Chapter I- Visiting Nadine


Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom was a good Party man. At 26, he already had advanced in the Gestapo, a secret police service that was one of many branches in the Schutzstaffel or SS, to a rank that the Heer would have called Major. Sturmbannführer itself translated to Assault Troop Leader- or something similar- in English, not that this was of much concern to Hellstrom. He was a Nazi Party loyalist through and through, ever since he'd joined the Hitler Youth back in the early 1930's. Unlike some children, Dieter Hellstrom had fought to join. He couldn't wait to get in.

He'd taken many beatings from his belligerent drunk of a father for joining. Those, after the extent of the damage had been extended to Dieter's beloved mother one night, had ended abruptly with the bark of a Luger pistol. The neighborhood Gestapo man had been in the area, and stopped a panicking HJ still in his uniform as he fled the house where both his parents lay dead. Now, a little over ten years later… here he was. One of the youngest Majors in any branch of the SS.

Hellstrom had been reading his copy of Mein Kampf, presented to him on the same day he gained his commission into the SS as an officer of the Gestapo, the Nazi Party's secret police. As able an officer as he was a fanatical Nazi, Dieter Hellstrom had come very far, very fast. So as any good Nazi would want to do, he read the Führer's Mein Kampf any chance he got. Hellstrom was loathe to admit it, but many sections of the book were, while not bad, boring. Just like a textbook. Not something he would have expected from the man whose voice alone could stir passion in thousands. Other passages of the book, though, were fascinating, giving a hint of the powerful will and brilliant mind Adolf Hitler had been gifted with. Hellstrom was in the middle of a particularly interesting passage, one about making a message palatable to the masses, when there was a commotion out in the main room of the tavern.

Dieter Hellstrom had come to this cellar, this lousy French excuse for a bar, about two hours ago. He'd parked his black Mercedes with its right wheels up on the curb and directly in front of the place, daring anyone to do something about it. Perhaps someone would, if those miserable peasants in the Resistance were in town. But they weren't; Hellstrom had rightly expected they'd be putting the very best of their efforts into the Normandy area, where the Allied landings were going on, and Paris, the capital. Some stupid little village that looked stolen from four hundred years in the past- there had to be a million of them in France- that stood 20 kilometers out of Paris was not going to matter tonight. Not even to the Resistance.

So Hellstrom went down into the tavern as the sun was setting; he'd been wearing his black dress uniform for the occasion, just to see the little Frenchies shit themselves at the sight of the red-white-and-black swastika armband and the Totenkopf skull on his cap. It didn't disappoint, Hellstrom recalled with a wolfish smile. It did not disappoint.

And of course, just as Hellstrom had figured, his car stayed untouched by the side of the street. The black Benzes were even scarier to enemies of the Reich than the gray ones; gray meant camouflage, that you still felt a need to be modest and to hide yourself from enemies in the air. Black meant not only that you were important, a rising star- or a risen one- in the Reich, but that you both knew you had enemies and did not care. It was the ultimate statement of arrogance, parking a black Mercedes-Benz in front of a tavern in occupied Nadine, France, and it was the kind of thing Hellstrom lived for.

A shout of "Achtung!" from the main room of the tavern; boots scraping the stone floor as the group of German Army enlisted men jumped up. Somebody must have stood up too fast, because a dish shattered. Hellstrom paused, looking up from Mein Kampf. He frowned; what the hell was going on out there?

The back room Hellstrom sat in, occupying a nice four-man table all by himself, was at times reserved for overflow on busy nights, or for special guests. Hellstrom had invited himself to take the back room for a few hours of quiet reading, a meal and a beer or two, counting himself as a 'special guest' indeed. The barkeeper and the girl who assisted him had been all too happy to oblige. Hellstrom paid them in Francs whenever he bought something; those worthless French bills and coins practically made him a millionaire after Hellstrom converted even a hundred Reichsmarks. This was an exaggeration, but hardly far from the truth in Hellstrom's mind. He spoke enough French to get by, and no more. Dieter Hellstrom hated the French. It wasn't anything in particular; they just thought they were so superior… just like the Germans. Except, Hellstrom would have said to anyone that pointed that out, the French aren't running France anymore. The Reich is. To Hellstrom, that very much ended the issue of proving which people was superior. The strong proved themselves to be such by conquering and ruling over the weak; if Germany under the Reich had finally managed to subdue the French, then obviously the German people were stronger.

