Page 34 of Tides of Resistance
A pile of newspapers awaited his attention, and now he moved into the next part of his rigid Sunday schedule. He considered it his duty to monitor what was printed in the French papers, even though they were strictly censored. Heinrich coordinated with the Propaganda Division officer and fed back any points he had each week of where the newspapers had fallen short. Most of all, he enjoyed reading the German newspapers so he could see what was happening at home. An article on industrial developments in Germany caught his eyein theVölkischer Beobachter,and he was thrilled to see Adler Industries listed as the top supplier to the military. His father’s plans for industrial empire expansion alongside Nazi victory were bearing fruit. He was a man of great vision, and Heinrich was pleased he had been wise enough to accept his father’s guidance, for he had steered him well. After completing his law degree at the University of Munich, he had worked with his father in the family business, and then got a position in the Ministry of Economics. It was there that he truly shone and had been recruited by the SS.
Whilst the Adlers kept enough wealth after the Great War to keep their grand Munich estate, the treacherous Treaty of Versailles dishonoured and impoverished many wealthy German families. They had also taken a beating, but his father’s business acumen had saved the family from the worst, and his plan since the Führer’s rise to power was for Adler Industries to achieve loftier heights.
Pride swelled in Heinrich’s chest, and he blew smoke rings in the air and watched them drift away across the terrace with the gentle spring breeze and out to sea.
A blemished record was not an option for an Adler, especially not this Adler. He would see that the scourge of the Resistance was wiped out, just as he had systematically rid St. Malo of its odious Jew-trade. It was a thing of the past and had no place in the new Germany.
Thoughts of his Aryanisation project took his mind to the little bookshop he had visited that week. The two pretty French girls in the shop had charmed him, and even the mother had a certain appeal if you liked an older woman. The three of them were clearly of excellent breeding, despite being French, but the black-haired girl in the red coat had caught his eye, and he’d felt a surge of desire he hadn’t experienced in some time.
His sexual appetite wasn’t in question, but he had taken to pleasuring himself since catching an unfortunate disease at a local brothel. It had been some time since he had enjoyed feminine delights, and as his thoughts turned to the girl—Rose—he wondered how he might see her again. They said she was from Paris, and his only connection to her was the bookshop.
Before the others had entered the shop, he had spoken to the blonde woman, and she had assured him she was updating the stock on the shelves so that they satisfied German-approved lists. Apparently, it was taking some time for them to recoup their outlay, and they didn’t have the funds to buy as many books as they would like.
Perhaps another visit was needed so he could tick the bookshop off as satisfying all Aryanisation requirements before filing his final report. The obligatoryMein Kampfwas displayed in the window, but some of the other critical literature didn’t appear to be available, and a few publications he was unsure about had jumped out at him. He’d been distracted by the girl’s entrance and had been short on time, so hadn’t given it his dedicated attention.
Heinrich stubbed out his cigarette. Yes, he would visit the bookshop again as soon as he had a window in his busy schedule. His loins flickered again at the memory of the alluring black-haired girl. He wished his tastes were more in line with the ideal Aryan woman. The bookshop manager would have been a better choice, but despite trying to refine his tastes, he found himself repeatedly drawn to darker colouring rather than to blue-eyed blondes. His proclivities embarrassed him, and he kept them to himself.
His future wife and the mother of his children would be racially pure. There was no doubt he would select a well-proportioned, blue-eyed blonde from a German aristocratic background, but until then he could indulge himself a little. Aslong as he steered clear of the sultry-looking Jewesses, who he rather shamefully suffered a weakness for, and didn’t frequent the brothel whores so he wouldn’t contract another dreadful disease, he considered himself free to hunt his prey however he wished. The black-haired French girl would do very well to ease his loneliness.
Heinrich continued scouring the newspapers. There was an article about Germany’s success in its Nazi moral purity campaign, where they were eliminating homosexuals from all areas under their control, and they were also rounding up despicable Gypsies and other undesirables as part of their racial cleansing programme.
