Chapter Thirteen: The German Generals Speak
Chapter Thirteen: The German Generals Speak
Congratulations, you've ensured the success of the 20 July Plot and Operation Valkyrie. The German Resistance rules in Berlin. Now what? Also, more about the afterlife and being Einherjar.
“Tell me again, Mimr,” Eryn grimaced, staring into the glowing light of the Web of Norns, “why am I not trying to convince the Germans to just hurry up and surrender? It isn't as if they have a snowball's chance of winning the war.”
Eryn knew it was a futile line of inquiry. The answer wasn't going to change. It hadn't the last eight times she'd asked over the past three days.
“Thread analysis is conclusive,” Mimr's voice sounded from within the writhing tendrils, exactly as calm and detached on the ninth time as the first. “With Heinrich Himmler still at large, any attempt to surrender will prompt a counter-coup by surviving members of the Nazi establishment. Regardless of the outcome, the end result will be the victor waging a long and bloody guerrilla war against the Allied and Soviet forces occupying Germany even as both begin to fight each other. The most likely outcome will be the outbreak of another world war within a decade, this one fought with atomic weapons. Organized human society will collapse not long after.”
“And that matters why?” Eryn sighed. “Given that the whole universe is supposed to unravel any day now?”
“Because the process will involve, from your perspective, the laws of the universe becoming… unstable. The consequences if that will be extremely unpleasant for you and those around you. Worse, this unraveling will itself accelerate the slide to Ragnarok. Your choices are, I’m afraid to say, quite limited at present. Continue to aid the German Resistance while it is forced to continue the war, or condemn all worlds to an earlier death than need be.”
Eryn sighed again, shook her head, and bringing her hands together in a soft clap she deactivated Mimr and the Web of Norns. Just as the glow disappeared, a ray of sunlight pierced the forest canopy outside her room, casting a beam through the window and onto the opposite wall.
Three days before she had returned to the Bendlerblock with Captain Hans Lewinsky of the Brandenburgers as well as the corpse of the former Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels. Walking back into the building, now the impromptu headquarters of a new German government, at least in theory, she hadn't really known what to expect. Would the Valkyrie coup plotters, Stauffenberg and Haeften and all the rest, actually feel that she had helped them enough to warrant their trust? Or would she be arrested and interrogated as the foreign agent she was pretending to be?
As it turned out, neither theory had been correct. Eryn had simply been ushered back into Stauffenberg's office and completely ignored. Gertrude had spent the next few hours bustling in and out of the room, bringing food, water, and various bits of clothing. Watching what effectively amounted to nesting behavior had the benefit of taking Eryn's mind off her strange plight, and Gertrude made a point of forcing her to eat a meal. After a few hours, Lewinsky stopped by, also bringing a bundle of clothing, but didn't remain long enough for her to ask any questions.
By that evening Eryn wasn't in the mood for idle distractions: she was bored and furious. But then, along with everyone else, she heard the speech. All at once, every radio in the building was turned up to maximum volume. A triumphant fanfare, albeit marred by static, sounded through the halls. An oddly familiar voice, scratchy and gruff, pointedly rhythmic, crackled over the airwaves like she was listening to an old documentary.
“People of Germany, this is Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Winston Churchill. Yesterday evening, just before midnight, I received an entreaty from one Ludwig Beck, claiming to be the successor to that notorious beast, Adolf Hitler. In this message, he requests an immediate cease-fire with the Allies, in order to facilitate the initiation of negotiations for an armistice.”
“I am regrettably compelled to inform Mister Beck, the German people, and indeed the world, that the United Kingdom reiterates its commitment to the Casablanca Declaration. We will accept no less than the unconditional surrender of Germany and her allies. The crimes of the Nazi regime cannot be washed away by a mere change in leadership. Until the Hunnic hordes lay down their arms, until the peoples of Europe no longer suffer under their barbaric occupation, the war will go on to its bitter, and inevitable, conclusion.”
Within minutes, Beck, Stauffenberg, and half a dozen of their compatriots had filled the office, all eyes fixed on Eryn. Their interrogation went on into the night. Yet even though their questions were pointed, urgent, and any unsatisfactory answers were met with skeptical stares, within a few minutes it was clear to her that they had decided that they needed any help they could get.
She had spent most of the past two days working out how she might be useful. And after they accepted her plea for time to contact her completely imaginary superiors, she gathered that the German Resistance had decided to treat her as some sort of hybrid between diplomat and military liaison. She was given this office to claim as her own little slice of the new German government's temporary headquarters, and Gertrude was assigned to serve as her secretary.
Fortunately, this work kept Gertrude away for more hours than she was around, letting Eryn spend the time locked away with Mimr working learn all she could about Germany's predicament and how she could help nudge events to, if not prevent the end of days, at least not make the slide to Ragnarok worse. Somewhat to Eryn’s chagrin, she had soon found that there wasn't much she could do at the moment. Once in motion, Operation Valkyrie built on itself, more and more German military districts reporting that their local Nazi officials were in custody. President Beck was assembling a government, and newspapers were beginning to publish accounts about Hitler’s demise in a Nazi party internal struggle.
In the hours Eryn wasn’t left alone, the office was filled with Beck, Stauffenberg, and others posing the kinds of questions she had the most trouble answering, matters of politics, policy, and culture. Where she had expected them to be concerned with what Eryn could say of the Allies’ strategy and planning and weaknesses, instead they were fixated on whether the American election would alter United States' policy and why the British Empire was so dead-set on fighting Germany to the bitter end, even at the cost of protecting its many colonies overseas from independence movements.
It was strange, sitting in front of these military men, to realize that their hopes now rested almost entirely on their enemies having a change of heart about the whole war thing. And in her conversations with Mimr it soon became clear that this simply would not happen, not when Germany was so close to total defeat and both the Allies and Soviets were looking ahead to their looming struggle for power over its broken remains.
