the basement to the fourth floor of the courthouse, Ziska went over the file she’d brought with her from Hitlerstadt.
She could recite most of it without looking, but it never, ever hurt to be prepared on the witness stand. Sometimes you’d get needled by a formalist. Sometimes, if you were a woman, you’d get harassed by an especially ogreish judge.
The defendant – Adolf Dieter Greiss, a Wartherlander who had two years of work at a Daimler-Benz factory in Genshagen with a sideline in cocaine.
The victim – Hans Peter Lindegaard, a Dane and fellow factory worker/cocaine dealer.
Just after joining the Homicide Inspectorate, Ziska had worked the case as a secondary with Dahm as the primary. Greiss had been inconsiderate enough to flee the city after shedding blood, perhaps because of the abundance of evidence against him. And now, six months later, he’d gotten himself arrested for attempting to rob a diner along the Reichsautobahn just outside Newaburg and killing a 20 year old waitress in the process. Someone from Hitlerstadt had to appear to give evidence on the earlier killing and Dahm himself was on a week’s leave on Prora, so the Hitlerstadt Kripo had sent her on the day trip in his stead.
In the West, it could be said The wheels of justice turn slowly, but grind exceedingly fine. In the Reich, there was nothing slow about it. Greiss had been arrested four days ago. Today would be the first and last day of his trial.
At least one of them will, I think.
Update time!
***
Looking back, Ziska could see, faintly and shrouded in smog, the hills of the Pulkau-Höhen south of the airport. Looking ahead, she could see smokestacks and high rises. Somehow, the ones here in Newaburg looked even bleaker and more depressing than the ones back home in Hitlerstadt. No wonder they’re all asocials, growing up in places like that, she thought. It was cold here, below freezing already in early November. No snow. Somehow that made it worse. A blanket of snow, even a dusting, would have been better than the greys and browns that surrounded the car.
After a few miles, the autobahn dipped slightly and was crossed by a large overpass. Ziska could see a line of dark grey SS-Küstenwache trucks rumbling along the overpass, traveling on the east-west Reichsstraße that linked Newaburg to the base in Kronestadt.
Past the Reichsstraße were factories and Hochhäuser sprouting up like mushrooms around Newaburg (the city was sprawling, even if its population was a fraction of what it had been before the war). Acker, Desch SI, HGW, IG Farben, Junkers, Konti Öl, Krupp, Siemens-Schärer – it was practically an A to Z of the lumbering, if not outright lurching, dinosaurs of German industry.
Then they left the industrial areas behind and entered a more genteel neighborhood full of Baltic style houses. What middle class Newaburg had surely lived here. There were pubs and SS-cult temples and Party offices, swastikas and statues, all the style and substance of settlements in the new East. And then the heart of the city. They crossed a canal, passed by one of Newaburg’s modest railway stations (nothing like Südbahnhof back in Hitlerstadt), crossed another canal, and turned onto a broad avenue named Carl-Gustav-Wrangel-Allee. This intersected with several busy streets – Alexander-von-Kurland-Allee, Herbert-von-Böckmann-Straße, Alfred-Rosenberg-Allee, the inevitable Adolf-Hitler-Allee. (The three Allees converged on the inevitable Adolf-Hitler-Platz.) The car turned right onto Hitler-Allee, the old Nevsky Prospect, and then left onto Erich-von-Mansteine-Straße before turning right once again onto a small street with no sign that Ziska could see. And then it reached Gießereistraße, just a little ways south of the Newa River. Ziska wondered if it was frozen over yet.
“Here we are,” Rödl said.
The building was an imposing eight-story stone structure that looked like it had somehow survived the war intact, something that couldn’t be said for much of the city. The eagle and swastika (of course) emblem of the Reichsjustizminsterium hung above the door, larger than life, and the words REICHSGERICHT HANS-JOACHIM REHSE. Reich Court, and no doubt Rehse was some hanging judge of the immediate post-war period.
As Ziska got out of the car and followed Rödl across the underground parking lot, she wondered how many communists, Slavs, asocials, subversives and degenerates had met their end under Rehse’s sentencing. Once, in a quiet, never-again-spoken-of conversation with a prosecutor back in Hitlerstadt, Ziska and the lawyer had figured out that Otto Georg Thierack, Roland Friesler and Curt Rothenberger, the Judge-Presidents of the People’s Court (the main forerunner to the modern Reich Court) during the war years, were responsible for sentencing over 12,000 people to death under what might be considered ‘expedited’ trials.
Nowadays, things weren’t quite so bad, but they certainly weren’t as ‘lenient’ as courts in the West. As far as homicide went, if your case was solid enough to actually go to trial, conviction was all but guaranteed. The only wiggle room was sentencing, an area where the law gave judges a great deal of latitude. Cop humor said a defendant had great chances in court – a chance of sterilization, a chance of a concentration camp, a chance of life in prison, a chance of life in the penitentiary, a chance of execution...
There were exceptions, though. Sometimes, rarely, politics dictated the judges show leniency, thus proving they were decent, understanding men – and they were always men. There were a few female lawyers, but no judges. And sometimes a defendant would get lucky and get assigned to a panel of judges with formalist leanings – formalism being the odd and officially disapproved of, but not-quite-censured notion that the law as written should be adhered to, or at least consulted at some point.
The judges of Newaburg had a reputation for being more in line with the Reich’s judicial orthodoxy – convict, convict, convict. And the process was hastened even more by a fact of geography. Newaburg’s central prison, home to gallows and guillotine alike, was right next door to the courthouse. Convenient, Ziska thought. Germanic efficiency at its finest.
As the elevator, a creaky old thing probably as old as Ziska’s father, climbed from the basement to the fourth floor of the courthouse, Ziska went over the file she’d brought with her from Hitlerstadt.
She could recite most of it without looking, but it never, ever hurt to be prepared on the witness stand. Sometimes you’d get needled by a formalist. Sometimes, if you were a woman, you’d get harassed by an especially ogreish judge.
The defendant – Adolf Dieter Greiss, a Wartherlander who had two years of work at a Daimler-Benz factory in Genshagen with a sideline in cocaine.
The victim – Hans Peter Lindegaard, a Dane and fellow factory worker/cocaine dealer.
Just after joining the Homicide Inspectorate, Ziska had worked the case as a secondary with Dahm as the primary. Greiss had been inconsiderate enough to flee the city after shedding blood, perhaps because of the abundance of evidence against him. And now, six months later, he’d gotten himself arrested for attempting to rob a diner along the Reichsautobahn just outside Newaburg and killing a 20 year old waitress in the process. Someone from Hitlerstadt had to appear to give evidence on the earlier killing and Dahm himself was on a week’s leave on Prora, so the Hitlerstadt Kripo had sent her on the day trip in his stead.
In the West, it could be said The wheels of justice turn slowly, but grind exceedingly fine. In the Reich, there was nothing slow about it. Greiss had been arrested four days ago. Today would be the first and last day of his trial.