The Evil that Men do Lives on After Them
Eichmann shaved himself in the bathroom mirror, at the same time as a man known only to him as the ‘priest’ was bashing the head of a local British born police officer against the railings of his cell.
He gazed at his own face and thought how much older he was looking. As Reich Protector of Great Britain for the last nine years, he had endured what most men would struggle with. Endless parties and receptions; tours around various parts of the country; photo opportunities with the British Nazi newspaper, The Daily Mail; shaking hands with this, that and the other. He would slouch into the early hours at Windsor, watching movies on the new television in the company of specially selected woman who would cater for his needs. As the years went by, and the weight piled on to his obscene frame, he would only watch and instruct the woman who had been brought in for his pleasure, often taking his only pleasure in their pain.
Just under an hour later, he stood waiting outside of the huge double doors to the Fuhrers Office in the Chancellery building in Nuremburg. Eichmann felt a rush of adrenalin flow through his body as he waited patiently for the doors to be opened to allow him access to his God; the man he worshipped (far more than he had done Hitler, and certainly more than Goring) as the saviour of the human race. The new buildings in the city were awe inspiring to behold, the architecture and the grand structures befitting for the Thousand Year Reich that all free humans were now a part of. He smiled to himself as he thought of the millions of bodies crushed into the dust in order to make this become a reality.
He felt that he was at the centre of the world.
It had been at least six months since he had been to visit Germania, and then it was purely a vacation leave of absence from his duties as Reich Protector of Britain. He had attempted to secure a meeting with the Fuhrer, whilst he was there, but to no avail. The rumours it seemed, were true; the Fuhrer was seeing no-one; had seemingly isolated himself.
As soon as he had concluded his conversation with Maria, on the secure line in Britain, Eichmann knew exactly what he had to do. He must circumnavigate the ring of secrecy and privacy that surrounded Heydrich, by appealing directly to Karl Wolff, the Secretary to the Fuhrer, in order to gain his attention.
“What is it that is so important?” Wolff had said.
“You must know, Wolff, that I have information that may indicate that the priest has found an until-now-undiscovered link” came the curt and matter of fact reply.
Three hours later Eichmann’s private plane had taken off from Biggin Hill International Airport for a direct flight to Nuremburg, the capital city of Germania.
He stood and waited patiently in the morning warm air, for the doors to be opened, to allow him into ‘the presence’, as eight hundred miles away, a bullet pierced though the face of Maria, on that same warm morning somewhere on a pier in an obscure little town in US Occupied Britain.
Inside the Chancellery, Heydrich was drinking the last of his cocktail of pills in order to ready himself for his meeting; his only meeting that day. He looked at and smiled at himself in the mirror as his adjutant adjusted his dress jacket around his shoulders.
The smile remained in place for only a second, as images of his wife and children crossed his vision like a dark cloud floating in the sky. The Fuhrer visibly shuddered. ‘Not now! Not today’, he thought. He needed to be in full control of mind and body for today; for Eichmann. He didn’t want yet another ally whispering behind his back that all was not well with him. Still, the shudder came again, as he concentrated hard to expel the image from his mind. The drugs helped a little; helped to keep the waking hallucinations he had been having, at bay. Even more drugs helped him to at least get some sleep during those dark hours, instead of remaining awake all night fighting off the spectres and ghosts that haunted his mind.
And always the sea. Whether the visions occurred during day or night hours, the roar was always there. The roar of the sea; of waves crashing against rocks, and distant gulls screaming into the wind.
He straightened himself up and smiled again:
“Bring the Reich Protector through.”
Eichmann walked forward into the specious office, before stopping at a polite distance from his host. He clicked his heels together, and raised his right arm in salute:
“Heil Mein Fuhrer!”
Heydrich laughed and walked towards the man, grabbing him by both shoulders:
“Eichmann! So good so see you! Where have you been? We haven’t met for what seems like years! You haven’t been hiding from me I hope?”
Eichmann decided that it wouldn’t be wise to point out that all of his previous attempts to meet with the Fuhrer had been stone walled:
“Never Mein Fuhrer! The time has just passed by so quickly, as I devote one hundred percent of my time in Britain to your service!”
“Indeed! And I glad to hear it! But come, sit. I am mocking you my old friend.”
Eichmann beamed at the use of the word ‘friend’. He watched his leader as he busied himself at the drinks cabinet, pouring two glasses of Scottish Highland Whisky. Heydrich seemed in good form; even jovial, but the absence of eye contact was very noticeable. When he had last met him over two years ago, he had noticed this change of character then. Most people would not have picked up on it, but Eichmann knew the man well, and knew that his piercing eye contact was one of his many strong traits.
“How are things in Britain then?” he said as he brought the drinks over and the two men took their seats in the armchairs positioned at an angle facing each other.
“Britain is trouble free Mein Fuhrer. We are about to embark on a major autobahn programme later this summer. Her Speer has kindly arranged a shipment of Slavs to help us….”
