The Gentle Nazi

 Petra ignored Max's stare burning into her as she struggled to end the conversation. The Hero of the Fatherland squinted at his watch, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel then glanced at the time again. Hitler’s violently trembling hands gave Max the Porsche’s keys shortly before the Great Führer's death. Max basked in the early afternoon glow, its light reflected by his silver-grey uniform. It gilded his blonde hair and highlighted his cheekbones in shadow. Voted the sexiest man in the Reich by Popular Observer viewers, he looked every bit the heroic guest at Berlin's May Day parade. She knew people envied her. Why wouldn't they? Her husband put both hands on the centre of the steering wheel and held them there. A finger in her ear drowned out some of the klaxon.

“Yes, it’s Max honking at me. Bye Konrad, and thanks.”

At last, Petra replaced the receiver. From their villa's doorway, she teetered across the drive to the car, looking to the eastern skies. Diminutive Petra liked wearing heels. She bumped into the passenger door, cushioned by the tulle beneath her taffeta dress. After seating herself, she straightened out the black ruffles and smoothed the headscarf protecting her dark beehived hair, all the while still looking east. Entering the forest at the end of the drive, spring’s scents filled the air. Max touched her stockinged knee as he changed gear. 

“What are you looking at?” 

After Petra checked the back seat, she passed their child a toy. 

"Lothar. Here, play with Daddy's spaceship." 

That ensured that Lothar paid their conversation no mind. Petra cast her eyes east again. 

"It was Konrad on the phone. He said the Reds ambushed a Siberian missile patrol, stole one of Gothengau’s rockets, and now he's taking his men to find it before it's launched."

"That’s not going to stop us attending, but you won’t see it coming.” He checked the left lane. “Well, not so you'll be able to get away from it.” Max looked in the wing mirror and indicated. “We'll be alright, so long as we're underground or a block away from the blast." Acceleration forced Petra’s head back when Max overtook the car in front. "Konrad’s your guardian angel, isn't he? It's like Hamburg all over again." 

"No, Hamburg was different. If Konrad hadn't stopped me getting on that train, then I wouldn't be here today. There's no guarantee this rocket will be fired, though, and even if it does, who's to say it will hit Berlin?"

"I'm glad one of us knows someone in Gothengau. Otherwise, there'd be no warning at all. Why do they drive rocket launchers in Siberia?"

“He mentioned something about Drachenblut, but I didn’t get the connection.”

“You know an Odinist priest, don’t you?”

“Yes, a pretty boy called Karl.” Petra indeed knew Karl. “We came over from America in the same boat. I believe he’s quite senior now.” She caught Max staring east far longer than he needed to. "You said there's no point in looking out for a rocket."

He smiled, his teeth sparkling white in the sunshine. "It's hard to ignore fifteen years of training."

Petra showed her appreciation by weaving her slender digits with his sturdy fingers. 

"Everybody knows Konrad’s battalion are the best paratroopers around. Why didn’t they send him in the first place?" 

"He didn't say. I was too pushed for time to ask."

"Losing one of those rockets is pretty useless, though!" Max cackled with laughter. "The SS isn't getting any better with age. When I was in the Luftwaffe, we were always bailing them out of trouble. Hitlerstadt would still be called Stalingrad if it wasn't for us."

"Daddy helps useless SS!" cried Lothar.

"Daddy helps brave SS." Petra poked his thigh. "Careful, the Gestapo have agents in kindergartens."

"Daddy helps brave SS." 

Petra drew a long, calming breath. Keeping that boy's ears out of their conversations grew more critical by the day. They joined the autobahn and the clear line of sight to the capital revealed Berlin’s gigantic dome shimmering in the distance. For the next twenty minutes it occupied a little more of their field of vision every meter they moved forward. 

Berlin's new, monumental centre dwarfed Rome, Paris, and London. Cool shade and the smell of concrete greeted their entry to the underground car park. Max jumped from the Porsche, tapping his feet while Petra took Lothar in her arms. Before she had settled him in place, Max ran to the stairs. He lingered just in front of her until they reached the door. The family emerged from the parking garage behind the massive dais constructed across the entrance to the domed Volkshalle's main square. 

