Chapter Eleven
Think of the press as a great keyboard on which the government can play. — Joseph Goebbels
On screen, a fresh-faced news anchor adjusted her pantsuit before flashing a toothy smile at the audience; behind her, a digital sun hovered in the center of a flawless sky.
"Good morning, London, and welcome to Molly Magee's morning forecast!" Her cheerful tone made Heinkel scowl. "As you can see, it's a beautiful day: not a cloud in the sky. Perfect weather for an outing."
Has she set foot outside her studio recently?
There was a pause as a camera man whispered in the anchorwoman's ear before she added hastily, "Not to worry; I have it on good authority that the streets are perfectly safe. In other news, the queen will be addressing the nation at seven o'clock this evening…"
The reporter's cheerful tone was infuriating; she spoke as if the Blitz were a minor annoyance, instead of a catastrophe that would cripple the country for years to come. Even though Heinkel knew the girl was being fed lines by authorities desperate to prevent the public from panicking further, the government's deception was still galling—and downplaying the severity of the Nazi attack was not only foolish but dangerous.
Indeed, it was England's infamous arrogance, the stubborn refusal to acknowledge its own vulnerability, that had left London unprotected in the first place: providing an easy target for the Major and his ilk.
Yet even if Millennium had not attacked, others eventually would have. Clinging to the illusion of invincibility, the English had become weak, sheep waiting for the proverbial slaughter; and it mattered not who the butchers were. Britain had paid dearly for her hubris—and likely would again.
Meanwhile, however, the Blitz receded into the past with each day free of bloodshed: becoming a distant memory few cared to dwell on. With the Thames sparkling in the sunlight and children romping in the streets, giddy to be playing truant on a school day, one could almost believe the attack was nothing more than a horrible nightmare.
But as the trio of photographs on Heinkel's dresser reminded her, this nightmare was all too real; and ignoring it would only allow such a tragedy to happen again. While she had no love for this city or its heretical inhabitants, she would rather die than witness such horrors a second time.
Switching off the television, she turned her back on the reporter's false smiles and soothing words. This wasn't news, only lies meant to soothe the frightened populace; and though these reassurances appeared to be working, this did little to diminish Heinkel's disgust, the disbelief that anyone could utter blatant falsehoods in the face of such tragedy.
Deception—at least when perpetrated by infidels—rarely bothered her; after all, such behavior was to be expected of heathens. Now, however, Heinkel wanted nothing more than to shake Molly Magee until the twit's eyes rolled back in her head.
For although she understood the reasoning behind the government's propaganda, it would only beget further weakness: something the beleaguered city—and the nation, for that matter—could not afford.
While Londoners might believe themselves stronger for what they had suffered, inoculated against tragedy, Millennium's attack had not fortified the capital; rather, it had exposed just how weak the city truly was. If the Nazis launched a second assault, the carnage of the Third Blitz would pale in comparison.
Yet on the surface, at least, London was recovering. Under Dorian's watchful eye, the new recruits had eradicated the last of the ghouls with only a handful of near casualties; with the "rotters" gone, reconstruction was in full swing. Damaged by Nazi bombs, Big Ben was one of the first things to be repaired; its chimes rang out across the city, providing a sense of badly needed normalcy.
Emergency shelters emptied as people gathered the courage to return to their homes; the Red Cross had established a refugee camp for those whose dwellings had been destroyed. Shops opened their doors for the first time in weeks, though few had much merchandise to sell, given the Nazis' frenzied looting. Still, they did manage to attract a few customers as a handful of brave souls, reassured by the soldiers stationed on every street corner, began to venture outdoors again. One problem which had yet to be solved was the city's pet population; London was overrun by cats and dogs whose owners had been slaughtered. If it were up to Heinkel, she would rescue as many animals as the manor could hold, but she doubted she could convince Integra of the merits of this plan.
As if summoned by this train of thought, Greta padded into the room, tail in the air; and Heinkel bent down to pet her, feeling the tension leave her body as the animal purred. At least one of London's residents was untouched by the recent tragedy; and Heinkel intended to ensure it stayed that way. Call her paranoid, but she wasn't comfortable letting Greta venture outside just yet. Better to wait another week, just in case. The city might seem peaceful, but tension simmered beneath the surface.
In the anarchy following the Blitz, street gangs rushed to fill the void provided by the annihilation of the London authorities: beating and raping unsuspecting passerby, looting the few businesses that had escaped the Nazis' wrath, and attacking any soldier who dared to venture too far from his companions. While the army was attempting to restore order, its ranks were severely depleted; it would be years before the military regained its former strength. And the police weren't any help, given that their own forces had also been devastated.
Furthermore, although various humanitarian organizations were aiding the city, their efforts were uncoordinated and their resources stretched to the limit. People were starving; and as their desperation increased, so did the violence. If the authorities didn't find a solution soon, no amount of propaganda would pacify the populace.
At least Greta didn't seem to miss the outdoors. After claiming Heinkel's room as her own, she quickly explored the rest of the mansion—much to Dorian's annoyance. The feeling was mutual, given that Greta hissed and retreated under Heinkel's bed at the mere sound of the butler's voice: another reason to keep her.
"Remarkable, isn't it?"
Heinkel spun around, stifling a curse. Despite her annoyance that someone besides Seras had managed to sneak up on her, she was secretly impressed; given that she hadn't heard Oliver approach, he must have been practicing her stealth techniques. At least someone took his training seriously.
While she hadn't been expecting him, Heinkel wasn't surprised to see the older man; for reasons known only to himself, Oliver had taken a liking to her, despite her efforts to keep him at a distance. Right now, though, she was still half-awake: too tired to do more than glare at her unexpected visitor.
When Heinkel didn't respond, he gestured toward the street below, where two women were deep in conversation, their children engrossed in a rowdy game of tag. "I was referring to the human ability to recover from tragedy. Even amidst death and destruction, people survive—thrive even. It's amazing, don't you agree?"
Ignoring the sudden tightness in her throat, Heinkel remained silent; she'd be damned if she spilled her guts to a heathen, of all people—even if he was more tolerable than most of the morons in this place. Sensing her distress, Greta meowed, rubbing against Heinkel's legs until her owner scooped her up.
Oliver wasn't bothered by her silence, waiting patiently for her to respond. For the first time, Heinkel wondered how many people he'd lost in the Blitz; perhaps Margaret was the only family he had left (a terrifying thought indeed).
Deciding that ignoring him wasn't going to work, she snapped, "There's nothing miraculous about it. People think they're safe now that the Blitz is over, but they're wrong. The Nazis will come for them again; and when they do, there will be nothing left but bones."
Oliver was quiet for so long that Heinkel wondered if she'd finally managed to offend him. At last, he replied, "Though an army encamp against me, my heart does not fear; though war be waged against me, even then do I trust."
Before Heinkel could remark on his scriptural knowledge—few Protestants bothered to crack open a Bible, let alone memorize the sacred word—one of the recruits entered the room, casting a nervous glance in her direction. "Margaret's looking for you." He informed Oliver, who sighed.
"I suspected as much." With a nod to Heinkel, he left the room, the other man practically treading on his heels in his eagerness to flee the papist's presence.