“Speer!” spat the Fuhrer, the smile suddenly dropping from his face.
“Mein Fuhrer?” came the puzzled reply.
Heydrich’s eyes glazed momentarily, before suddenly becoming alert again:
“Good! Yes, this is good! You will ensure my British lands remain productive, and I thank you for that. I only wish I could say the same for some of the other areas.”
Eichmann listened to the man as he spoke and as he did so, he examined his face. There was a noticeable flicker at the side of his mouth that gave the appearance of a perpetual smirk, and his eyes (whenever he got the chance to look at them) somehow seemed….wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was an oddness about them; an unnatural glint. He’d seen the look many times in the past on the faces of soldiers coming back from the front. It was the look of madness.
The Fuhrer continued:
“I am seriously thinking of invading Sweden! They refuse to implement our edicts! They refuse to deport their Jewish population to Germania, and they stall me and thwart me at every turn! And then there are the Swiss! I brought them into our lands as recognised cousins – I rewarded them! I placed them on a par with naturalised Germans and what do I get? I’ll tell you! A continuing guerrilla movement in the mountains! No matter how many villages we raze or how many people we round up and shoot, it continues. I will de-Germanised the whole lot of them, and send them all to the camps!”
The Fuhrer was red in the face as he continued to rant. His fingers gripped the glass tightly, his eyes glaring at the carpet in front of him:
“And Italy! Ha! The so-called birthplace of fascism! Since the death of that fat elephant, they are starting to go soft! Can’t control revolutionaries within their own country! They fumble about whilst the partisans set off bombs and assassinate officials! Well, if they can’t do it, I will! I’ll invade them as well!”
Eichmann spoke and wished he hadn’t:
“Mein Fuhrer. Military tactics is not my strongest area, but surely we need to secure the Indian and Afghan fronts, as well as striking back in West Africa, before we commit troops to more European countries? Better, surely to stall them? Play them at their own game, until we have considered a more permanent solution?”
Heydrich stared at him for the first time. Long seconds passed before he began to laugh hysterically into his face; spittle hitting Eichmann’s mouth, whilst the Protector resisted all urges to wipe it off:
“You are right! You do know nothing of military tactics you fucking fat idiot! You pathetic worm like creature! You will sit there and be a good fucking servant won’t you?”
Eichmann stared in alarm at the Fuhrer.
“I said won’t you be a good fucking servant?” the Fuhrer shouted into his face.
“Yes Mein Fuhrer! I mean…I did not wish to cause offense…I only wish to serve you and the Reich as best as I can.”
Heydrich continued to stare directly into the eyes of his underling, until after long moments had passed, his eyes again dropped to the floor, and almost as if nothing had ever occurred, his voice resumed its previous calm tones:
“It’s Speer. I’ve created a monster. He’s got his hands in everything.”
The Fuhrer stood and walked back to the drinks cabinet with his full glass in his hand:
“Would you like another my dear Adolf.”
Eichmann was shaken:
“Erm, yes Mein Fuhrer, if you too are having one. Erm….Is there an issue with Speer? I would like to offer my help where possible if you so require it sir?”
Again the Fuhrer turned on Eichmann with his full fury:
“Speer? Why the hell are you talking about Speer? Have you been speaking to him? What has he said to you?"
“Nothing Mein Fuhrer! I have no communication with the Reich Minister at all over these last few years! I swear it!"
Suddenly, like a switch had been pulled, the tyrants face again broadened into a full smile as he glanced back at Eichmann over his shoulder. With no new drinks poured into the already full glasses, he walked swiftly back to the chairs and placed the same drinks back down on the side table:
“Now, enough of all this nonsense. You are distracting me with your questions Adolf!” he laughed. “You should not tease me in the way that you are doing!”
Eichmann tried a nervous smile:
“Of course not sir. I offer you my deepest apologies.”
“Not at all. Not at all! No need for any apology! You are one of my most trusted allies. Now, I am sure you did not travel all this way to talk to me about Sweden and Speer and the colour of wallpaper eh? And I am sure that I did not grant you this moment of my precious time to do so either? Yes?”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer. I came with information on the priest.”
“Ah, the priest! This is the American who has been trying to find living relatives of mine alive and well in Germania so that they can try to sabotage Blut Spenden? I thought Kaltenbrunner had ordered his death? Is this not so?”
“Sir, the priest lives. He is currently within the US zone of Britain. But sir, there is something I must broach with you. Something that is quite delicate and very difficult for me.”
“Oh do not be such a coward Eichmann! You should love your Fuhrer, not tremble in fear in his presence!”
Eichmann wasn’t too sure about the last sentence. He pondered for a moment whether or not his probings may provoke a violent reaction from his leader; leading possibly to his own death at the hands of someone who was clearly deranged, possibly under the influence of drugs, but unhinged all the same. He took a deep breath:
“Sir, there may be a living blood relative.”
“Impossible” came the curt reply.
“Sir, with your permission, and if I may be so bold as to ask you a question?”