No one was safe if their ethnicity fell outside the strict parameters of who qualified as Aryan, and of course, there was no room for opposing political voices, no matter their race.
The owners of this very mansion, which fortunately had become available to Heinrich and the Civil Administration as a result, were known British sympathisers and had fled just before France surrendered.
The German newspaper had reprinted a speech from earlier in the year of the Führer himself, addressing theReichstagabout the Jewish-Bolshevik threat and the critical nature of the Eastern Front campaigns.
Heinrich was engrossed as he sipped his coffee, which had cooled in the breeze.He was an intelligent man, and inconvenient questions arose intermittently in his mind concerning the much-lauded Jewish-Bolshevik conspiracies. There was the indisputable fact that Stalin wasn’t Jewish. Stalin was a known antisemite and in the 1930s he purged Jewish Bolsheviks from the Communist Party and government.
Heinrich knew from intelligence reports that Stalin had abandoned the original Bolshevik ideology for nationalist authoritarianism—“socialism in one country.” Earlier Jewishinvolvement was more to do with trying to escapepersecution under Tsarist Russia, and many Jews opposed Bolshevism, but the truth didn’t suit Nazi ideology, so Heinrich brushed over these inconsistencies in the interests of the bigger picture. He knew the importance of staying focused on his goals and not allowing dissenting voices to pollute his pure mind and sway him from his path.
The belief in the Jewish “world domination plot,” where Jews controlled both capitalism and communism, and all of Germany's problems could be blamed on this conspiracy, was far too seductive to dismiss.
Heinrich consumed the speech in its entirety, and Hitler’s decisive statement rang in his mind all day, making him feel righteous and called to do great things.
"The result of this war will be the complete annihilation of the Jews ... the hour will come when the most evil universal enemy of all time will be finished, at least for a thousand years."
Heinrich saw Hitler’s words as sacred, and each Sunday he was filled with a renewed sense of purpose to carry him through the new week.
As Catholics attended Mass that fine Sunday morning, Heinrich worshipped at the altar of Nazi ideology.
CHAPTER 21
Aunt Giselle was excited Lizzie wished to attend Mass with them and reminded her they must fast from midnight and skip breakfast.
The Beaumont family walked through the city towards the cathedral, and Lizzie’s stomach rumbled. She wasn’t used to the meagre French rations and hadn’t fasted for some time.
‘It’s not always a good turnout,’ Aunt Giselle remarked as they approached. ‘Nothing like before the war, and they don’t even allow bell ringing. It’s a sad state of affairs.’
Lizzie’s aunt and uncle were dressed in their finest clothes, and Lizzie borrowed another dress from Sophie, who said she was welcome to help herself. People milled around the cathedral entrance, and Lizzie noticed that most had made an effort with their Sunday best, but there was a shabbiness that the addition of a silk scarf or hat couldn’t overcome.
The memory of her yellow silk scarf floated into Lizzie’s mind. A bloodstain ruined it on her previous mission, and she felt naked as though she’d lost the good luck charm that had kept her alive.
It was close to 9 a.m., and mass was about to start, so the groups of family and friends entered the dimly lit inner sanctum through the heavy door and took their places in the pews.
The priest stood with his back to the congregation at the foot of the altar, and the preparatory prayers in Latin echoed through the ancient church. They might have attended Sunday High Mass in France, England or Jersey, and the sacred liturgy would be the same. The sermon language would differ, but the structure and celebration of the Mass were universal. There was something comforting about the continuity of their worship despite the dark times they were in, and the hypnotic quality of the Gregorian chant mesmerised Lizzie.
The all-boys’ choir was small, but the harmonies were beautiful and touched her soul. The cantor led the chanted responses, and the congregation followed along in their leather-bound Latin French missals, responding only when permitted and mostly participating through silent prayer.
