Stormfuhrer (17 page)

At one point, as Karen watched from a back room of the cottage, the Mauer avatar yelled.  Mr. Hayes’ character began to choke the girl he had called “Savina.”  She remained unconscious.  Karen had knelt by the rock fireplace, attempting to wrest his hands from her throat. Unsuccessful, Karen then grabbed the poker from near the fireplace and smashed it into his right ear.  Both now lay unconscious, and Karen retreated to the back room and continued her unseen vigil.

April 1940

The sun shone down on the courtyard and on the statue of Leopold II.  Linden and Maple trees were increasing in foliage, shading the paths amongst the statues lining the sides of the Ministry courtyard.  Farash entered the avatar of Karl Ernst Krafft who thus awoke on his cot from a troubled sleep and glanced at the thick curtains shielding his eyes from the approaching dawn.  Barely a ray of light could be seen through the two tall windows of his pitifully small office.

Folding his cot and gray woolen blanket, he packed these with a loose pillow into the wardrobe across from his desk and asked the SS guard standing outside his office for his morning coffee and perhaps a warm bun with butter.  Since his stay here began, he had had no access to a newspaper, a radio, or a single visitor.  “He is the astrologer,” Goebbels had remarked to one member of the inner cabinet, "His
stars
can give him news of the world."  Actually, Farash preferred this isolation, which would make his predictions and their outcomes all the more incredible in the eyes of his superiors since it seemingly left him nothing more than his own inner oracle to guide him.

Throwing back the heavy curtains and cracking opening a window slightly to allow in a bit of the early morning chill, Farash regarded the Berlin dawn.  It was clear and crisp without a single cloud lingering in the sky.

After a few hours of work with the Nostradamus text, pouring over a quatrain he had marked as intriguing for perhaps the dozenth time, Farash leaned back and stared at the high ceiling with its intricate white squares set deep into their framed edges.  He closed his eyes.

When he awoke, he was being half-dragged up a flight of stairs to a large office in the rear of the building.  Two tall SS men had hold of his upper arms, and a gag had been placed over his mouth.  Farash quickly moved his left hand in several turning gestures and was thus given the freedom to walk up the stairs the rest of the way.  The guards, silently and now gently, led him into the wide office of the Reichsminister.  Goebbels was looking out a window, his hands behind his back.  Farash, his hair in disarray, had just enough time to remove the gag when the Reichsminister turned around to greet him.

“
Another attack of epilepsy?”

“
Yes.  Well, I think so.” He was still breathing hard.

“
You say interesting things when you aren’t . . . yourself.”

“
Doctors call it split-personality, schizophrenia.”

“
Indeed.  Let’s get to business, if you’re up to it.”

“
I’m feeling better, thanks.”

Goebbels frowned.  “Your prognostications, so far, have been exact.”  He waited for a response from Krafft.  Krafft, Farash, was silent.

“Norway and Denmark were a significant addition to Greater Germany.  The raw materials will continue to resupply the war effort. “

“
And Britain?  France?”

“
The usual rhetorical saber-rattling.  Nothing significant.  No troop movements.  Some attempts at bolstering Norway.  It won’t last.”

“
I was accurate on the exact date and on the events of the campaign.”  Krafft narrowed his eyes.  It was a statement, not a question.  Farash was learning to show complete confidence in his own predictions though he knew now that history was at least somewhat malleable.  It wasn’t a stagnant sequence of events that could not be altered; otherwise, even the conversations that Krafft and Goebbels were having could have never taken place, could not be taking place. 

Still, the greater events that depended on variables well outside the effects of his own tiny manipulations of history might be well beyond the reach of these the smaller causes--what type of shirt he put on that day, how his occasional “amnesia” affected the SS guards, the birds that scattered as he walked with Goebbels in the courtyard.  The greater events were far more difficult to change, if they could be changed at all, which made them predictable.  That was a good thing.  Farash would occasionally consult more detailed histories on the era via the Internet at work and in a few books he had at home, but otherwise, he knew the basics regarding troop movements, invasions, broken treaties, and now knew he could rely on them.

“The charts don’t lie but they can fluctuate,” Farash offered.

“
Odd. I never see you with charts of any kind.  Perhaps if I saw these charts of yours, it would make the whole process more credible.  You could even teach
me
your methods.  I’m a quick study.”  Goebbels knew that the man used no charts.

