Chapter I- In the News
Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom strode swiftly down the halls of the vast and imperious SS-Hauptampt building on Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, a grim expression on his face that was just as black as his boots. His gray service uniform was spotless, as was the briefcase of files and photos in his right hand. Out of the dozens of SS he had passed coming down this hallway, only a few hadn't hurried to get out of Hellstrom's way. Every SS officer believed he was a big deal, and anyone at the rank of Major or above who didn't think himself qualified to be the next Reichsführer clearly had reached the high point in his career. But anyone with some common sense could tell Hellstrom was not a man to be toyed with; while an SS officer on a mission was commonplace on Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, and one with a briefcase only slightly less so, something about Hellstrom's manner said he wasn't to be crossed. Hellstrom walked knowing he quite literally held the fate of the Reich in his hands.
Two immaculately-dressed- and heavily armed- honour guards of the Waffen-SS snapped to attention as Hellstrom approached the door to the Reichsführer's office. Ordinarily, they would have given serious consideration to demanding that so uncommonly young a senior officer show them his ID papers. But something about this man said he was the real deal. He was as cocky and arrogant as any SS officer ever born, but the serious look in his eyes said there was a reason he held that briefcase so tightly. Gravely raising their assault rifles in salute, the guards looked at Hellstrom hopefully. Perhaps the horrible news- only confused, self-contradicting rumours so far- coming out of Paris was false, or exaggerated. Perhaps the Führer was still alive. But if there was news, good or bad, the SS officer gave the guards none of it. He just shook his head, and said only, "I'm sorry, gentlemen," and paused before adding, "My orders are to speak with the Reichsführer alone."
The guards nodded, one of them moving to open the door for the SS major. "Heil Hitler," one of them said. At this, Hellstrom switched the briefcase to his left hand, and his right arm shot up in salute. "Heil Hitler!" he barked, realizing as he spoke those two words that he had likely done so for the last time. Adolf Hitler was gone, and the war went on without him. German forces were fighting for the very survival of the Reich on all fronts- three, with the landings in Normandy now having gained a foothold. The Führer was gone, and soon all of Germany would be officially in mourning. But a new man was needed to take the Führer's place. Führer was a title, the new name of the official German head of state, rather than President or Prime Minister. Germany was in her greatest hour of need; a new Führer had to be found.
Stepping through the door into the waiting area of the Reichsführer's grand, black-oak-paneled office, Hellstrom noticed no one else in the que. He was alone in the room, and that wasn't particularly common. Many, many men waited on the Reichsführer in a day, some as much as an hour for as short an audience as five minutes. But this time, almost the instant Hellstrom stepped through the door and closed it behind him, Heinrich Himmler's calm, carefully-spoken voice called to him. "Come on, Herr Sturmbannführer," the Reichsführer said. "Your superiors in Paris said you had most urgent news."
That was quite an understatement, something Himmler was very good at; he knew as well as the young SS major that the documents in that briefcase would likely alter the course of history. And that the foolish, brash actions of the Allies already had.
Hellstrom marched smartly into the Reichsführer's office, trying to tell himself that the sudden watery feeling in his knees wasn't fear. Like all true followers of the Nazi cause, Hellstrom was awed by the power wielded by the Party's leaders. Truth be told, men like Hellstrom were simply awed by power. Himmler was one of the most feared men in Germany, Europe, and likely even the world. Head of the entire Schutzstaffel, he commanded all its myriad organizations- the Geheime Staatspolizei or Gestapo, the Sicherheitsdienst or SD, the quasi-police forces of the Allegemeine-SS, and the soldiers of the Waffen-SS. Hellstrom stopped before Himmler's desk, looking down at the quiet, bespectacled man in his black uniform. This may well be the next Führer, Hellstrom thought with more than a little awe. What an honour to be the one giving him the news.
"Heil Hitler!" Hellstrom said, raising his right arm in salute. Briefly, he wondered how much longer those words would be spoken. Odds were, a new name would follow the first word in that salute before long. Whose it would be was where the heart of the matter lay.