The Hellfeiers walked past a radio installation manned by jumpy SS officers. One of the crew - tan uniform, a sour, balding smoker with a cigarette between his lips - recognised her. Pleasure swept across his face. 

"Hi Petra! Will you be singing for us today?" His half-smoked cigarette stayed at the corner of his mouth.

Petra shook her head and smiled at the soldier.

Max squeezed her hand. "I can't believe you still get recognised all these years later. I should have more fans by now!"

"Don't play modest, you know you have. I've seen all the women staring at you."

A smug grin curled up his lip and died. "Women always stared at me."

"Men always stared at me, too, but I was never tempted. Just don't act on it again, please."

Two tiers of guest seating had a catwalk jutting from the first row. It pointed down the Boulevard of Splendours at the massive Arch of Total Victory and the South Railway Station. Giant screens relayed images from the stage to the tens of thousands of people filling the enormous avenue. Many of the men and women wore an SS uniform of some description. They stood at attention around the tanks, cannons, and rockets lined along the thoroughfare. Arms stretched in salute they repeatedly, in unison, cried "Heil Himmler!"

Max sat in the front, Petra and Lothar in the back row. The Luftwaffe Air Marshal, all rugged good looks and fair hair, turned to wink at her. She repressed disapproval, familiar with his persistent flirtations but also glad of them. In a little over two weeks, Petra would be two years past thirty and didn't know how long her looks would last. 

"Give it a rest, Fritz." 

Max met her eye when turning to his colleague, the beautiful Eva Reitsch. Petra felt a tinge of jealousy, and anger tensed her mouth. Max completely ignored her requests to stay faithful. She may as well have talked to herself. 

The head of the army passed by and greeted Petra with a nod and an intense stare. The chief admiral remained motionless, his rough, pitted skin lending him a stone-hewn appearance. From behind the dais, Petra heard the radio set broadcasting a gun battle before a sheepish officer muted it. 

Silence began to fall when the Führer stood. Stubble jutted from the back of his sweaty neck. Himmler remained quiet, staring around the crowd until the audience muted their praise. "Aryan people of the Reich, I stand before you today with High Priest Drachenblut, the leaders of our glorious colonies of Ingermanland and Memel-Narev." 

Petra noted Gothengau Leader Richard Baer’s absence. Only serious discord between the Führer and the Gauleiter could account for Baer's empty seat. Himmler nodded toward the group on his left. "Our spiritual leader and the Vestal Virgins are here to perform the blessings of Spring in the manner of our ancient Germanic forefathers." The Führer looked to his right. "The Wehrmacht Chiefs, Western Defenders of the Fatherland, Air Marshall von Hohenzollern, Field Marshal Mannteufel, and Admiral Geissler, offer us their support through their defence against Britain and America."

Himmler continued addressing the assembly. He didn't even mention Gothengau.

"But first I will tell you something. I'll tell you how the Reich Space Agency will take a leap in technology further than America, Britain, or Japan have even dreamed. Today, I let it be known that the Fatherland will be the first nation to put a man in space. Yes, through the brilliance of our scientists we can truly be above all, as rulers of the skies. This is the first step for the Aryan people to continue their natural domination from planet Earth into other worlds."

The crowd initially shouted as individuals, then announced their pride collectively with a rhythmic chant of Deutschland Über Alles. Himmler let them continue for a minute before slashing the air with his arm to stop their tribute.

"We shall colonise and populate the moon, Mars, the cold outer reaches of the Solar System, then the stars. First, we shall send the finest specimens of the Aryan race to take that vital, initial leap. They must be strong in mind and body, skilled aviators, and at the pinnacle of their generation. 

"Who will be the first? Who has that mental fortitude and the high levels of physical ability demanded? Could there be anyone except the Hero of the Battle for Russian Skies, the first to break the speed of sound, and Pride of the Fatherland? Max Hellfeier!" Max bristled with pride, looked around him, then stood and bowed.

