Drowned baby TL

                                                 parts 11-20

DBTL 11: Love and Rockets

Lublin, Polish Commonwealth
8 June 1943

Later on, he always regretted not going to Warsaw during the siege.  If it had been Spain, he knew, nothing could have kept him away.  But the Mola putsch had ended practically before it began, and Poland would have been so damned cold, and in the end the whole damned war had come and gone and him still in Key West trying to land marlin.

And now here he was, six years of his life gone by and nothing to show for it.  A writer was only as good as his last work, and his last work had been a hopeless mess called _To Have and Have Not_.  It had begun well enough, but somewhere along the way it had gotten away from him.  He should have gone with his gut and burned it, but instead he had let Max Perkins talk him into publishing it.  There had been the usual critical gang-up and the book had done poorly.

An attempt at playwriting had gotten bogged down, and then the stay in California had resulted in nothing but a bunch of unproduced movie scripts.  Then he had let writing go hang and spent his days fishing on the _Pilar_.  Pauline and the boys had left him and now at age 43 he was washed up, alone, wondering from day to day whether he should just take a gun and end it all.

From out of the blue had come the call from Arnold Gingrich asking him to go and cover the Polish rocket launch for _Esquire_.  He had almost turned Gingrich down from force of habit, but something had made him accept.  It was as if he knew that this was his last shot at redemption, the last roll of the dice, all or nothing.  He had agreed, and now here he was somewhere out in the back of beyond, waiting for a bunch of German eggheads to try to fire off an oversized bottle rocket with a Polish flag painted on the side.  Most likely the thing would just blow up.

It hadn't taken him long to find a dive bar in Lublin that served Cuban rum, and he had been trying to sweet-talk a waitress who spoke nothing but Ukrainian when he saw the young guy in the British uniform.  It had been too long since he had met anyone else who spoke English, so he waved the Brit over and stood him a drink.

"Lieutenant Clarke, RAF," the Brit had introduced himself, with that funny way of saying "leftenant" that the Brits had.

"Hemingway," he answered, "Ernest Hemingway.  I'm here to cover the launch for _Esquire_."

"Ah, yes, you're the chap who wrote _The Sun Also Rises_, wonderful book."

"Thanks.  The RAF?  Aren't rockets a little out of their league?"

"To be perfectly honest," said Clarke, "I volunteered to be here.  I've always been a bit bonkers on the subject of rockets and, er, space travel.  Been following Dr. von Braun's career for years.  Member of the British Interplanetary Society, in fact."

He couldn't help himself from laughing out loud.  "That Buck Rogers stuff?"  He knew he'd made a mistake the moment he said it, because the Brit stiffened up.

"Will that be the title of your _Esquire_ piece, then?" Clarke said frostily.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said.  He wasn't used to apologizing -- to anyone, for anything -- but if the Brit really was up on all this rocket stuff, it would save him a lot of legwork.  "That's what a lot of people back home would say.  But, hell, if the Poles think it's a good idea, then it's gotta be a good idea, right?"  That was true enough.  In the last 25 years, the Poles had literally come out of nowhere to become a major power.  They practically ran eastern Europe, and even Uncle Joe had to mind his P's and Q's where the Poles were concerned.

Besides, the Brit had hit close to home.  He *had* been planning to call the article that -- a satirical piece about a bunch of funny little eggheads shooting off Roman candles.  He was starting to realize just how close he had come to churning out a piece of worthless hackwork.  It would have put the last nail in the coffin of his writing career.

Clarke unstiffened again.  "Oh yes, backing von Braun's research shows a good deal of foresight on the Poles' part.  Rather more than the Germans themselves showed before the war."

He spent the rest of the evening getting background from Clarke.  A Russian named Konstantin Eduardovich Tsiolkovsky (he made the Brit spell it for him) had first broached the idea in 1903, and an American named Robert Hutchings Goddard had been conducting experiments.  As soon as he heard that, he knew that he had a hook for the article.  Americans loved hearing about Americans.

The current bunch here in Lublin were Germans who had been inspired by a Rumanian named Hermann Oberth.  They had been working in obscurity until one of their number, Werner von Braun, had convinced the Polish government to fund their research in 1939.

Now here it was four years later, and the Poles had invited everyone to see them launch their first rocket.  And even though there were no Russians here (or so said Clarke), you could bet your bottom dollar Uncle Joe was watching.