Hellstrom listened with a certain interest as the new arrivals to the tavern were greeted by the German film actress, Frau von Hammersmark. When told to shadow her at this tavern in Nadine, Hellstrom had decided to do the very thing no Allied spy would expect; he put on his most obvious SS uniform, the one that with its red armband screamed he was a Nazi to the world, and just marched into the tavern like he owned the place. When Hammersmark showed up an hour later, the barkeeper and his helper never mentioned the SS major in the back- and why would they? Hellstrom had a holstered Luger strapped to his waist, and any damned fool would know it was loaded. The barkeeper would let Hammersmark spend a whole evening here and never mention Hellstrom's presence… if he was smart.

From the way the conversation was going, three men had arrived; SS. They had to be. Why else would the Army soldiers have snapped to attention not just with respect, but with fear? The Army did not command such esteem. The SS did.

After a time, the men apparently took seats, and conversation resumed its usual level of semi-drunken babble as the soldiers returned to the name-guessing game they'd been playing with Hammersmark. Hellstrom shrugged, returning to taking sips from his beer and slowly turning through the pages of Mein Kampf. So some SS men had arrived; so what? They weren't Gestapo or Hellstrom would have known they were going to be joining him. Chance would likely have it that they were Waffen-SS, officers with a combat unit on its way to the front. Hellstrom made a mental note to perhaps greet the men later, once Hammersmark's supposed 'guests' had arrived. Perhaps these men were them; perhaps not. Hellstrom returned to his reading.

Perhaps ten minutes later the usual flow of conversation- and drunken laughter- ended again. The German Army sergeant, the one with the newly-born son, was questioning one of the new arrivals, apparently a captain of the SS, about his peculiar accent. Then another of the new voices, shouting with that arrogant authority Hellstrom knew quite well, was saying, "I'm making you and you responsible for him! I suggest you take hold of your friend-" there were scrapes of wood on stone as at least two of the soldiers stood up- "or he'll spend Max's first birthday in jail for public drunkenness!"

Hellstrom snapped his book shut, his mouth flattening into a line and his eyes narrowing in irritation.

That does it.

Raising his voice no more than was needed, Hellstrom called, "Might I inquire?"

Abruptly, all the yelling stopped. Taking advantage of the silence, Hellstrom took one more drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out on the glass ashtray. Taking hold of his glass of beer, Hellstrom stood up and slowly, almost lazily, made his way into the main room of the tavern. Well, well, well, he wanted to say with great sarcasm. Three officers of the Waffen-SS have decided to foul up my evening.

Hellstrom paused in the doorway, silently nodding when he saw all eyes were on him… and that everyone had shut up. All that shouting had been threatening to give him a headache.

Into the silence, Hellstrom said quietly but with a tone that radiated command, "Like our newly-christened father here, I, too, have an acute ear for accents."

Walking forward into the room, Hellstrom gave the barkeep, standing at one end of the soldiers' table, a little pat on the shoulder. Hellstrom had no idea who this was; he didn't know the 40-something year old, rapidly-balding man. But Hellstrom had been in a good mood this evening- so far. He'd been leaving Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm and his friends to their game because the sergeant was now a father, and seemed to be a good man, even when getting tipsy. Hellstrom hoped the fact that Wilhelm seemed inclined to be friendly rather than mean when drunk would be a characteristic that stayed with him; Hellstrom had seen firsthand how cruel a father could be if he got mean when drunk instead.