“
The charts are in my head.  They fluctuate,” Krafft added hastily, “so if I taught you the matrix one day, it would be worthless days later, even minutes later.  Some things cannot be taught and must therefore die with the knower, Herr Reichsminister.”  In a way this was true.  There was no method to learn, only a knowledge of the events in a causal stream as they unfolded in the mid-20th century.  Also, the fact that there was no method that he could possibly “teach” the Reichsminister had the added benefit of requiring that his seer remain alive for further prognostications to be “revealed.”

Goebbels was silent, disappointed.  But after some moments he smiled and walked over to his desk.  On his desk was a small bust of the Fuhrer’s head being used as a paperweight.  He picked it up and sat on his desk’s edge, as he frequently did, staring into it as if it were a crystal skull, a tool of necromancy.

“I want you to stop work on the Nostradamus quatrains.”

Krafft felt immediate relief.

“Instead, tell me everything you know about the future of the Reich.”

Krafft, standing several feet away, listened to the Reichsminister but appeared to be distracted, looking at the corners where the high walls met the white ceilings.  There were dusty webs forming.  Finally, he nodded. “I can do that.  It comes in pieces, but perhaps I can put together the complete puzzle in a sitting or two.”

He knew, however, how tricky that would be.  Everything happening in Europe and the world was historically correct up to this point, as far as he could tell.  The Norway/Denmark conquest, accurately predicted for the exact day, was additional proof that events must be flowing according to historical fact.  Were anything seriously amiss in this virtual world, significantly different from what was known in the early 21
st
century, even his lack of newspapers and radio would not keep it from him. 

However, this was 1940.  This was the year Hitler’s biggest tactical mistakes would, in essence, begin.  Hitler would consider an invasion of Britain, Operation Sea Lion, and then postpone it dozens of times.  He would finally take it off the table, preferring to position three million troops, the bulk of the
Wehrmacht
, his regular army, in the East for a June 1941 attack on Russia, creating a second front that would only see disaster, particularly once the US got involved starting in December of that year.  He would be surrounded by enemies that in several years would close both fronts and ultimately meet one another in Germany.  They would then break the country into four different sectors of control.

Up to this point, Hitler’s successes might have rendered anyone invincible in his own thinking.  There was the Fuhrer’s taking of the Rhineland, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway and Denmark, all without meeting any serious resistance.  Britain and France, regardless of their harsh language and war declarations, showed no real ability to significantly aid any of these countries directly, so far, and could only do so at the expense of weakening their own defenses.  Russia showed no interest in attacking Germany and wouldn’t, so long as they weren’t attacked.  They had plenty to snack on with Poland, Finland, and a host of other Eastern European delicacies for potential conquest.    The United States currently showed no interest in aiding Britain as they themselves had not yet been attacked by Japan and weren’t as yet war-ready, not yet having been dragged into the war and having little confidence in Britain's ability to do its share in a potential joint campaign.  No, Hitler was as successful up to this point as he ever could possibly be.  Soon, his successes would give him the temerity to back-stab the Russians, despite the Nazi-Soviet non-aggression pact of 1939. 

It might be impossible to convince the Fuhrer from this point on that any tactical error on his part was even thinkable, even if it involved attacking the Russians, but, in his mind, this was Farash’s only means of becoming the next Fuhrer of a country that would one day rule over all humanity.  He must convince Hitler not to attack the Russians; otherwise, he might be very well ruling a empire in its last dying weeks--after the Fuhrer decided to opt out with a cyanide capsule and a bullet.

Krafft sat heavily into the chair before the Reichsminister’s desk.  “Attack France,” he said with the utmost confidence. 

Goebbels was silent.

Krafft continued in the calm, confident tone he had used during his last successful prognostication.  “Germany will attack France, Luxembourg, the Netherlands and Belgium on the 10th of May.  The Fuhrer will walk beneath the
Arc de Triomphe
as the decisive victor.”

The Reichsminister sat back at his desk, never taking his deep-set eyes off of Krafft whose own eyes stared continually toward the edge of the ceiling, as if attempting to conjure more details. 

Goebbels covered his mouth with his fingers, as if keeping words from spilling out.  Krafft had indeed identified the day that Hitler currently planned an attack on France, but was as yet unsure whether or not to carry it out.  The Maginot line of defense was strong, protecting France from any direct, even  massive, incursion.  It was all they really had--and didn't use in their promised defense of Poland.

“
How?”  Goebbels asked.  “How will it be done in a way that insures complete success?”

Farash had him.

“It will take a little over a month.”  Farash continued, “Would you like it in a quatrain Herr Reichsminister?”

“
Are you playing with me, Krafft?”