"So," he said at last to Clarke, "do you think it'll work?"

"I'd like it to," the Brit said, "but most likely it'll just blow up."

He left the dive bar stone cold sober, with a promise to meet Clarke the next day for a tour of the place.  Then he went back to his hotel and slept the soundest sleep he'd had in six years.

The next day was a whirlwind, with Clarke showing him around and explaining more about the rocket.  They had taken a lot of ideas from Goddard (surreptitiously, he gathered from Clarke, since Goddard was a secretive man), like mixing liquid rocket fuel with liquid oxygen, and using a gyroscope to keep it flying straight.  That afternoon the two men had driven to the launch pad to see the rocket itself.

The sight of the rocket standing up next to its gantry, with steam rising up from the side, was a revelation.  He was struck by the sense of raw power that the thing gave off.  It was mesmerizing.

There was a film crew scurrying around the base of the rocket, and it took a while for him to notice that one of them was a woman.  She looked about his age, kind of old, but there was a grace about the way she moved that told him she was a dancer, or used to be.

When she finally noticed them, it was Clarke's uniform that attracted her attention.  With the camera running, Clarke explained in pretty good German about his duel roles as an official observer from the RAF and an unofficial observer from the British Interplanetary Society.

After the interview, Clarke introduced him, and damned if the magic of his name still didn't have its effect.  It turned out that the woman was the documentary filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl.  He had seen her documentary of the siege of Berlin, "City of Shadows".  She in turn had read German translations of _The Sun Also Rises_ and _A Farewell to Arms_.  She had to go to interview some Polish government official, but they made a date to meet that evening at his hotel.

Clarke had dropped him off at his hotel, and he had time to change clothes and shave before meeting Leni in the lobby.  For a while he was worried she wouldn't show, but when she showed up wearing a dark blue evening dress and a knowing smile, he knew everything would be all right.

She was gone when he woke up, but he knew he'd see her at the launch that morning.  Clarke picked him up at the hotel, and they drove together back out to the launch pad.  He could tell the Brit was practically quivering with excitement at the prospect of seeing the rocket go off.  He felt the same way himself, about the rocket and about Leni.

The reviewing stand was about a mile away from the launch pad, because everyone knew that the rocket would most likely just blow up.  There were hundreds of people there, including President Slawek and War Minister Skwarazinski.  He could see Leni too, conducting interviews and shooting footage of the crowds and the rocket.

A loudspeaker counted down the seconds in Polish and German, and then from the launch pad there was a light like the rising sun, followed by a sound like thunder.  At first he thought the rocket had indeed blown up, but when his eyes adjusted he could see that it was still there, rising on a tail of flame straight and true into the sky.

This, he knew, was power on a scale he had never imagined before.  The men who had built it had taken raw elemental fire and tamed it.  Someday, he knew, there would be men riding atop rockets like these, setting out like Columbus into uncharted waters, testing their manhood against the unknown.

The Germans and Poles were opening up a new frontier, and with that phrase he knew what his article would be called.  But he knew more than that.  He knew that his next novel would be about a man riding a rocket like this into space, braving the unknown.  It was burning in him as brightly as the rocket flame.


DBTL 12A: Bialystok - Reel One

Everybody Goes to Fatty's

Bialystok, Belarus Devo, Polish Commonwealth
22 April 1944

Everybody needs a hobby, some constructive way to spend one's leisure hours, however many or few those might be.  Hermann Göring's hobby was a bar in downtown Bialystok called the Flying Deutchlander.  When he had come to Bialystok four years earlier to head up Poland's experimental jet plane program, Project Octopus, he had found the perfect spot to relax: not too rowdy, not too quiet, and they always had some Jack Daniels on hand.  He grew to like it so much that he finally bought it, after which the staff had insisted on renaming it.  As the bar's Jewish pianist Shlomo Kaminsky had explained, what was the point in working for a big shot if you didn't let everyone know it?  And without question, Göring was the biggest shot in Bialystok.

"Not that that's saying much," Göring pointed out.

"No, really," said Shlomo, "you're easily the heaviest man in this part of Poland."

Göring had laughed and agreed to change the bar's name.  However, he refused to let the bar be called Fatty's; the final name was a compromise.  The bar staff had the last laugh, though, because the bar was Fatty's to everyone in Bialystok.

Göring had also had a jukebox imported from America, and he kept it topped off with a steady supply of the latest tunes by Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington.