So the German Resistance was forced to rely on its own devices, and from her office Eryn listened for three long days as they worked a strange kind of triage to seize control of their own country’s regime. There was just so much to be done, from establishing their authority with military commanders who would be relied upon to suppress any counter-coup attempt made by the surviving Nazis to sending representatives across the country to recruit competent personnel capable of filling important government positions.
A thousand simultaneous actions were necessary to prevent Germany from collapsing into chaos and civil war. And somehow, against the odds, the German Resistance started to succeed. Hour by hour the mood in the Bendlerblock rose steadily towards outright exuberance. One by one, key Nazi leaders up and down the hierarchy were arrested and imprisoned. One after another civilian and military officials in territories under Germany’s control sent messages by radio and teletype confirming their allegiance and requesting further instructions from the new regime.
On the few occasions Eryn stepped out for some fresh air, even the streets outside the Bendlerblock were coming alive. People in civilian dress were out and about, walking around, talking with one another and the armed guards protecting the building grounds. First they were curious and then, if not necessarily satisfied with the explanations offered by the soldiers, at least accepting of the new reality.
By the second day it felt as if a deep fog was beginning to clear in the embattled city of Berlin, despite the hopeless odds and dark future ahead. Those who had been forced for the better part of a decade to bow their heads and conceal their beliefs for fear of Gestapo informers and the wrath of the Nazi state now had a fleeting glimpse of hope returning to life.
Later that night was when the first bad news reached the Bendlerblock. Several generals serving with the Waffen SS, a military branch of the Nazi party that Hitler had been building up to replace the traditional German Army, were organizing a counter-coup. Himmler was in touch with the SS, and working to establish a rival regime.
Almost simultaneously, another piece of even worse news arrived. A group of highly influential generals from the regular German Army had refused to meet with emissaries dispatched by the new government, claiming that their professional code of ethics forbade them from dealing with the leaders of an illegal coup. The reserve army forces currently obeying orders from the Bendlerblock were no substitute for the training and equipment of the regular military, and would hardly be able to take on even remnants of the SS, Gestapo, and Waffen SS alone. Without the allegiance of the main branches of the German military, particularly the Army, the Beck government was all but doomed.
The mood had plummeted in the building. Yet curiously, the courier bringing the message took special care to strongly imply that a small delegation consisting of one junior officer not directly involved in the assassination at Rastenburg might be welcomed to speak with the officers. The core group was planning to meet at the bedside of the famous general Erwin Rommel, currently recuperating at his family home in Ulm after suffering critical injuries in an Allied air attack during the fighting in France.
“You must meet with them, Eryn,” Mimr had warned as soon as she had asked what she should do in light of this new information. “Only if you are there at this meeting, with the unique sources of information you possess, does the German Resistance stand any hope of winning the allegiance of the senior generals.”
Eryn had immediately assumed her next challenge would be to somehow attach herself to whatever officer was dispatched to Ulm. It came as welcome shock when Captain Lewinsky marched into the office not two hours later and curtly informed her the generals themselves had requested she accompany him to southern Germany. They were, it seems, well informed about who was working in the Bendlerblock.
The next day they had set off, and Eryn had been treated to an incredibly strange trip, sitting in the back of an Opel staff car as it took three times as long as it should have to make the drive from northeastern to southwestern Germany. Allied bombing campaigns had blasted apart much of Germany's transportation network, and the staff car's quiet and careful driver was forced to regularly consult his maps in order to find local roads that would avoid the worst affected areas. Eryn had been granted a front row seat to scenes of horrifying devastation caused by American and British aerial bombing raids on urban areas, but also the strangely pastoral feel that defined so much of rural Germany despite the looming threat of the war.
Eryn sighed, still relieved she had been given her own room at the quaint inn where she and Lewinsky had spent the night after arriving in Ulm. She glanced at a full-length mirror set by the door, then grimaced and shook her head. Swapping out the horrid SS garb for another military outfit was not at all to her liking, but Lewinsky had insisted. The clothing package he had delivered to her in the Bendlerblock consisted of a pair of black trousers as well as a long tunic, the latter sporting pink piping of the sort adorning Lewinsky’s own uniform.
“If we are to serve together,” Lewinsky had explained, “we should wear the same uniform. I've never seen a woman in an armor soldier's tunic and trousers, but there's a first time for everything! Yet I must demand something of you in exchange. While you wear this, you represent the Brandenburg Regiment. Despite the brutality of this war we have a relatively unstained history, and as one of us your actions become our own. I don't know how you Canadians view matters of honor, but to a Brandenburger honor is all.”
Eryn inspected herself in the mirror one final time, then took a deep breath and left to meet Lewinsky. He was already waiting for her in the staff car, the engine idling. He nodded politely to her, then looked into the distance, remaining silent. She was now well used to his ways, having now spend many hours in a car with him. Lewinsky was the sort of person that was never unaware of his surroundings, but generally seemed distant. Like he knew that he belonged someplace else, but had accepted that he could never actually get there. Eryn could very much sympathize.
The car made its way through the streets of Ulm, which appeared entirely untouched by the war, save for the obvious lack of uninjured younger males. There was a large military hospital in the town, and consequently a large number of bandaged men in uniform, many of them amputees. They walked the fields on either side of the road in pairs or sometimes alone, aided by nurses and crutches and all the other accouterments required by victims of war.
“So, I found out exactly who we'll be meeting with this fine Swabian morning,” Lewinsky said, speaking for the first time when the staff car pulled up in front of an amply sized home. It was one of a cluster of similar houses butting against a thicket, each yard filled with a vegetable garden, older women toiling to remove summer weeds.
“Anyone I might have heard of?” Eryn asked, having learned enough from Mimr to know she was certain to get them all terribly confused.
“Field Marshal Rommel you know for certain!” Lewinsky laughed. “Even the Americans know his name. At least, they learned it after we smashed them at Kasserine. Ah, the poor Amis. Much like the French, they’re mostly lions led by donkeys.”
“Field Marshal von Rundstedt is also in attendance,” Lewinsky continued, “as well as Field Marshal von Manstein and the Inspector General of Armored Troops, General Guderian.”
