Newark Minutemen. Leslie K. BarryЧитать онлайн книгу.
has described him to me, and we’ve discussed Heidi’s role with Herr Schenk. I have higher hopes for her. An obedient one like her could be useful.
As Günther approaches, I seize the command expected of a German Führer. “Herr Günther Brecht. Dear blood brother from Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch.”
Günther, adorned in his decorated Nazi uniform, clicks his heels and tosses a Heil Hitler salute. “1923!” His jowls joggle.
As I flip a salute back, my Iron Cross medal from the Great War swings from my buttonhole. I steady it. My fingers warm when I think of the foresight Emperor Wilhelm II had back in 1914 when he stole the ancient Teutonic knight’s design for bravery. There’s an immortality beaming from it.
Günther’s own medals rise when he puffs out his chest. “We almost brought ‘em down. That double-crossing Weimar Republic. Barely escaped the bloody fate of the sixteen.”
“At least our sacrifice was not in vain,” I say. “We planted the seeds of Austottung of the Jews mit Stumptf und Stiel.”
Günther chuckles. “Ja! Extermination of the under-races from root to branch.”
We exchange a hefty handshake and clap each other on the back. “In Germany marches us!” I say. Then together, we approach Bund Secretary James Wheeler-Hill. Günther’s family tags behind like his own mini-brigade. I envy that man. He has it all.
“James. Good to see you again,” Günther says as he and my secretary slap each other’s shoulder. “Your national youth camps are well-oiled revenue machines.”
I stretch my arm toward James. “Secretary Wheeler-Hill. May I introduce Günther’s exquisite wife, Wilhelmina, and their ripe Fräuleins, Heidi and Krista.”
Krista’s nostrils flare, and I get a first-hand glimpse of that rebelliousness. That’s okay. She’s got that caramel and salty layering to her that can be magical. Once I have a moment with her, I will wrap her around my finger. She will be the inspiration for all American Nazi girls.
The Secretary gleams into the girls’ eyes as he grasps a hand from each. “Führer Hitler believes our most important weapon for Nazism in America is our youth.” His voice doesn’t match his strapping body. His iron jaw lets out a sound as sweet as a Kristy Kreme doughnut. “A pleasure,” he says. Our nickname for the thirty-five-year-old is Little Napoleon because he often rests his hand inside his jacket.
Heidi feeds the man’s ego with a beaming smile while Krista delivers a poker-face to the guy old enough to be her father. I blush just thinking about how she’ll soon understand her female responsibilities.
“Führer Kuhn,” Günther interrupts. “I believe you also know the Von du Croys from Germany. May I present their son, Axel Von du Croy.”
Krista’s escort, Axel, steps forward. Up close, the boy in his starched uniform is as debonair as I imagined. His stiff neck and haughty eyes knock aside his peers. He doesn’t even need to try. The soldier clicks his heels.
My chest hums. Much nicer to receive this respect than the belligerence in my early days here. I knew in my bones that I had what it took. But I had to let the people running the show swallow their own tails. They laughed at me at first. Ach! If I’d been in their shoes, maybe I would have, too. After all, I spoke English like a boar and had just two coins to rattle in my pocket. My own father’s to blame for the biggest snub, though. I still want to bury him alive for turning me to the Polizei just because I took a few coats from his friend’s factory. Even my mother didn’t forgive him for shipping me to Mexico to avoid jail. The greatest tragedy though, Adolph wouldn’t talk to me for years.
But payback is sweet. When the founding leaders were punished and shipped back to Germany, I emerged like a snake with a shiny new skin. I delivered the organization in America that would have taken Germany years. My heart pounds each time I recall the applause.
Axel’s body remains stiff, waiting for my cue. “A pleasure, Herr Von Du Croy,” I say. “A tragedy what the Jew Communists did to your family’s lands after the Great War. However, I hear your rightful property may be recovered.” If only my son could be as impressive as this boy. All he does when I telephone is complain about money and his mother. My greatest fear is that he may be a homosexual.
“Ya! As soon as the papers go through, Krista and I will marry and take our place,” Axel answers. Over his shoulder, his gray eyes give Krista an appraising glance. The alliance brokered between the Von du Croys and Brechts will advance my power and breed an American-German dynasty.
Heidi bounces on her toes and squeals. “Krista! You’re getting married!”
Krista starts coughing. Her hand covers her throat to settle the fit.
Without even looking at Krista, Axel reaches back and swats her back. “Vater wants me to take my place against the enemies who committed the Dolchstosslegende and—”
“Stabbed us in the back during the Great War,” I finish his sentence.
“Exactly! He says our destiny will save the world from diabolical Bolshevism.” Axel is a soldier with clarity and purpose.
“Marriage! Good news, Axel.” Frank slaps his back. “The best man is always the last to know.” He forces a grin.
“This time the wife is the last to know,” Krista mutters under the clattering of the room. But I hear her. As Wilhelmina squeezes her elbow, Krista beams a blistering glare at Axel. That defiance again.
I sigh. A smart girl would know this is her shining moment. Krista could learn a thing or two from her step-mother about the female’s role in the Reich. She will soon accept that a German man leads his woman as well as his country. She’s young, yet. And she’s bright. By tomorrow she will appreciate this gift.
“BundesFührer Kuhn,” Günther bellows over the noise. “One night soon, we shall celebrate. Tonight, we are here for you and our future.” He flashes a smile. His teeth have yellowed over his five years in America.
I spread my black leather jackboots. “I believe in a real democracy and America doesn’t have one right now,” I say. “Tonight, we speak of Freeing Amerika.” The energy in the room buzzes between my fingertips. The crowd jerks and paces like caged tigers on caffeine, anticipating my promises. The stroking inside me is so much more than pride. It’s dignity.
Führer Frederick Vandenberg appears. He’s the leader of Camp Siegfried, my showcase camp and the Kron juwel of the multi-million dollar German Bund corporation. He peeks over his thick round glasses. His words spill over his thin lips. “The only thing Amerikan freedom brings to this country is shacks and soup lines. Millions are out of work. Roosevelt’s New Deal only creates jobs like apple sellers and shoe shiners.”
“Kamerads!” I extend my arm. “Please welcome Frederick Vandenberg, Camp Siegfried’s brilliant Führer. And a friend of liberty.” Frederick’s receding hairline makes him look older than his actual years. His perennial red cheeks reveal his drinking habits. But his ruthless work ethic makes him as efficient as the German railway. As the group salutes him, I smile and nod at Vandenberg’s patriotic red, white and blue swastika on his lapel. “Führer Vandenberg’s right,” I say. “Democracy won’t revive Amerika.”
“This country is a broken down skeleton!” Vandenberg says. The body of the apple cheeked forty-something twitches with each word he speaks. He faces Axel and Frank. “Boys! Are you ready to help re-nourish this decaying country!” he says.
“Aryans will stop the degeneration,” Axel says, nodding.
“I look forward to contributing at Camp with you this summer, mein Führer,” Frank chimes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a smirk from Krista when Frank speaks. She’s obviously not impressed with Heidi’s choice in partners either. Smart girl. I do like her.
Behind Vandenberg is his director of youth, the debonair, Theodore