Shlomo regarded the jukebox with disdain.  "Boss," he said, "the trouble with you is, you're just too Americanized."

"Not Americanized," Göring countered.  "Californicated."

But one night, sitting within his office behind the bar, Göring found his contentment suddenly shattered by the sound of Shlomo playing the one song he had been expressly forbidden to play, "Red River Valley".

Göring had stormed out of the office, intending to beat Shlomo to a pulp and kick his sorry Yiddish ass out the door and all the way to the next devo.  He was brought up short by the sight of a woman standing by Shlomo's piano and softly singing along.

It was Ingrid.

Just like that, eight years fell away, and the two of them were newlyweds, just come to America for Ingrid to film an English-language version of "Munkbrogreven".  They had gone driving, and found a honky-tonk bar in Pasedena where they slowly danced to the strange cowboy music on the jukebox.  That had been before the fights, before the accusations.

Before the divorce.

"Don't be angry with him, Hermann," she said.  "I told him to play it."

"What are you doing here, Ingrid?" he asked.

Before she could answer, the bar was suddenly deluged by half a dozen thugs in the uniform of Boleslaw Piasecki's National Socialists, singing the "Eligiusz Niewiadomski Song":

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale
A tale of the fateful shots
That killed a traitor President
And made the Yids kerplotz"

Frowning, Shlomo Kaminsky began pounding out the Commonwealth Anthem on his piano, which was soon taken up by most of the people in the bar, drowing out the Nasos.  It was, Göring knew, an adaptation of an American song:

"This land is your land, this land is my land
From Wawel Castle to the southern highlands
From the Pripet Marshes to the Baltic waters
This land was made for you and me"

Ingrid peered uncertainly in the direction of the Nasos.  "Who are those men?"

"Those are the local Fascists, the Blackshorts."

"Blackshirts?" questioned Ingrid.

"Black*shorts*," Göring corrected.  "All the shirt colors have been used up by Fascist groups in other countries, so they had to settle for wearing black shorts.  They're the usual crew of anti-Semitic ultra-nationalists.  They hate the Commonwealth, and the devos.  They want to re-centralize Poland and disenfranchise the other nationalities, especially the Jews.  The local Naso bigshot is an ugly customer named Leonard Koznowski.  That's him on the right."

The ugly customer in question chose that moment to half-stalk, half-stagger over to Göring.

"What the hell kind of place are you running here, Göring?" Koznowski demanded.   "You've got Jews behind the bar, Jews behind the piano, Jews in the woodpile!"

Göring's voice was low and menacing.  "Koznowski, in my bar, I decide who is a Jew."

The Naso took an involuntary step back.  Then, muttering profanities under his breath, he slunk back to his corner of the bar.  A curt order to the others, and they left the bar in a group.

"They'll be back," Shlomo pointed out.

"I'll be waiting," said Göring.

There was a strange dreamlike quality to the next hour, as Göring introduced his movie-star ex-wife to various friends and co-workers from Bialystok and Project Octopus.  He had retreated to a place behind the bar and stood observing while Shlomo led a group including Ingrid in a round of songs.

The sound attracted Captain Lavrenti Romanov, who had been trying his luck in the game room.  Romanov had been appointed Prefect of Police for Bialystok by the government of the Belarus devo.  Göring had found him to be pleasant, affable, and thoroughly corrupt.  Romanov took his monthly bribe from Göring in the form of a three thousand zloty gaming chit.  He usually went through it in less than a week.

"Is that who I think it is?" Romanov asked, as he seated himself in front of Göring at the bar.

Göring nodded.

"What on Earth could she be doing in a backwater like Bialystok?"

"I never got around to asking her," Göring said.

"If I were a gambling man," said Romanov, "which of course I am not, I would wager that her presence here has something to do with the rumored arrival of her countryman Raoul Wallenberg."

"I thought Wallenberg was in the custody of the NKVD," said Göring.

"He was, for a short time," said Romanov.  "However, he escaped recently.  Needless to say, our Soviet neighbors are anxious to get him back."

Göring was familiar with Wallenberg, as who was not?  Although he seemed nothing more than an ordinary Swedish businessman, political prisoners had a habit of escaping, and dissidents of vanishing, whenever he was in the neighborhood.  The NKVD had finally gotten fed up, and on Wallenberg's last visit to the USSR, he had been arrested for espionage, sabotage, and general anti-Soviet behavior.