Farash continued:

Yellow lightning will fall on the Ardennes. 

Then red fire will pierce the virgin’s left rib. 

She will withdraw from Siegfried though his                             spear is weak. 

Vichy will carry the hammer of Thor.

After Krafft's recitation of the lines he had composed for just this meeting, Goebbels was dead silent for several minutes.  Krafft allowed him time to let it all sink in. 

The Reichsminister finally broke down.  He saw plenty in the quatrain to know that Krafft was indeed the seer he claimed to be.  No man could know so much with so little information at his disposal.  This wasn’t simply bogus astrology--Krafft wasn’t just inventing phrases around a scatter of goat’s entrails.  The last two lines of the quatrain were a mystery to him, likely regarding outcomes of the campaign, but Goebbels knew well the meaning of the first two lines.  They referred to Plan Yellow, which was to be executed first and involved attacking through the Ardennes.  The second plan to be executed was Plan Red, which would involve flanking the Maginot line to its north side, the weaker side . . . the left side . . . where the war "virgin" France was personified as facing Germany.

In the quiet exaltation experienced during the head-first fall of faith’s triumphant leap, Goebbels took Krafft into his confidence: “It is a plan that has been over eight months in the making and remaking.  The Fuhrer expects one million German soldiers to die.”

“Execute it as is, without changing anything, and he will lose only fifty thousand soldiers.  Heed my words and Germany will lose less than ten thousand.”

Farash could see that through his controlled demeanor Goebbels was ecstatic, pressing on for more details.  Farash told him everything he knew, historically, regarding the coming months while the Reichsminister wrote feverishly in a thin leather-bound journal.  He knew about as much as Goebbels did regarding its planning, which didn't involve a great deal of detail regarding strategy, but he knew far more regarding its outcomes, both successes and foibles, particularly involving where Germany would lose the most troops and machinery.  He pointed these out so that different arrangements could be made during the invasion.  Krafft’s warnings would prove to be true during so many elements of the campaign that denying his "supernatural" power of insight would simply amount to sheer lunacy.

CHAPTER 10

October 1940

Farash waited out the next few months in his office.  He had now, however, been given a radio and access to daily newspapers.  France had been attacked, as planned.  All was going far better for the Reich than he or Goebbels had expected.  As the months progressed, he noticed waning interest in his activities during the rare occasions that he left the Ministry.

Krafft was directed to take up residence in a small house in a wooded area just east of Berlin.  Here there was one armed guard, but one acting more as an attendant than a gate-keeper.  Here he stayed through the winter months and into October, traveling back to the Propaganda Ministry perhaps several times per week, sometimes less often.  This wasn’t what Farash was after, though it did give him time to repair the damage of his long absences from his wife, who had learned to better tolerate the computer that had strangely appeared in their second bedroom some months back. 

Away from the Ministry, he could have the one SS guard put him in a cellar for a given period time, the length of which could even be days, on account of his “schizophrenic episodes.”  He need not even explain his strange knowledge of their exact durations.  At these times, he would sleep.

While at work one morning in Berlin, Krafft was led away by four SS guards that simply appeared at his tiny office.  They escorted the astrologer across the courtyard of the Ministry of Propaganda and continued to walk a block to the west until they reached the imposing
Neue Reichskanzlei,
the New Chancellery that Albert Speer had built for Hitler, the only Berlin structure that Speer would ever see erected
.
The bone-white Chancellery had been recently built according to Speer’s exact specifications, with four high, square pillars at its entrance above a short flight of stairs.  Three rows of high windows on either side of the pillars stretched interminably into the distance.  The Imperial Eagle, the
Reichsadler
, stood chiseled above the entrance, guarding it with its angular and menacing spread of wings, carrying the cold symbol of the country’s only political party on a circular wreath in its cold stone talons.

Through the portico, Krafft was led down a similar set of stairs through a single, tall door into an open courtyard.  At the end of the stone courtyard, on each side of the inner entrance, stood a bronze statue of a naked young man in perfect physical health.  The statue on Krafft’s right held a sword, the one on the left, a torch.  The long courtyard was flanked by two rows of windows on both sides and a double-door at the center of each.  Taken through the left set of double-doors, Krafft was brought by the four SS men into the side of a long hallway.  A double door on the opposite side was already open with SS men in black uniforms standing at either side.  He was motioned to sit on an elaborate studded leather bench just outside of it.  Farash could hear men inside the room holding a quiet conversation.