“What, he isn't a Field Marshal too?” Eryn couldn't help but snort.
“No,” Lewinsky snorted. “Hitler denied him that particular honor out of spite. Though he was granted vast estates in the East as a reward for helping engineer the defeat of France, I believe. For all the good those will do him when the Soviets come!”
The car stopped, and after switching off the engine their driver exited the vehicle and moved to open Lewinsky's door. A guard hailed him, causing him to pause with his hand on the handle, and in that brief moment of privacy Eryn decided to ask a question that had been bothering her since she met Hans Lewinsky.
“Captain, where do you stand in all this?” Eryn peered at him intently. “The coup, I mean. You seem... different than Stauffenberg and the others, and not just because you weren't part of their inner circle. They seem to truly believe in what they're doing. You always act more, well, cynical... about everything.”
“I am cynical,” Lewinsky replied after a short pause. “I have been fighting in this war for almost five years. I have lost many friends. Most of them, in fact. And I know better than most how utterly pointless the fight has been. How much has been destroyed for no real purpose, only feeding the vain ambitions of a power hungry madman wielding a ridiculous ideology. I don't know to be anything but cynical anymore. So I do my duty, serving those it seems most right to serve.”
He grabbed the door handle, then froze. He turned his head and gave her a look she couldn't decipher. Apparently realizing she didn’t understand, he spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words.
“I do believe,” Lewinsky said, “at least broadly speaking, in what Operation Valkyrie seeks to accomplish. I learned of Stauffenberg's plan entirely by accident, and I don't think they will ever truly trust me as a result. But no matter what, I believe that we have done, and are still doing, what must be done. For honor, and failing that, simple human decency. That monster Hitler had to die, and all those who follow or idolize him deserve the same in recompense for all they have done to this world.”
With that, he opened the door and exited the vehicle. She followed Lewinsky as he marched up to and knocked on the front door. It was opened almost instantly, a young woman greeting them politely and allowing them inside. She led them down a long hallway lined with family portraits, then pointed towards a doorway at the end.
“They are waiting for you in his bed chamber,” she said curtly. “Please keep your voices under control. His injuries are very serious, and the doctors have instructed us to prevent anything from upsetting him. He will also need rest after a short time.”
She seemed nervous, and as they entered the room Eryn could see why. Five pairs of hard eyes turned towards them. Each belonged to a man, all but one clearly over the age of fifty, all but the man lying pale and wan in the bed they clustered around was dressed in a military uniform.
Lewinsky halted several paces from them, and Eryn stopped alongside him. She couldn't stop her eyes from wandering to the fifth man, clearly at least twenty years the junior of the other four. He looked almost as out of place as she felt, and it wasn't just the fact that he was wearing a different uniform, either, one belonging to the German air force, Eryn thought.
Lewinsky took a step forward and saluted them crisply. Only the oldest of the men acknowledged him, and then with but a curt nod. To Eryn, he seemed the very caricature of a German Field Marshal: tall, stiff, with a deep scar across his face adding an element of menace to pretty much any expression he might make. She decided he must be Gerd von Rundstedt, probably the trope-codifier for the concept of professional military aristocrat and one of the most senior members of the German military.
Lewinsky's hand returned to his side, then he addressed the group with the detached air of a soldier giving a routine report. “Good morning,” he said with more confidence than Eryn thought she could have ever mustered under those withering stares, “I am Captain Hans Lewinsky, assigned to the Brandenburg Regiment. By the request of Interim President Ludwig Beck, I have come to fulfill your request for a meeting with a junior officer to discuss recent events and our common future as defenders of Germany.”
One of the generals, whose combative expression and mustache marked him as Heinz Guderian, let out a derisive laugh. “Interim President is what he is calling himself?” Guderian snorted. “I wonder who will be Chancellor, then? Some random colonel? Or perhaps Bismarck will rise from his grave to save us!”
“Now,” Guderian jabbed a finger at Lewinsky, “I have to admit a degree of admiration for your group's boldness. No one else was willing to move against that fool and his cronies. But do you realize how much damage your actions will cause to the war effort? You have made either civil war or absolute military defeat almost inevitable! And now you come here, hoping to secure the Army's support for your pathetic interim government? I hope you understand exactly how preposterous that is!”
“As I told your compatriots on more than one occasion,” a third general spoke, his cold voice and haughty stare identifying him as Field Marshal Erich von Manstein, “when they approached me to solicit my support for this misadventure: Prussian Field Marshals do not mutiny! Your actions have undermined the essential soldierly virtue of obedience to legal authority any army requires to function. And thus it is on your heads when our already desperate resistance collapses.”
“I feel compelled to remind you gentlemen,” Lewinsky replied sharply, not withering under fire, “that I have come here by your request, on orders issued by my superiors. While I will be happy to report your dissatisfaction with the means by which Interim President Beck has taken charge in Berlin, I am not here to waste time defending the ethics of what has already transpired.”
“I am certain we can agree that only one thing matters now: saving Germany from annihilation. And I stand enduring your scorn because it is clear that your influence will now determine the fate of the German people. So I respectfully suggest that we focus on the task at hand, which is to determine the course of action that brings us the best chances of securing peace with our enemies at the earliest possible moment and the best possible terms.”
Guderian started to speak, but a glance from Rundstedt made him pause. His wizened face fixed on Eryn, and a chill passed through her, though she did not understand exactly why. Probably the scar, coupled to memories of any of a dozen old war movies set during the forties. Or maybe because he reminded her way too much of Death Star commander General Tarkin from Star Wars. Right down to the bit about fighting for the wrong cause.
“In truth,” Rundstedt spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing his words,” the fate of Germany is out of anyone's hands but those of our enemies. Let us be clear: Germany is surrounded by foes who will sooner or later grind us into dust. We all know the end is coming, and that we must make peace to survive. And yet, we all heard Churchill's broadcast. Churchill, who we had hoped was more likely to see reason than the American fool Roosevelt, who seems determined to let all of Europe fall under Stalin's grip. The Allies remain committed to their demand for unconditional surrender. Which leaves us in the same hopeless strategic position as we were before Hitler met his end.”