“Fire away man! You look so nervous, it is quite funny!”
“Sir, our contact, Maria, in Britain has indicated to us that the priest is pursuing a particular lead.”
The smile left Heydrich’s face at the mention of Maria. Fleeting images of her naked body flashed before his eyes; images of masochistic and aggressive sexual contact filled his mind’s eye before he could shake his head and physically expel the visions.
Eichmann looked at his Fuhrer with a new horror. The man appeared to be trembling and shuddering in his chair, before suddenly straightening up again and looking back to the floor. He had no choice but to continue:
“The priest is trying to find a boy, aged ten years old. He is in the American occupied area. The boy was conceived in 1947 sir. The information is that the mother was stationed in Slough, outside of your Windsor residence at that time.”
“What are you asking me Eichmann” he said icily.
“Sir. I apologise, but the mission of the priest…..well, sir, it is important to your own destiny that we…you…..know if there is a bloodline that exists….if there is a living relative.”
“Don’t be absurd Eichmann. What are you accusing me of! I was a married man in 1947, I would never….”
“Sir, she was a British woman who worked at the kitchens at both Windsor and Eton. Sir, we need to be clear as to why the American spy is searching for this child. I will kill this rumour dead in its tracks if that is what is required, however, I will not dare to even think anything different about you as the saviour of humanity, if it is true. But surely, you of all people must understand, that if it is true, all efforts must be made to kill the boy?”
“Kill the boy? Boy?”
Heydrich had resumed his seat and spread his palms upwards in appeal:
“What is all this about a boy? Is he the boy who haunts my dreams Eichmann? Is this the boy who smiles at me as the ghouls attempt to rip my body apart. I have seen him you know!”
“Mein Fuhrer….I”
“Oh yes, he comes to me in my dreams, often. He is there with his innocent smile, and I have….I have seen another man….a man I do not know…..and he’s taking his blood from the boy’s wrists. All the time the waves are crashing. The never ending crashing noise! It fills my head with pain and leaves me feeling utterly desolate. Is this the boy you speak of Eichmann!”
Eichmann watched his Fuhrer begin to unravel in front of his eyes. He needed to press on with the question:
“Sir, I….Mein Fuhrer, is it possible that you fathered this child in Britain?”
The tears now began to flow openly from the Fuhrers eyes as he continued to stare at the carpet:
“Just once, Adolf, only once. She….Lina….she wouldn’t come back….I. Where is he? Where does he live. Is he well and healthy?”
Eichmann was deeply troubled:
“Sir, the boy is in the Lancashire region of Britain, but please leave this with me. I shall ensure that all of this is taken care of. No one will ever need to know and no one ever will know.”
“Take care of….yes…that’s it. I didn’t know Eichmann. I didn’t know that there was a child. I thought…..get me Goring.”
The Reich Protector was horrified:
“Mein Fuhrer, Goring is dead.”
“Yes, I know that you fool!” he shouted back at the carpet “Get me the Luftwaffe! We should be bombing! Our latest nuclear bombs! We must hit the…hit the boys home….the boy must….he must die….I….”
Eichmann tried not to stare at his leader but found that he could not. The man was unhinged. It was quite clear he was suffering from some kind of medical illness that was affecting his thought process:
“Sir, all shall be taken care of.”
The switch moved again and Heydrich was suddenly staring back at him. Those same aged but yet still piercing eyes that the subordinate had once know and loved were burrowing deep into his own.
“It better be Eichmann! It better be! Because if it transpires that this boy lives and the Americans are able to extract a cure from his blood then you, my dear worm, will be the one to pay! And you will pay with your life – slowly Eichmann, slowly.”
“Yes sir! Of course sir! I serve only you! Maria is already on the trail, but I shall ensure that the death of the boy is of the highest priority.”
Heydrich gave the Protector a look of contempt as he stood from his seat:
“I travel to Wewelsburg Castle immediately. I have a meeting with Speer, where I indent to get to the bottom of his little plots. I assure you Eichmann” he laughed “that I doubt Speer will leave that castle!”
The Fuhrer stalked the room as he finished his drink, puffing himself up and pausing to gaze at his own reflection in the mirror:
“You see, they don’t know! None of them know of my ‘insurance policy. They soon will do! Now get out and do not come back until you have brought me the truth – that Blut Spenden is indeed Gods own blessing upon me!”
“Mein Fuhrer” shouted Eichmann as he stood and saluted his Leader.
Hours later, Eichmann boarded his military charted flight back to Britain. He was a deeply troubled man.
There was no order passed on for the wholesale nuclear bombing of US Britain. It was just talk from the Fuhrer; it was just an idea. No one else heard, and he wouldn’t repeat what the madman had suggested.
OTL
Adolf Eichmann
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Eichmann
Karl Wolff
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Wolff
Albert Speer
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Speer
. Thank you for providing us with one of the best timeliness on this sight and I eagerly await its no doubt masterfully written conclusion.