Himmler raised his right arm at the elbow, much as Hitler himself had often done when returning salutes. "Sit down, Sturmbannführer," he said, smiling a little at his next understatement. "It would seem we have some matters to discuss."
Hellstrom sat like a schoolboy before a stern, imperious teacher- and why not? Himmler had been one before the Party's call had reached his ears. His humble origins were often whispered by men of the SS; like Hitler himself, Himmler's rise from the common ranks to the highest possible echelons of power was seen as a "rags to riches" success story, as the Americans would have said. Countless men of the SS saw Himmler was a symbol of terrible power, but also of hope- if he could do it, so could they.
Himmler didn't waste a minute on anything, and very much unlike Hitler's fiery, passionate manner, Himmler was a cold and calculating man. He was fully in control of himself at every moment; never would he blink or fail to look straight at the facts of a situation. So it was little surprise to Hellstrom that he didn't alter from that today, on a day in late June of 1944. Himmler got right to business.
"Sturmbannführer, am I correct in believing the contents of your briefcase relate to the shocking news from Paris last night?"
Hellstrom nodded, unsurprised. Himmler was one of the best-informed men in Germany. He would always know about what mattered, and no news was more important than what Hellstrom had come to deliver today. Really, Himmler was just humouring Hellstrom. Odds were he not only knew what had happened, but knew beyond a doubt it was true and that a new Führer was needed. Hellstrom also suspected that Himmler, known to all in Germany as a very ambitious man, had already decided that man would be him.
Hellstrom paused to thank God- or whoever the Party would want him to thank- for the survival of Reinhard Heydrich in the assassination attempt on him in 1942. His adjutant had died instead, riding in the open-topped car beside him. Heydrich, a man with far more courage than sense, had ordered his driver to flee the scene… and then returned that same day with two companies of SS, burning the nearby Czechoslovakian village and killing everyone in it. That brutal act had shown what an utterly ruthless man Reinhard Heydrich was-as if anyone had needed proof. But it had also given the would-be assassins, had they stuck around, another chance to get their mark. Had Heydrich died, rallying the nation behind Himmler might have proved much harder to do. With him…
Himmler went on, "So it's true." His voice was grave. "The Führer is dead."
"Yes, sir," Hellstrom said, his voice choked. It was still impossible, too much to believe. But it had happened.
But Hellstrom summoned the strength to continue, as he knew Hitler would have expected- he wanted men who were built of steel. Steel! No soft gaps of sentiment. Ironic as it was, the Führer would not have wanted a single man, of the SS or a common farmer, to mourn his loss for long. He would have wanted them to hurry up and get on with things; the destiny of Germany could not wait for even one man.
"Many hundreds were killed by the Allied commandos," Hellstrom said. "Between the gunfire and the bombs, we make the count at well over three hundred."
Hellstrom shook his head; he'd had the time of his life shooting that stupid German actress and those shitty fake-SS to hell and gone in that cellar tavern, but he'd never seen a real massacre in his life until he saw what the Basterds did to the Paris cinema where "Pride of the Nation" had made its utterly disastrous debut.
Continuing, Hellstrom opened his briefcase and began handing files and pictures to Himmler as he talked. The Reichsführer listened with patience and interest- statistics, never of much use to Hitler, were fascinating to him. The more you had everything pegged down to the numbers, the more efficiently everything ran.
"Gestapo agents sifted through the scene as soon as Paris fire departments and rescue workers had the fires out. We have confirmed the death of Private Friedrich Zoller, Reichminister Göbbels, dozens of Party members, Hitler Youth and civilians. The Führer's body has also been recovered."
"What of Reichsmarshall Göring?" Himmler asked, pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose as he looked over the body count. Hellstrom had barely made it through reading over that report even once- he was no weakling, and had shot and killed enough enemies of the Reich he could have painted his hands red several dozen times with all of the blood he'd spilled. But this was different! These were German dead!