Krafft didn’t sit long before Joseph Goebbels came through the doors to sit by him.  He seemed very serious.  He whispered, “You are to meet the Fuhrer.  Don’t speak to him as you speak to me.  In fact, don’t speak to him at all unless he asks you a question directly.”  Farash nodded.  Goebbels motioned for Krafft to follow and they both walked into the room.  The room echoed the booted footsteps of the men, both echoed still in the thumping chest of Farhat Farash.

The two men walked to the left, their tread now muffled by a thin but ornate red and orange carpet.  They had come through double doors at the side, but Farash noticed four more sets of double doors, two at each end of the room.  Above each set of double doors hung a different armorial crest.  Above the door through which he had entered, Farash saw the familiar angles of the Reichsadler, this time a metal body of bronze.  Lamps resembling candlesticks, but with small shades hovering over them, stood ensconced beside each set of double doors.  At one end of the room sat a sofa and some chairs in front of a grand fireplace.   A huge globe, even bigger than the one Farash had seen many times in Goebbels’ office, stood in its heavy enclosure at one side of the sofa.

On the other side of the long room, men sat in thick leather chairs and talked casually.  A wide wooden desk stood on a black granite floor, just outside the range of the carpet.  Three studded leather chairs sat in front of it.  They were exactly the color of pale Aryan skin that had been rarely exposed to sunlight.

As Krafft and the Reichsminister approached these men, Krafft noticed that the chair behind the desk was more of a darker brown.  This seat was empty.  The other three were full.  The men became silent as the two approached.

Goebbels introduced Karl Ernst Krafft to the men in the three chairs before the desk.  The man on Krafft’s left had low, thick brows, a tall man were he standing, good looking, wearing the black uniform of the SS though highly decorated.  “Herr Krafft, Deputy Fuhrer Rudolf Hess.”  Farash pondered the man’s indifferent countenance as he struggled to remember the details of the man's bizarre fate.  Here was the man who would embarrass the Fuhrer by flying alone, unarmed, in a stolen plane, to Great Britain to negotiate an unauthorized peace.  A hypochondriac and amateur mystic, If anyone were sympathetic to Krafft’s claims to astrological powers, it would be this man.  He nodded slowly toward Krafft, a nod which Krafft returned.

Centered between the other two men sat the second most powerful man in Germany, a large figure in a double-breasted gray uniform, the buttons of which seemed to plead for mercy under a fleshy smile supported by a double-chin.  The thin hair he had left was brushed way back, through which could be seen a few dark spots of age. 

“Herr Krafft, this is Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring.” 

A morphine addict, Goring’s incompetence in directing the Luftwaffe could work in Farash’s favor, but it would be another two years before his weaknesses as a military strategist would become most apparent.  Goring, still smiling, nodded curtly to Krafft.

Finally, the man on Goring’s left looked up from a small book he had been reading.  “Herr Krafft, meet Albert Speer, Chief Architect of the Third Reich.”  Speer silently held out his hand and Krafft took it.  Though Speer had no official power, he had Hitler’s ear, making him the most influential man in the room, which alone gave him power the others didn’t quite possess.  Speer was the architect of this magnificent building and the future skyline of Hitler’s Germania though it would never materialize, at least not in
this
future.  Farash had seen a model of his plans for a new Berlin in a documentary he had once watched.  They were stunning.  Speer would soon become
his
architect,
his
archetypal builder of the thousand-year Reich.

Goebbels looked around.  “Where is the Fuhrer?” Two of the men seated chuckled. 

“Behind you,” came the steady voice of the Fuhrer.  He had been admiring a painting  near the corner of the wall and was thus invisible to both Goebbels and Krafft, while the introductions had been taking place.  He walked slowly up to Goebbels as the Reichsminister and Krafft turned around to greet him.  They shook hands.  The Fuhrer then turned to Krafft and held out his hand.  Krafft took it.

“
This is your astrologer?” he looked unsmiling into Krafft’s eyes.  “The man who saved my life once.  The man who made very interesting contributions to Germany’s war effort.  The man who . . . I will just say it . . . can see the future.  Is that not right, Herr Goebbels?” 

“
It would appear so, mein Fuhrer,” the Reichsminister quickly replied. 

Krafft, as instructed, remained silent.  He returned eye contact with the Fuhrer, bowed his head, and then looked again into Leader’s eyes.  The Fuhrer’s eyes were magnetic and piercing.  It was as though the leader could see the man in the helmet on the other side of the planet and nearly a century away.  Farash wanted to look away again in a show of deference, but there was something there, attractive and empowering, like all wishes granted, like a license to do absolutely anything with impunity. 