“To be frank,” Rundstedt chuckled, an odd sound coming from that wizened visage, “when I heard that there was some sort of agent from the allies working with Beck and Canaris, I had hoped to find more than a girl, though I admit I never expected to encounter any woman wearing a German armor officer's uniform! I was looking forward to meeting this agent in the vain hope that someone across the Atlantic was finally ready to see reason. Unless, my dear, you are able surprise me?”
Eryn opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head. “You know,” she said after a moment, feeling distinctly irritated, “the past few days I've been struggling with a really basic question: why am I here? What is the point of offering help to you people?”
Lewinsky looked at her in surprise, but she stepped forward, working to make her point as succinctly and brutally as she could, realizing now they couldn’t hope to approach the meeting like they had planned during the drive. These generals clearly hadn’t come in mood to listen to anyone but themselves.
“The closest I can come to an answer is this,” Eryn answered herself, staring at each German officer in turn. “I have information that can help you salvage your position and avoid a total defeat that will trigger a nightmare no one is prepared for. I know enough about the Allies’ plans for the coming months to tell you what you can do to slow down their advance. I can help give you the time and space you need to force them to start negotiating for peace, and maybe, maybe, save lives on both sides.”
They all stared at her, expressionless. “Ah, but that begs the question,” Manstein said, “what side are you truly on? What little has been reported to me so far indicates you claim to be an employee of a wealthy American industrialist. What was his name again?”
“Henry Ford,” Eryn replied at once, having decided this was her best cover story after remembering learning in some class or other that he had become something of an eccentric by the mid forties. “The car magnate.”
“Is his goal,” Manstein nodded, “not merely to profit from this situation? It seems to me that he is in a most enviable position: his factories build tanks and aircraft for the Americans and British, while through you he may think to manipulate our actions to some fiduciary end. How are we to trust you, a woman with apparently no connection to her own people, given that she is a Canadian working for an American and now offering assistance to their mutual enemy?”
“Field Marshal,” Lewinsky shook his head, “I will swear an oath on my honor that her intentions are no worse than benign and perhaps even noble. Information she provided has already proven crucial to eliminating Hitler and Goebbels.”
“While that is admirable, Captain,” Manstein replied, “it does not answer the Field Marshal's question. What guarantee do we have that her offer of information is not some kind of ploy? Our soldiers have pinned the Allies to their beachhead in France this far. Perhaps they are starting to re-think the wisdom of fighting all the way to Paris and beyond, and so hope to undermine our defense by other means.”
A quiet sound came from the bed, almost inaudible over the exchange. And yet even this barest utterance caused the room to fall silent. From the edge of vision Eryn saw a woman rush past Lewinsky to lean over Rommel's bed. She listened to his whisper, nodding several times. When she stood up straight, all of Rommel's companions, General and Field Marshal alike, stood to attention.
She smiled politely but very firmly at Lewinsky and Eryn. “My husband would like to suggest that this line of questioning isn't likely to be productive, as it pertains to matters impossible to verify. We should move on.”
Rundstedt froze for a moment, as if considering Rommel’s request, then nodded politely. “Our thanks, Lady Rommel,” he bowed to her. “Your husband is quite correct. My apologies for pursuing the matter this far.”
“Accepting for the present,” Rundstedt turned to Eryn, “the matter of your personal integrity, please tell us then what the Allies are planning. And briefly also please tell me how you have come to possess information derived from what can only be the result of espionage against your own government.”
“I'll start with the how,” Eryn said, stiffening as if making herself appear larger would work with field marshals like it did with cougars. “Mr. Ford has long been interested in computing technology. It is a new, young branch of science, that uses electronic signals to transmit and store information. A particularly recent breakthrough has allowed us to build the world's largest computing machine, so advanced that we are now able to use it to accurately predict weather patterns, economic production and distribution, and even the probability of a major military campaign being won by one side or the other.”
“Long story short,” Eryn said, seeing their faces remain blank, “as we Canadians say, is that we have been able to very accurately predict the course of the war for the past three years. We knew that the disaster at Stalingrad was going to happen, and also that the Soviets had sufficient forces to crush your attack at Kursk the next summer.”
“We also knew that Field Marshal Rommel would be overpowered in Africa, that the Allies would follow up their victory in Tunisia by successfully invading Italy, and we independently worked out exactly when and where the Allies planned to land in France. We have also determined their operational plan for breaking into Germany itself by the end of this year.”
“To validate our results,” Eryn continued, speaking like she was giving a research presentation, “we have conducted a series of industrial espionage operations to acquire the necessary confirming details. We know that the Allies are about to break out of Normandy, destroy your entire army in France, and force you back to the Rhine in short order. And that's the best case scenario.”
“At this rate,” Manstein grunted, “it will be a miracle if the Soviets don't get to the Rhine first. The Eastern Front has collapsed completely thanks to that idiot corporal and his obsession with defending static fortresses.”
“Exactly,” Eryn nodded, pretending to know what he was talking about. “It doesn't take a computer to see that the Soviets are another class of threat entirely. You will not be surprised to hear that my employer finds the prospect of a communist victory over Germany very distressing. If for no other reason but that Ford Motor Company owns several of the factories presently serving your war effort and expects to be compensated for their use after the war.”
“Our system shows that the only thing that will stop your enemies on both fronts now is the natural limit of their logistical capabilities. Which this autumn will temporarily culminate when the Soviets reach the Vistula in Poland and the Danube in Hungary and the Western Allies reach the Meuse in Belgium and France. Then, after a pause to build up supplies, they will coordinate assaults on all fronts to breach Germany’s last defenses and Berlin will fall by spring.”
“Unless,” Eryn concluded, “you do not dramatically and effectively change your strategy on both fronts, you are certain to lose the war no matter what government is in charge in Berlin. I have some ideas about how you can retrench and survive through the winter, if you’re willing to listen.”