In the moments of relative silence between the speeches and their matching rounds of applause, Petra monitored the panicked radio officers. Himmler further detailed his plans for the Third Reich's domination of space. 

“The rubble in the asteroid belt is our new source of mineral wealth.”

Wernher von Braun, rocket pioneer and visionary, had his accomplishments usurped, but his expression betrayed no feelings. When not looking at the radio set, Petra watched out for the rocket. Max did too. The glances seemed more than instinctive despite his protestations driving over.

Himmler neared the end of his speech. "I give you my word that we will, by the end of this decade, put a man in space. We do this not because it is easy, but because it is hard; because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win."

Little Lothar trembled on Petra's knee when the audience responded with seismic applause. She sympathised, drawing him closer to her. Lothar's behind felt damp with urine. She didn't swear, nor raise her voice, but a long breath always accompanied her admonitions. Petra knew Lothar's familiarity with her behaviour. He wept gently.

Raising his hands high, Himmler basked in the adulation before ceding the podium to the High Priest. Drachenblut rose. His six-and-a-half-foot frame loomed over Petra. Her skin tingled, feeling his messianic presence. She felt like this once before: when Konrad stopped the SS rounding her up for the Auschwitz train. The memory almost made her wet herself as well. The High Priest breezed past the dais' sentries with a few long strides. He turned, and when the cloak arced through the air, the silver threads in its embroidery glinted in the sunshine. His loose tunic and boots laced over the trousers mimicked the ancient Teutonic style but remodelled with the fearsome iconography and stylish lines of the SS.

Rising at Drachenblut's beckoning the Vestal Virgins snaked toward him in line. Their powder-blue, billowing silk robes appeared to conjoin them; the colour of their coiled, braided hair the only distinguishing feature. They bent down and picked up the blue and white pole lying on the runway, seductively raising it and placing it in its socket on the podium. Red-headed Helga, the Chief Vestal and daughter of propaganda minister Josef Goebbels, stepped forward. Grimhilt, the blonde Vestal remained still. Edda, mouth perpetually agape, stepped back to reflect her place in the hierarchy.

The May Day fertility blessing started with Drachenblut raising Helga's leg and running his hand along her bare thigh. She coiled and uncoiled her leg around him, then flung herself over to the maypole. Grimhilt replaced Helga as the High Priest's dancing partner, while Helga wrapped herself around the strut, spinning and dancing up and down it.

Petra’s smoking admirer from the radio installation ran up the stairs towards the Führer. She jumped so hard Lothar's toy spaceship flew from his hand. It smashed to pieces on the floor. Ignoring his screams, she leant forward to Max.

"I think the rocket is coming.” Petra motioned at her breathless fan spraying Himmler’s ear with saliva. “Look at the Führer."

The messenger finally got his information across to Himmler. Wiping his face, the Führer shot up and bounded to the steps. Jealousy stung Petra when Max grasped Eva's thigh and whispered to her. Eva jumped and ran to the stairs. Max followed her. Petra picked up Lothar, but by now almost half the guests had moved to the exit, keeping her apart from Max. On stage, Drachenblut disentangled himself from the Vestals to watch the impromptu evacuation.

If the crowd received no warning of the attack, the rocket strike could kill many thousands. That might sit fine with Himmler, but Petra couldn’t just allow it. She let those behind her push past, jumped over to Himmler's empty chair and grabbed the microphone. But she couldn't hang around.

"Run! Run!" The crowd remained motionless. 

A cameraman focused on her, the camera's light glowing red. The screens down the avenue showed her face. Little time remained to get to safety. This must be her last attempt to save them before she saved herself. Using the expression reserved for the saddest songs in her repertoire, she begged the crowd.

"Run! A rocket's coming! Run now!"

All this got recorded. Petra still knew this business. A tear ran from the eye during a camera close up. Old tricks came back so easily.

On the grand boulevard, the ordered ranks of demonstrators became a crazed mob. Radiating from the screens like toppling dominoes, individuals pelted from their regimented places. People at the edges ran under the rocket launchers and climbed over the tanks. Artillery hindered the exit for those in the centre. Petra’s eyes glued to the desperation. Had her weeping really been the catalyst for this? Behind them, thousands of Nazi men, women, and teenagers escaped the middle. They ran until they pushed the reticent over and ground their boots on the dawdlers. A missile could hit any second. Back in the present moment, Petra gulped air. She had forgotten to breathe.