Now standing in front of the table where von Hammersmark and the three SS men were sitting, Hellstrom said, "And I, too, find yours odd." Hellstrom eyed the SS captain as he said this; naturally he would pay attention only to the one with the highest rank… and the oddest accent. Hellstrom asked in that same calm and conversational- yet vaguely threatening- tone the very question he had on his mind. Looking still at the Hauptsturmführer, Hellstrom asked, "Where are you from?"

One of the two SS lieutenants, this one a man with dark hair seated off to Hellstrom's left, tried to interrupt. "Herr Sturmbannführer, this is highly-"

Hellstrom cut him off with a sharp glance. "I wasn't talking to you, Obersturmführer München." To make sure the third gray-uniformed officer stayed quiet, Hellstrom looked to his right and added, "Or you either, Obersturmführer Frankfurt." Now Hellstrom looked back at the SS captain, seated- as any man in charge should be- at the head of the table. "I was speaking to Hauptsturmführer I-Don't-Know-What."

Dead silence. You could have heard a cricket chirp, except they were too afraid to do so without the Gestapo major's permission.

After a moment's pause, the SS captain, he with the finely-combed hair and the oily voice, answered. "I was born in a village that rests in the shadow of the Pitz Palü."

Hellstrom nodded. "The mountain?"

"Yes." The captain said. "In that village, we all speak like this. Have you seen the Riefenstahl film?"

Hellstrom gave a curt nod. "Yes."

The captain gave a knowing smile. "Then you would have seen me. You remember the skiing torch scene?"

"Yes," Hellstrom answered again. He was starting to get tired of not being absolutely, positively in control of the conversation. This captain had better stop wasting my time.

The captain went on, "In that scene was myself, my father, my sister and my two brothers. My brother is so handsome, the director- Pabst- gave him a closeup."

With a smile, Bridget von Hammersmark said, "Herr Major, if my word means anything, I can vouch for everything the young captain has just said."

Hellstrom didn't so much as blink, his stony expression remaining set, but inside he felt distinctly annoyed all of a sudden. Major? Couldn't this fool of a woman read badges of rank? Dieter Hellstrom was not some sap in the Army! But she was a civilian, and a greatly esteemed film celebrity. Hellstrom let it pass.

Oblivious to her error, regardless, von Hammersmark continued, "He does hail from the bottom of the Pitz Palü. He was in the film and his brother is far more handsome than he." Suddenly, if only to break the awkwardness of the quiet, Hammersmark started laughing. Despite giving a mock look of dismay at Hammersmark praising his brother's looks before his own, the SS captain joined in, and the not-quite-sober Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm stared at them a little before starting to giggle himself.

Inside, Hellstrom shrugged. Maybe this captain really was just from a remote area of Germany, one with an equally unique dialect. It happened all the time, especially in the Waffen-SS; Hellstrom had read somewhere, in some report, that the Waffen-SS recruited legions from outside of Germany nearly as often as within. The Waffen-SS of 1944 was more like the French Foreign Legion than an elite force of all-German knights.

Finally, Hellstrom decided to crack a smile, taking a drink of his beer and laughing a little himself. Not because he was amused, but because he wanted everybody to calm the hell down. Sometimes having everyone in the room freeze and stare at you got boring. Gesturing to the sergeant with his glass, Hellstrom remarked, "You should rejoin your friends."

Abruptly, two of the enlisted men from the next table grabbed Wilhelm and got him out of the picture; they knew the SS major had not said that purely for Wilhelm's benefit. It had been just as much a warning to Wilhelm's friends: get this man out of the conversation or I will do it myself.

Now every inch the SS gentleman, Hellstrom inclined his head and bowed slightly to von Hammersmark. "May I join you?" he said most courteously.

Equally polite, Hammersmark waved a hand invitingly. "By all means."

Hellstrom swept off his black officer's cap, tossing it down on the table. He smiled roguishly. "Wonderful!" he said, as if he couldn't have come out from the room in the back for any other reason.