Guderian looked at Manstein and Rundstedt. Eryn could tell by their grim expressions that her predictions matched their own. Absent a dramatic change, total defeat was only months away.
Trouble was, as Eryn rather strangely knew from listening to endless rounds of uncles having arguments about history at holiday gatherings, German generals had nearly launched coups against Hitler every time he made a foreign policy move before the war because they were certain he would lead Germany into a disaster. And then Germany had crushed France, despite their own predictions of certain failure, despite qualitatively inferior equipment and a battle plan borne out of total desperation the Allies later called blitzkrieg to pretend they had been defeated by a radical new way of waging war and not their own incompetence.
These were not men who gave in easily when confronted by the inevitable. They'd now faced it many times before, and won.
“No, Guderian said, violently shaking his head. “This forecast is entirely too pessimistic. The Soviets are nearly out of supplies and manpower, and we stopped them the last time they tried to break into Romania. We can hold the line far further east than your fancy computers think!”
“And in the West,” he said, pointing in the air as if at a map only he could see, “we have the Allies bottled up in Normandy. They are trapped in the French bocage and taking heavy losses. Britain hasn't the soldiers to spare and America hasn't the will required to bleed their way through our defenses. If we hold the line in the west, and can reform a line in the east, we can continue the fight until the struggle reaches a winter stalemate. As we must! For Germany itself will not survive defeat. I remind you all of what the Allies’ plans for us entail: there will be no more Germany.”
“I see the wisdom in your case,” Manstein added, “that we must retreat on all fronts to defensible frontiers and press for peace. But accepting that proposition means giving up large swaths of territory and resources with no guarantee that our position will not be even worse even once we've consolidated our forces closer to home. Both because a rapid retreat itself could threaten the utter collapse of the Army, and also because the closer they push to our borders, the easier it will be for our enemies to control the skies over Germany.”
“The implication in your argument, Field Marshal,” Lewinsky said suddenly, voice lowering an octave, “is that if we only bleed them and ourselves just a little longer, they will finally sue for peace. Yet have been trying that for over a year now, and the effect has been to send tens of thousands of young men to their deaths trying to hold foreign lands that were never ours to rightfully claim. But let's cut past these preliminary discussions and get straight to the heart of the actual matter that we are all here to discuss, shall we?”
Lewinsky took a step forward, drawing himself up and looking every bit a field marshal himself. “I have a simple message from the new government in Berlin. We deposed that madman Hitler, and we control what is left of the government. So long as we hold Berlin against whatever counterattack the SS is certainly preparing, we will expect the Armed Forces to carry out our orders.”
“I remind you all now,” Lewinsky stared icily at them, “that Hitler is dead. Your oath to him is similarly deceased. You have a moral and ethical obligation to serve no one but the German people, as we have served them by ridding the world of every member of the Nazi leadership we've been able to get our hands on. The rest will be found and destroyed as should have been long ago. The time has come to unite behind our leadership and seek a path forward to save Germany from total ruin. You may stand with us, or against us, but I ask that you choose the former, for the latter means death for us all.”
Rundstedt drew himself up, raising his chin. “Captain,” he spoke haughtily, “I would remind you that we and we alone will decide the matter of our own moral and ethical obligations before God and Germany.”
“As you did when you swore your oath of personal loyalty to that creature, Hitler?” Lewinsky barked. “Merely to maintain your position and privileges?”
“As you did, as did every officer in this room!” Guderian barked. “What choice did any of us have?”
“Gentlemen.” The quiet voice of Lady Rommel silenced the room instantly. All present took a deep breath, and looked to her. For half a second Eryn was certain she saw shame creep into Rundstedt's face. But his Prussian bearing quickly returned, and he merely turned and smiled politely at Rommel's wife.
“My husband requires an hour, perhaps two, to rest and think,” she nodded politely back at him. “I will be happy to entertain guests in the sitting room, otherwise please let me know where in the village you can be found, and I will send Manfred to find you in the afternoon when Erwin is rested. But for the present, I must ask that you pause this discussion, as it has become rather intense and, if I may say, unproductive.”
There was no point in arguing with her, and the meeting ended, leaving Eryn unsure about what to do. The only thing she could think of was to talk with Mimr and see if by any chance one of her friends or Norse deity was hanging around the Pub. Maybe they would have some ideas on how to get these old men talking reason, and not constantly driven by their emotions.
Lewinsky turned on a heel and marched out of the room, so distracted that he didn't question her when she followed and asked their driver take her back to the inn. From the car, she saw Lewinsky turn and walk into the woods, apparently needing some time alone. She sympathized, and after an anxious and silent drive Eryn returned to her room, locked the door, and covered the window.
Holding out her hands and willing it to appear, she grasped the Web when it flashed into being and was instantly back in the Pub. Yet to her surprise, no one was there, a discovery that left Eryn feeling rather forlorn.
She stood there for a while, assuming that a god would come bustling in as they had each time she’d visited before. But not even the cats were there, so if Yari’s plan to leave messages with the cats had been put into motion, Eryn couldn’t say. They had all agreed to meet as regularly as they could, aiming for mealtime, but so far Eryn hadn’t had enough guaranteed time alone to make the trip.
She wandered around Mimr’s Pub while she waited, distracting herself from her own anxiety by rearranging chairs and benches that had been pushed too far out of place for her liking. Finally, Eryn walked behind the bar to browse through the dozens of bottles stored haphazardly on the many shelves.
It was when she began to feel an urge to reorganize the various bottles by color and size that she realized the clock over the doorway leading from the Pub back to Germany was counting down to zero faster than it had when she arrived. Apparently the universe knew she would be needed sooner rather than later, and her time away was already growing short.
For a moment, Eryn felt stuck, unsure of what to do. She didn’t think Mimr could offer any useful advice, because he was pretty clear that individual personalities were incredibly difficult to predict.