Petra stood between the mob and the stairs. She grabbed Lothar and jumped into the fray of pampered outfits. The crush swept them along. Petra thought she would tear the boy in two when the crowd pulled his feet away so forcefully. His terrified glare and piercing scream cut into her, almost tearing her away from her survival instinct. Energised, she tugged again, and his shoes came off. He shot back into her arms. Sticking a foot back, she recovered her balance. 

The tsunami of people flowed down the stairs. The horde pushed Lothar's face to her chest. Petra worried about him suffocating, but the mob spewed them to the ground. He gasped, compensating for his missed breaths, eyes bulging and lips blue. Petra stood close to the stage looking down the boulevard at the melee. The crowd kicked one of the Himmler Youth out from under it. Whoever it was, the body's battered, bloody condition erased any clues about gender.

When Petra looked around for cover, she glimpsed Max and Eva running to a massive Hitler statue that disguised a car park entrance. She dashed into Hitler's shadow as an orange glow illuminated their world. On the cusp of taking a breath, the blast hit. The explosion's power ripped the air from her mouth and wrenched Lothar's hand from hers, spinning her around. His body shot towards a wall, but Petra had no air to scream with. The concrete stopped his little body dead. Clutching at her face, she watched Lothar's crumpled, snapped form slide to the ground leaving a trail of blood and gore behind it.

Petra fought through stinging dust to reach him. She knelt to check his neck for a pulse, bent closer to feel his breath. No signs of life remained. Not recoiling from the internal fluids (this was no time for prissiness), she cradled the still body in her arms. 

The memory of Wieland's harrowing death fleetingly brushed aside the anguish Petra felt for Lothar. Ears ringing, she carried Lothar to the parking garage, stepping around the Hitler head and arm thrown to the ground by the explosion. Petra kicked the door open and rushed downstairs. When she reached the basement, shock caught up with her. She collapsed over the dead child, wracked with sobs. 

Disoriented, Petra picked up Lothar's body and staggered towards her car. Desperate to avoid the carnage outside, as well as Max, Petra staggered to the vehicle, raising herself with every step. When she regained her erect posture, their Porsche became visible. As did Max. He consoled Eva, steadfastly supporting her buttocks in this hour of Petra’s need. Petra’s vision blurred. There was just no stopping that guy. At least she had stopped him at first base.

Eva’s eyes lifted from Max’s comforting shoulder, the fire in them turning vibrantly startled. Petra glared at her, and Eva recoiled when she saw the red and white bouquet of compound fractures dangling from Petra’s arms.  Eva straightened her posture, casually pushed Max away and strode to the exit.

Max's haunted expression showed his guilt, but remorse wasn't enough to pay for Petra’s hurt. She handed the body to him, showing no emotion. Her self-control kept her calm. "He needs the burial ceremony." Petra held back her emotions. "Take him to the Children's Valhalla Temple."

Petra got in the car. She pressed a button and as the roof drew back, she drove back up to the street. Acrid fumes and choking soot filled her lungs. When her coughing became too much, she stopped the car until regaining her composure. The roof went back up and she drove again. Ghost-like, the dust-covered survivors roamed, dazed and aimless across her path. She sounded the horn briefly. Nobody reacted, and she leant on the klaxon again for several seconds. People noticed, their eyes wandering to the driver of the noisy car.

“Petra!” one of them cried.

More heads rose when they heard her name. 

“You saved us!” said another.

Clutch balanced, she edged the Porsche forward at a rheumatic walking pace. Her right foot fluttered between gas and brake pedals. The crowd, unwillingly and under duress, parted around the vehicle with the viscosity of molasses. As she meandered past them, they began to murmur her name. By the time she reached the end of their number, it became a rhythmic chant and her vision blurred through the tears and mascara that streamed down her face. This was a comeback she hadn't planned on.