The Fuhrer did not release his firm grasp of Krafft’s right hand.  “Herr Krafft, your predictions were inhuman in their accuracy.  I salute you.  The people of Germany salute you.”  He gave Krafft’s hand a final shake and let it drop.  Farash’s right hand in the black, studded glove tingled.  The Fuhrer then walked behind his desk and took a seat, spreading his hands upon his desk after he did so, nodding slightly in approval of something formulating in his mind.

It was at this brief meeting that Farash, or rather Krafft, was given an official place in the Reichsministry.  He was to be Goebbels’ secretary, an “Adviser on the Ontological Sciences.”  It was of course a euphemism, giving him a seemingly philosophical role in government when he was really more of a soothsayer, at a time when such were being whisked away to places like Bergen-Belsen and Dachau at gunpoint.

May 1941

“Hitler wants to attack the Soviet Union.”

Goebbels and Krafft had been discussing various topics when Farash became impatient.  The Propaganda Minister was quiet for a few moments, taken back by the outburst and the quick change of subject.  Farash immediately regretted it and decided to try to play it off with downcast eyes as merely the eccentric behavior of a soothsayer in the throes of a vision, if he could.

Goebbels responded after some moments. “We’ve all read
Mein Kampf. 
He sees the East as a vital piece of the
lebensraum
during the Thousand Year Reich.  That will of course happen long after you and I have passed on.”

“
He will begin his attempts to make it happen only six months from now.”

“
Absurd.”

“
The Fuhrer will invade Russia in six months, to be exact on June 22 of this year.” 

Goebbels stared at Krafft in his usual way.  He knew of the Fuhrer's plans to attack the Russians.  He and most of the cabinet were opposed to the idea though were wary of ever saying so too directly.  “You have somehow been following troop movements.  Not the most difficult thing to do so near the Chancery.”

“I follow the . . . stars,” Farash replied.

“
Yes, and your 'charts' as you call them.  And the ‘stars’ have told you . . . what specifically?”

“
That the Fuhrer will launch Operation Barbarossa against the Russians, that the vast majority of the Germans who die in this war will die fighting in the Eastern front.  The Russians will ally with the west, who will create a western front.  D-Day . . .”  Farash was getting way ahead of himself and decided to stop short rather than continue sounding like a complete idiot in front of the Reichsminister.

“
Go on.”

Farash hesitated.

“Please continue.”

“
Hitler’s plan to invade the Soviet Union.  Barbarossa.  It won’t work.  It will lead to Germany’s downfall within four years.”  He had raised his voice without realizing it.  He could hear murmuring between SS guards standing just outside the open door.  Goebbels looked in that direction and back at Krafft.  He then stood up and walked to his office door, closing it gently.  Goebbels walked back over to the standing Karl Ernst Krafft and stared into his eyes.  The slap was a quick, back-handed one.  Krafft stumbled backwards, holding his right cheek.  The avatar had reacted to the blow before Farash was able to do so.  That was new.

“
You will learn to shut the hell up when and where it is appropriate to do so, Mr. Krafft.  Or I’ll shoot you myself.”  Goebbels continued to stare at the man and then sat back at his desk.  Krafft had barged in—the first time he had attempted to do so.  He hadn’t even thought to close the door. 

Farash had taken too many risks.  He frowned inside his helmet, sitting at the small desk surrounded by boxes and books, his “place of meditation.”  The spongy pads inside the helmet were getting drippy and somewhat rancid with the sweat his head had produced during such moments of confrontation with his immediate superior. 

He waited for a word from the Reichsminister.  It never came.  The Reichsminister motioned for Krafft to sit silently in his usual chair in front of the desk.  He did so, looking down at his shoes.  After a minute, he said, “My apologies, Herr Reichsminister.  I thought it important enough to tell you as soon as I knew for certain.”

Goebbels was guardedly interested.  “Everyone has read
Mein Kampf
.  You’re not saying anything . . . even Stalin himself has read it.  Even he knows of the Fuhrer’s hatred of the communists and his ultimate intentions regarding the East.”

“
Herr Reichsminister, would it be safe to say that Russia has always been the Fuhrer’s
primary
objective?”

“
Wouldn’t we have attacked them from the beginning if that were the case?”

“
No.  The plan was and has been to create a cushion of German satellite states between Germany and Britain.  This would keep Britain from doing much about attacks on eastern European countries.  Now that such a cushion exists, Hitler can go after his main target—Russia.”  Krafft’s manner was intense.