Suddenly she heard a sound, faint, distant, and muffled, distinctly like that made by a large group of people shouting and cheering. Eryn stepped from behind the bar and looked down one of the long halls leading away from the pub. It was disconcerting to realize the corridor had no obvious end, as in the far distance, what looked to be many miles away, the walls converged in a vague blur. Doors were visible on either side of the hall, spaced at random intervals, all the way back into the unseen distance.
Her feet were moving before she knew she was walking. The sound had faded away, but Eryn had the strangest feeling that it originated from behind a door close by. Once she drew close, from a crack underneath she could see an odd flickering light. She grabbed the simple knob, turned it, and pushed it open. There came a sensation of great heat all around her, like stepping into an open flame, yet pleasant, not painful. The moment seemed to stretch longer than it should, as if when she blinked away the flash of light her eyelids had simply decided to stay shut of their own volition.
When Eryn’s vision cleared, she was standing at the edge of an enormous room, walls of stone and wood marching off into the distance, miles it seemed, in either direction. And packing the room were hundreds, maybe even thousands of women and men in every conceivable pose, sitting, standing, laying on benches and tables and they were all talking, singing, dancing, and engaging in strange games. Food and drink covered the tables and in gaps between benches tremendous bonfires sent flickering flames towards the ceiling, where the ashes and embers were trapped in an array of candles and lamps that shone out from the smoky ceiling like stars.
Eryn stood frozen, overwhelmed by the unexpected weirdness of the place. Patrick would have said it looked like how he imagined the halls of Rivendell. Yari probably would have said it looked like Hogwarts. Both would have agreed it was dauntingly huge.
She might have stood there for hours, or it could have been seconds. She would have stood there indefinitely had an oddly familiar face not turned towards her. With a bemused expression he pushed his way out from a nearby crowd, and approached, waving cheerfully at her.
“Rommel?” she asked, shocked to her core.
An entirely healthy Erwin Rommel smiled back at Eryn, wearing a simple gray uniform unadorned by medals or insignia. He seemed somehow both younger and older than the man she had just seen stuck in bed recuperating from serious wounds. There was a strange, knowing light in his eyes, as if he knew everything about her and what she had just been doing a short time before.
“You should probably stay in the habit of addressing me as “Field Marshal,” you know,” Rommel winked. “Germans of the time you are trapped in are sticklers for that sort of politeness.”
She stared at him, not sure what to say. “Ah,” he laughed, “it is as I suspected. You are new to this Einherjar business, aren't you?”
“Yup,” She nodded. “And it keeps getting weirder by the minute.”
“Indeed,” he smiled, “you are a very new Einherjar indeed. Different than the rest of us, aren't you? You are actually still tied to a particular Thread in the Web; you did not die like the rest of us. Fascinating! I wonder what this may portend? Well, regardless, welcome to Valhalla! I apologize for the preoccupations of my colleagues, many of us won great victories in today's fights and so we celebrate until the gods’ dawn returns once more.”
“Sorry,” Eryn shook her head. “This is all incredibly confusing.”
“It always is for the new ones. And because you are still tied to a particular Thread of Fate, you are trapped in something of a liminal phase, caught in between worlds, you might say. It can be a difficult time, the early stages of becoming Einherjar. So many lives folding into one mind, rediscovering who you are once reunited with the perspectives of the other versions of you that have ever lived. It gets better, though, in time, and given that you have not physically died, you may not even go through all the normal trials.”
Eryn’s total confusion must have been clear, because Rommel shook his head and sighed, seeming amused. “Ah,” he said softly, “I see that you haven't even been properly inducted! Normally Odin and Freyja greet new arrivals at the gates of Asgard, and lead them to their home Hall. After all, they are who decides which Einherjar are housed in Valhalla and who belong with Folkvangr. Not that it matters much once you’ve been here a while. In any case, there must be a most interesting story behind this!”
“Hey there, Rommel! Slow down!” Eryn twisted to see another man stepping away from a crowd of singing and dancing women and men. “Or I'll start calling you ‘fast Ernie,’ and people will mix you up with Guderian. Also Ernie Pyle will probably challenge you to a writing contest over the rights, just as a matter of principle!”
This new Einherjar strode up to them with a quiet, confident air, dressed in similarly simple and spare drab green clothing that looked like a generic uniform. Rommel turned towards him, opening his arms in greeting.
“Hayes! Good to see you again, it has been a while!” Rommel turned back to her. “I am happy to introduce you to Ira Hayes, a fellow Einherjar from my era.”
“Hi, I’m Eryn,” she waved slowly, wracking her brain to recall who this man was. A song performed by Johnny Cash sprung to her mind, and then she remembered he was an American war hero.
“Pleased to meet you, Eryn.” Ira Hayes smiled broadly, slapping a hand on Rommel’s shoulder. “And take it slow, old friend, I have heard about this one. Loke tapped her and five others, and apparently he broke the cosmos doing it. She is both starting from zero and has to return to her Thread at regular intervals, so we must be succinct.”
“Point taken!” Rommel laughed. “Let me see, where were we?”
“About an hour ago,” Eryn laughed grimly, “I was standing at your bedside, Rommel, making zero headway in convincing you and your Field Marshal buddies to do what Mimr is telling me you, that is, living you, and the other German generals have to do in order to avoid a worse end to the Second World War than the one my history tells me is supposed to happen. I came back to Mimr's Pub to get help, because Mimr insists that we have to come out of this meeting with some kind of agreement that keeps the Germans from civil war, but I have no idea what to do next and no one was there.”
“But frankly,” Eryn shook her head ruefully, “I honestly have no idea how this all works. Like, why you are here, and also back where I just came from?”
“That is not difficult to answer,” Rommel replied. “The me you are talking to here and the version of myself in Ulm are simply different instances of the same person. He is one of the many mes whose experiences fold together into what, from my frame of reference here in Asgard, feels like many distinct and separate past lives.”
