INTRODUCTION
THE IRON EAGLE
DAYS OF STRIFE
DEATH IN RIGA
DAYS OF STRIFE
DEATH IN RIGA
The clock had reached midnight, and yet he was still there in his office, seated and working his eyes through page after page of reports and documents which require his attention. Alfred was not in a rush to go back to sleep, because he knew there was a possibility that the next time his eyes opened, the Volkssturm would be at his door, torches and pistols in hand, to drag him outside to be hanged like the others. Truthfully, he had gone to sleep already, and yet his eyes could not stay shut, he moved in his bed and all every time he was close to sleep, he heard footsteps outside. It was usually a staff member of his office, where he had chosen to sleep tonight due to the late hour, no reason to raise the alarm that he was in now ever since his guards had been changed. The SS was meant to protect and insure the safety of members of the Party, especially a Reichsleiter, but he had an impression that the new guards he had were only there to hold the door open when they knocked.
He was dressed with a suit, as you could never know when the clothes you used would be your last ones. If he were to leave this life, then nothing more appropriate than to dress impeccably, he did not wish to be dragged outside in his pajamas to be lynched on the streets by that rabble. Where did he go wrong? He asked himself, why would he have to fear for his life when in this position? Has the State forgotten all his services? Has he not suffered enough privations and humiliations? Has he not given all that was asked of him? Was he not a devout National Socialist? An ideologue like no other in the Continent as described by the Führer himself? He had been demoted and sidelined long ago, moved to be left in Ostland by the crows that surrounded Hitler's ears. After Lohse's death, he worked much to earn this "promotion", his territory was the most peaceful and civilized of all the Kommissariats, the Baltics and Belarussians were the most well behaved of all the Untermenschen, he crushed the Forest Brothers, he crushed Kovner and his Jews, he crushed the Partisans in Pinsk, he made the Estonians and Latvians as Germans as the Bavarians. Riga was as German as Linz, he had made in fifteen years what even the Teutonic Knights failed to do and made Ostland German.
And yet here he was, in his office, approaching the age of 70 with a balding head with grey hair and needing glasses to read the endless number of reports which came into his office. The room had a faint smell of coffee, which he required to stay awake for so long, and as the clock went past midnight he smelled the air, mostly numbed to the smell, pulling out a book from a drawer. It was his diary, which was meant to be his way of immortalizing himself in his family. Perhaps he could even make it public, tell his side of the story to the German Volk, the publishers and editors no doubt would beg for the rights to print the tale of one of the founding fathers of National Socialism. He opened up a new page, but he realized, to his terror, that this was the last one. That was not a problem, he would usually have thought, just store this book and start another, but before he did not fear for his own life as he did now. He stared at that blank page for seconds, minutes, hours, days, time accelerated and felt as he had stopped, wiping a drop of cold sweat from his forehead before grabbing his pen and beginning to write, starting by the date.
But just as he thought he was done, he heard something outside, a chanting, with a glow of orange in the night. That is when he knew his time has come, but he did not feel the terror he expected, rather all he felt was relief. There would be no more fear, no more terror, no more sleepless nights, he would never have to awake anymore. The sound became louder and he distinguished the lyrics of that dreadful folk song, one which had become some sort of hymn for the Volkssturm.
Wir sind des Geyers schwarze Haufen,He was dressed with a suit, as you could never know when the clothes you used would be your last ones. If he were to leave this life, then nothing more appropriate than to dress impeccably, he did not wish to be dragged outside in his pajamas to be lynched on the streets by that rabble. Where did he go wrong? He asked himself, why would he have to fear for his life when in this position? Has the State forgotten all his services? Has he not suffered enough privations and humiliations? Has he not given all that was asked of him? Was he not a devout National Socialist? An ideologue like no other in the Continent as described by the Führer himself? He had been demoted and sidelined long ago, moved to be left in Ostland by the crows that surrounded Hitler's ears. After Lohse's death, he worked much to earn this "promotion", his territory was the most peaceful and civilized of all the Kommissariats, the Baltics and Belarussians were the most well behaved of all the Untermenschen, he crushed the Forest Brothers, he crushed Kovner and his Jews, he crushed the Partisans in Pinsk, he made the Estonians and Latvians as Germans as the Bavarians. Riga was as German as Linz, he had made in fifteen years what even the Teutonic Knights failed to do and made Ostland German.