Pushing aside his anger, Hellstrom answered, "The Reichsmarschall was not at the film premiere. He was test-flying a captured British fighter."
Himmler smiled coldly- he didn't seem to know how to do it any other way. "Ah, yes," he said, nodding a little as if confirming something he already knew. Which, again, was probably the case. "The de Havilland Mosquito. Impressive that our night fighters managed to bring one down intact."
In spite of himself, Hellstrom smiled a little too. The Reichsmarshall would forever be a fighter ace at heart- though now grown older and a little too fat, he would never forget the swashbuckling days of his youth, tearing through the skies of Europe in the rickety biplanes of the last war. Capturing so superbly-built a plane as the Mosquito must have been a truly personal victory for him, considering how much he had envied the British for having it.
"And of course," Hellstrom added, "the majority of the SS hierarchy remains intact. The Kriegsmarine, Luftwaffe, Heer and Waffen-SS likewise suffered few or no losses." Hellstrom paused. "Really, Herr Reichsführer, we have most everyone we need. We can keep the Reich functioning."
Just as Himmler was about to say something, the door to his office opened, and in strode SS-Oberstgruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, "The Man With the Iron Heart" as Hitler had once called him. Hellstrom instinctively started to spring to his feet, then stopped, feeling very foolish, when he realized whose office he was still sitting in. Himmler didn't even seem to notice; he was looking straight at his most loyal deputy, expectant and interested, even.
"Herr Reichsführer," Heydrich began, his blue eyes shining with excitement, "I have a telegraph from the Reichsmarshall's estate in Bavaria. Shall I read it?" As Heydrich spoke those last words, he cut his eyes at Hellstrom. All three men in the room understood Heydrich's meaning- Should this Major be here to hear this?
But Himmler nodded, waving a hand in dismissal of the issue. "Hellstrom is a reliable man. It doesn't matter."
With one curt nod of acknowledgement, Heydrich opened the dispatch and read it. "I have recently heard of the tragedy in Paris and am as grieved at the nation's loss as any man. But the war must go on, and will go on. The Fatherland must be saved. The Führer is dead. Heil Himmler!"
Heydrich, deciding on the spot to let Himmler know where he stood, raised his right arm in salute, the second man to offer his services to Himmler as the nation's new leader. "Heil Himmler!" barked the tall, blonde Aryan SS general.
"Heil Himmler!" Hellstrom barked, jumping to his feet and snapping his right arm up in salute.
Now a different kind of smile crept onto Himmler's face. It was the look of a man who had been waiting for years, perhaps his entire life, to get what he wanted, and in just this moment now realized he had it. Heinrich Himmler, by the actions of a few bull-headed, brash and idiotic American bandits, had just had the fate of Europe placed in his hands. The death of Germany's leader and Minister of Propaganda was unfortunate, but not quite unexpected. After all, Himmler had known those 'Basterds' were operating in the Paris area at the time. It was Himmler, always able to gain the Führer's ear at a key moment, who had convinced him to go ahead with the film premier, even with the D-Day landings going on to the North.
It had been Himmler, so cold and calculating every minute of every day, who had suggested to Göbbels that he attend to make the best of the propaganda opportunity the showing had. And the presence of those HJ boys and their equivalent girls? That had been no mere unfortunate circumstance. It was Himmler's idea. The deaths of those teenagers was a little saddening and a little wasteful, but hardly a complete loss. Their deaths added a special touch to the carnage; the heartlessness of the Allies often equaled or even surpassed that of the Reich. And ironically, while the public of England and America had so easily overlooked the firebombing of Dresden and the merciless poundings of Frankfurt and Berlin, they might very well prove unable to stomach the fiery, violent death of so many boys and girls who had done nothing but simply be there. All the Greater German Reich had to do was just publicize it.
Himmler smiled and returned the salutes, motioning for both men to be seated. There was a lot to do; he had just become the most powerful man in Germany. No, that was insufficient- the most powerful man in Europe.