“What my friend Rommel means to say,” Hayes said, speaking patiently, “is that just as there are many Threads in the Web of Fate the Norns have woven through Midgard to stabilize it, there are also numerous versions of every person that lives, each existing separately in their own Thread until all perish and their memories essentially merge. Just as there are many different shades of reality within Midgard, there are many different shades of you that exist in parallel.”
“That’s… interesting,” Eryn tilted her head, feeling like she was trying to play four dimensional chess. “Still… it doesn't do much to help me survive. But just to be clear, there really is an infinite multiverse out there filled with different versions of every person living totally different histories? Okay, but that still begs the question of which me is actually me.”
“Ah, now that really is the question, now isn't it?” chuckled Rommel. “Midgard is so dratted strange. Consider that very bit of matter and energy starts out in the same place, then the Big Bang expands time and space while leaving reality infinite ways to ultimately just up and die.”
“Then you have the fact that, from the perspective of gods and Einherjar, individuals in Midgard appear sort of… refracted across Threads where they are born. They each experience their own version of reality until they die and their constituent physical parts go back into the weird thermo-chemical soup that is Midgard. Yet some deeper essence of a person’s mind is somehow linked across all the scattered Threads by a phenomena no one, not even all-wise Odin, truly understands, which most people call the soul.”
“Freyja and the Vanir were the first ones to realize this about mortals, and, being attracted to the infinite variation inherent in life, they were the first to select Einherjar from the ranks of those individuals that most impressed them. But they soon found that, despite their attempt to collect multiple versions of a few individuals, once here in Asgard all Einherjar experience the other versions of themselves slowly of folding into one another, just as Threads fold and merge, until they are complete and whole.”
“Can I just say,” Hayes cut in, grabbing a truncheon of meat from thin air and chewing greedily, “how incredibly strange of an experience this is? Day after day you wake to be suddenly overwhelmed by memories and emotions coming out of nowhere. You then feel and act differently for however long it takes to reconcile the versions of yourself. It is very, incredibly, weird.”
“Two questions,” Eryn asked, intrigued enough to set aside her worries for a moment, “what is a day here, and how do you even know what set of memories are actually yours?”
They both tried to speak at the same time, then looked at one another and smiled. Before they could work out who was going to answer first, a woman’s voice called from a bench nearby.
“One,” she said, “a day is a day. The sun rises, you wake up, you go fight, you live or die, then you come back here to eat and drink and rest. Loop repeats until Ragnarok. And for your second question: it doesn't really matter. Eventually, you just become you. All the memories, hybrid personality. Not that much different than being alive on Earth, really. You never are quite the same person from one day to the next, after all. Not entirely different, sure, but still not the same. Time changes everyone.”
“Lyudmyla!” Rommel smiled, and Eryn saw a woman stand up and stride over. “As usual, we didn't see you until it was over-late.”
She and Hayes both laughed. “That's the point, isn't it Erwin?” Lyudmyla stuck out her tongue. “But I couldn't help but overhear you and Ira breaking in a newbie. Thought I'd assist, and see why this strange new Einherjar is creating such a buzz.”
“I am Lyudmyla Pavlichenko,” she said, nodding to Eryn, “and I'll save you the trouble of asking by simply telling you that are two normal ways to become Einherjar. You either gain Odin's attention through achievement, being the best at whatever it is you do, or Freyja's, through acts of love, selfless sacrifice in service of others.”
“Love?” Eryn asked, looking between the Einherjar, trying to decide if they were joking. “With all the talk about fighting around here, I’m surprised to hear anyone say anything about love.”
“Love, indeed,” Lyudmyla nodded. “The Vanir consider it the pinnacle of honor to sacrifice one’s self for love. For a person, a people, a cause, whatever. It is the devotion that matters.”
“As you might have noticed,” Hayes said, “the Aesir and Vanir have rather different views on the world. The Aesir are what you might call war-gods. They see competition and achievement as the sources of honor and worth. Vanir are closer to the ideal of fertility gods. They are more interested in the bonds between living things and developing communities. So the leader of each of these two tribes of gods, Odin and Freyja respectively, select Einherjar from those humans who die in battle, favoring those who fight in the service of noble achievement or loving sacrifice.”
“So the only people who are here are those who died in a war?” Eryn grimaced. “What about everyone else? What’s their afterlife?”
“It seems broken at first glance,” Hayes replied, “but there are two things to consider before you render judgment. First and simplest is the literal truth that across all the Threads out there chances are that every version of you has died in or from a battle at some point. The second is to recognize that battle is meant in a metaphorical sense as much as a physical one, because life itself is a constant battle against the forces of entropy and decay.”
Eryn reached up and rubbed her eyes. She was starting to lose the plot, and she couldn't help but wonder how much time she had left before she would be pulled back to Ulm. It seemed like every few days there was another bit of strangeness to adapt to, and as of now she was no closer to figuring out how to get through to the German generals than before.
“Right,” Eryn sighed. “So that's the afterlife options then? Half of us go to Freyja, half to Odin, and we… what is it you do? Fight by day, celebrate by night? Beats sitting on a cloud playing a harp, I suppose. Though to each their own.”
“That’s it in a nutshell!” Lyudmyla laughed. “Though there are other places a soul can end up. Perhaps better, but some very certainly worse. Hel claims her own, but luckily she must have sufficient cause to inflict her eternal torments thanks to an old agreement with Odin. Most souls are actually reborn into Midgard again and again, spending the time between lives wandering the void of Ginnungagap until they are called back to Midgard once more. Others walk despondent and exhausted through Niflheim, their souls too weary to live again, though thankfully they are left alone to wander beyond Hel’s hall of torment.”
“Though to my knowledge,” she spoke more softly now, “none of us has ever before met an Einherjar chosen by Loke. This has to mean Ragnarok is nearly upon us. So the rumors are true then? It has begun at last?”
“You should know more about that than me,” Eryn shrugged. “These gods keep saying so, but they don't much act like it as far as I’m concerned. You don’t seem too worried about it, either.”
“Do I not?” Rommel replied, seeming genuinely surprised. His eyes flashed towards the ceiling, as if he was considering her words. “I suppose not. How fascinating.”