And yet here he was, in his office, approaching the age of 70 with a balding head with grey hair and needing glasses to read the endless number of reports which came into his office. The room had a faint smell of coffee, which he required to stay awake for so long, and as the clock went past midnight he smelled the air, mostly numbed to the smell, pulling out a book from a drawer. It was his diary, which was meant to be his way of immortalizing himself in his family. Perhaps he could even make it public, tell his side of the story to the German Volk, the publishers and editors no doubt would beg for the rights to print the tale of one of the founding fathers of National Socialism. He opened up a new page, but he realized, to his terror, that this was the last one. That was not a problem, he would usually have thought, just store this book and start another, but before he did not fear for his own life as he did now. He stared at that blank page for seconds, minutes, hours, days, time accelerated and felt as he had stopped, wiping a drop of cold sweat from his forehead before grabbing his pen and beginning to write, starting by the date.
But just as he thought he was done, he heard something outside, a chanting, with a glow of orange in the night. That is when he knew his time has come, but he did not feel the terror he expected, rather all he felt was relief. There would be no more fear, no more terror, no more sleepless nights, he would never have to awake anymore. The sound became louder and he distinguished the lyrics of that dreadful folk song, one which had become some sort of hymn for the Volkssturm.
Hei a o ho!
Und Wollen mit Tyrannen raufen,
Hei a o ho!
Speiß voran, drauf und dran,
Setzt aufs Klosterdach den roten Hahn
This was it, he thought, they always struck at night as he expected, and had he remained asleep he would have been caught, in his bed, in pajamas, dragged, beaten, lynched, and finally hung on the street on a flagpole as an example, as a traitor. He was a traitor already was he not? For what? For having seen that spiteful little midget for what he was? For attempting to keep his creepy lecherous fingers away from the Cinema? From the Theater? From all the high honor of the German Culture? For daring to oppose him and attempt to make the Führer see the reason? Hitler was dead, and yet Goebbels still lived, Göring, Himmler, Hess, Bormann, Klopfer, Wegener, Heydrich, even for all of their own degeneracies never had the decency of outliving that limp maggot. And now he was the one who still dared to stand up, which is why he had to be put down like a traitor to the beloved Joseph Goebbels. He would not let him have the satisfaction of hearing how he begged for his life, that he attempted to escape or that he would even take the chance of being brought to the Court when even the courts were more of a show than any real due process.
Watching from above, his suspicions were confirmed, he stood up from his seat and walked to the side to the window, where he saw his supposed mighty and honorable SS guard opening the gates. The Volkssturm acted in the name of the Führer, and no law was above the Führer, even the attempt of Wegener at making a Constitution had been crushed under the Führerprinzip, the Principle of Leadership was all the SS knew, was all the Volkssturm knew, was all the Hitler Youth knew, and soon enough would be all the world knew. A shame he would not live to see better days, when National Socialism would outlive Goebbels and last for a thousand years, triumphant over all else, emerging into the stars. Or Goebbels could be the one to destroy what far greater men than him had built, but he had faith in Germany, he wrote in his diary, he had faith that they would be vindicated. Going back to his chair, he buttoned up his suit and sat down, once more wearing the armband given by the true and one only Führer of the Reich when he was made a Reichsleiter, a swastika with golden laurels around it. He then opened his drawer, closed his diary, placed it inside a safe, and grabbed his service pistol from that safe just as he heard the footsteps.