“How can someone worry about the inevitable?” Hayes said, shrugging. Lyudmyla smiled and drained a mug of what looked like dark beer.
“Look,” Eryn sighed, “I need to set all this philosophy aside, as I came here for help. I've got a pack of stubborn German generals to convince to listen to me, or rather, what Mimr is telling me, about their future. So far it’s not going well.”
“Though saying that,” Eryn looked curiously at their faces in turn, “I do have to wonder how a Muslim or Christian or anyone else who believes in a single omnipotent deity deals with finding out this is the afterlife. It has to be pretty upsetting to expect to go to Heaven and find something so incredibly different.”
“The answer to that is simple,” Rommel shrugged, “this isn't necessarily the afterlife, as a monotheist might think of it. The Vanir and Aesir may be as gods to mortals, but even they accept that there exists the possibility of powers beyond their own comprehension. It is a very large cosmos, and this could all be part of God’s divine plan somehow. Some Einherjar come to see this place as purgatory, others view it as just an unexpected continuation of life. What matters is that we are here, and eventually that becomes enough once you meet some familiar faces.”
“But as to your pressing concerns, young Einherjar, I will do what I can. Oddly enough, across nearly every Thread into which I am born, I find myself in exactly the same position as you have seen me in Ulm: wounded and suspected by the Nazis of conspiring to kill Hitler, forced to watch my country burn to the ground around me.”
“Odin once told me that Adolf Hitler's death is as close to a fixed event across all of Midgard's possible histories as can be found. All Threads, however different their origins, seem bound to create the exact conditions for Hitler to die in a bunker in Berlin in nineteen forty-five. So you can see why, upon hearing that an Einherjar was active in a Thread where that wasn't the case, my interest was piqued, causing me to be on the lookout for your arrival, Eryn.”
“Which is most fortunate for you,” Rommel smiled, “as I can tell you exactly what is going through my living self’s mind as you try to convince he and my colleagues to support Stauffenberg's coup. I even feel like I remember this moment, as if the version of me that lived and died in this Thread before you altered its trajectory is now developing new memories.”
“Now that might help me!” Eryn exclaimed. “Please go on, Rommel!”
“You have,” Rommel nodded, “as my American friend here might say, several strikes against you. You are female, foreign, and quite young. A group of old men like these are already primed to dismiss whatever you say. So you must make them see you differently. The simplest way to do that is to shock them.”
Eryn laughed. “What, so should I take off my clothes? Will a strip tease do?”
“Oh, what a sight that would be!” Lyudmyla burst out laughing. “I can guarantee that those stuffy old men would be shocked, and Rommel’s dear love even more. Please, do exactly that, but find a way to let me watch! Let me bring a hundred of my best Einherjar friends to witness that spectacle!”
“While that would certainly gain their attention,” Rommel rolled his eyes, “the broader impacts would be… undesirable. No, you can do something even simpler and with greater lasting effect than that. Tell them all about Enigma!”
Primed by days of trying to recall all she could about this period of history, Eryn immediately understood what Rommel was suggesting. She froze, staring into space, furious at herself for not having thought of it herself after spending so many hours hearing her uncles argue about it. It was probably the most obvious of possible answers, and despite playing spy she hadn't even seen it staring her in the face.
“I love it when the light bulb appears over a newbie!” Hayes laughed, slapping Lyudmyla on the shoulder and accidentally knocking into a passing Einherjar, spilling her drink. She didn’t care though, because a new one appeared in her hand, and raising it over her head in salute she continued on her way through the crowd.
“As people of your Thread and era might put it,” Rommel grinned, “the Allies are, in effect, reading Germany's mail and have been for years. The Rommel you are trying to persuade always feared that the Allies would break into German communications, but the experts kept telling us that Enigma was secure and couldn't be cracked.”
“And so everything we did, every report our soldiers sent, every order passed from high command to units in the field, in some form or another wound up in the hands of the Allies. Even aside from the insanity of fighting a war of attrition on two fronts against an alliance with three times our industrial capacity, their foreknowledge of most of our actions and internal politics was absolutely devastating.”
Eryn felt a thrill run through her body. This could work, her mind seemed to shout. But in the same instant, she realized that there was a fundamental problem with this plan. Just walking in and announcing that a deeply held assumption was in fact completely false wasn't likely to end well. People rarely abandoned strongly held prior beliefs just because someone told them to. She had barely been able to convince Stauffenberg, Haeften, and their compatriots of her ability and desire to help, and that only after actually doing some useful things. But with these military officers she had no credibility whatsoever.
“You are seeing the issue right away, aren't you Eryn?” Lyudmyla nodded sagely. “Good. Now here is how to solve it: think like a sniper. These generals you face have certainly decided that they know how this meeting is going to go. Mark my words, the next thing those old men do is lay out demands for you and your friend Lewinsky to take back to Berlin.”
“She is correct,” Rommel agreed, “what they really want out of this meeting is to insert themselves into the regime and try to take control. They'll expect to run both of you right over, why else did they request the delegation be led by a junior officer? So when they lay out their ultimatum, as they're wholly focused on bending him to their will, realizing the new regime in Berlin has not empowered you in any way and is simply using you to bluff at having foreign support for the new regime, you strike. Shock them with the news of how doomed they really are, telling them what they are most afraid to hear at the precise moment they are least prepared to handle such a surprise.”
“The one thing,” Hayes leaned in, speaking fiercely, “every general, admiral, dictator, president, CEO, or other habitual bully shares is the fear that a bigger, badder someone has figured out all their plans. That they are the ones getting played. You tap into that fear, and even the most snobby, pugnacious, and aristocratic of generals will wilt.”
Eryn thought about it for a long moment, know she had little choice but to follow their advice. It was a better plan than any she would come up with on her own in the time she had left. As if she could see through the walls of Valhalla to the clock over the door, Eryn somehow knew her time was nearly up.
All she could do now was thank the three Einherjar and march back to Ulm. To do her duty, come what may.