When Kompanieführer Ludwig Hoffmann went into that office, all he saw was an elderly and pathetic man, a disgusting vermin and traitor to the Volksgemeinschaft, who had taken the easy and cowardly way out. He had his orders, which came down from the Führer himself, to arrest this traitor and escort him to the People's Court, the Volksgerichtshof, which now could no longer be fulfilled. But the Führer, in his infinite hindsight, already could foresee that in Rosenberg's character, a pathetic man who claimed himself an ideologue equal to the late Adolf Hitler himself. As he was already dead with his brain splattered even on the roof from the gunshot, his corpse was dragged outside into the streets, lifeless, and all would bear witness to the fate of traitors of the Reich. The Volkssturm, dressed in dark crimson uniforms which symbolized the stained swastika, would march outside as Hoffmann could see a crowd already formed, many already chanting for blood and expecting the Führer's justice to be enacted no doubt. Riga was a city that still had the stench of the Untermenschen thanks to Rosenberg's incompetence, how one could look at those descendants of Baltic savages and consider them Aryans was something he would never understand. To Hoffmann, only the purest of the Volk were true Aryans, and sometimes even the SS could be too lenient in what they considered an Ubermenschen.
Alfred Rosenberg only had one living daughter and that made it all easier, Irene was caught in a train attempting to escape, she and her husband were brought outside as the train was forced to a stop. With her father declared a traitor, no descendant of his' could continue to live amongst the Volk, otherwise their polluted lineage would corrupt all, which is part of the reason the Party had grown weak and decadent over the years, nepotism was rife, which is why it would have to be purged. There was no problem in a parent wanting a child to follow their footsteps, but only those deserving could stand, those who could not would be proscribed. Hoffmann himself had to prove himself worthy, his father was once one of these men who returned from the war and left all passion behind, who had lost faith in National Socialism, he had hoped he had learned, that he had seen the better world they were building, and yet he was unable to move on, which is why he made that difficult, yet obvious, choice and denounced him. Now he was being rewarded, nobody could deny his devotion to the Führer, and all of Riga would see it as Irene Rosenberg was brought in front of her father's office in public, where she was dragged by the hair and thrown at the center where the Volkssturm stood and the people awaited. Hoffmann stepped forwards, with a strong and deep voice which spoke with no remorse or hesitation.
"Volksgenossen, I am Volkssturm Kompanieführer Ludwig Paul Hoffmann and today you will be presented justice. The man you see lying down on the streets, is Herr Alfred Rosenberg, declared traitor of the Reich by our beloved Führer Joseph Goebbels. He conspired with the enemy, the vile Jew, reaching towards outside forces in America and Zion to sabotage and destroy the Reich, for years he acted unpunished in dismantling the great legacy of our Great Führer Adolf Hitler. No more, and now the truth of all biology is shown once again, selection must be made and only the strongest and fittest will emerge as the weak are torn away like weeds! The vile blood of traitors shall be purged and our race, our nation, our beloved National Socialism, will emerge stronger and fitter than it ever was! Heil Goebbels! Heil Hitler!"
Agnes Bockslaff could not bear to watch, and Adolf, her brother, did not blame her. It was a gruesome scene for an 8 year old awakened in the middle of the night, but when they saw the Führer's warriors walking down the streets, they knew one less vermin would be around in the Reich. But this was not what he had expected to show her, rather than a short man with a big nose yelling curses, or a fat bald old man, all they saw was a woman crying as the crowd carried her away, ripping apart her clothes, scratching her skin, punching and spitting on her as one man brought a rope. They saw as she had the noose tied around her neck, when she was doused in oil, when the torches came closer and they began to lift her as well as the corpse of an old man. He too had to bring her back home, not that he was sensitive, no, he knew that was a good thing and would never hesitate to see it. But Agnes was crying, scared, and their father told them to go back. Agnes was holding on to him while sobbing, with their mother walking besides them as they returned home. This was a good thing, he said to his own consciousness, like a disease being purged from a body. But then, why were his hands shaking? Why could he not stop seeing that crying woman with blood in her face?
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