Göring said, "I wouldn't think there was much chance of the Commonwealth handing him back to the Russians."

"Then you haven't been following current events lately," said Romanov.  "I'm disappointed in you, Hermann.  You're usually so up-to-date."

"What current events am I missing?" Göring inquired.

"Trouble in Lithuania, same as always," said Romanov.  "President Smetona's illness is growing worse.  Lithuania is a powderkeg, and it grows more unstable as Smetona gets weaker.  There could be a civil war, and that would almost inevitably draw in the Commonwealth and the Soviet Union.  What price the freedom of one man if it could buy a few more months of peace?  Thus, I have orders from both Brest-Litovsk and Warsaw to have Wallenberg detained if he should appear in Bialystok."

"That doesn't explain what Ingrid is doing here," said Göring.

"Of course it does," said Romanov.  "In Bialystok, everybody comes to Fatty's.  If Wallenberg has come here, sooner or later he will show up in your bar.  And then..."

"And then?" said Göring.

"And then he will be a guest of the Belarus devo," said Romanov.  "Unless, of course, you should choose to intervene on his behalf."

Göring shook his head.  "I stick my neck out for nobody."


DBTL 12B: Bialystok - Reel Two

Play it Again, Shlomo

Bialystok, Belarus Devo, Polish Commonwealth
23 April 1944

"If she can stand it, I can," said Hermann Göring.  "Play it!"

"Yes, Boss," said Shlomo Kaminsky unhappily.  He began tapping out the song, and in his mind Göring could hear his ex-wife Ingrid singing the lyrics in English.

Come and sit by my side, if you love me
Do not hasten to bid me adieu
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the cowboy who loved you so true

There was a knock at the door.  Shlomo made his way through the darkness of the empty bar and unlocked it.  It was Ingrid.

"Hermann," she said, "I have to talk to you."

Through the haze of alcoholic melancholy Göring looked up at her.  "Oh.  I saved my first drink to have with you.  Here."  He pushed the shot glass of Jack Daniels across the table.

"No," said Ingrid.  "No, Hermann, not tonight."

"Especially tonight," insisted Göring.

"Hermann," said Ingrid, "I need your help."

"You mean you need my help getting Raoul Wallenberg out of Poland," Göring stated.

"The authorities have impounded my aircraft," she said.  "I was hoping--"

"What?  That I would loan you one of my experimental jet aircraft?"

"That you would know of some way for us to leave Bialystok," she said.

"There is," Göring said.  "It's called a train.  One leaves for Warsaw every morning at 8:22."

"Oh, Hermann, you know that Raoul can't take a train!  The police will arrest him as soon as he walks into the terminal."

"Then I suggest you pack yourselves a picnic lunch and go for a long walk, because that is the only way your friend Wallenberg can leave Bialystok."

Ingrid's next comment was, perhaps fortunately, interrupted by the bar's front door being kicked in.  From out of the night strode in Leonard Koznowski and his gang of Naso thugs, still wearing their Party uniforms of brown shirts, black shorts, and red-and-white thunderbolt armbands.

"Hello," said Koznowski's henchman, Andrzej Skwigmund.

"Looks like Fatty's having a party," Koznowski observed.  "And we happen to be wearing our Party uniforms, so we've decided to join in."

"I want to smash up the Yid's piano," said Skwigmund.

Shlomo stood up to face Skwigmund.  "You and what army, punk?"

"Later, Skwigi.  First things first," said Koznowski.  "It's time for you to make a financial contribution to the National Socialists, Fatty.  Where do you keep the cash?"

"It's in my office, behind the bar," said Göring expressionlessly.

As Koznowski passed the table with Göring and Ingrid, he gave her a lascivious grin.  Skwigmund was biting the palm of his hand in anticipation.

The door to Göring's office swung open before Koznowski could kick it in, and the Naso found himself face-to-face with Captain Lavrenti Romanov, Bialystok's Prefect of Police.  Koznowski's grin was replaced by stupifaction, an expression which came naturally to him.

As Koznowski backed away from the office door, Romanov emerged with two of his men.

"Lavi, glad you could make it," said Göring.  "I'd like to press charges against Leni and Skwigi here.  Trespassing, vandalism, robbery, that sort of thing."

Romanov glared at Göring and the Nasos impartially.  "I'd be happy to, Hermann."  He motioned for his men to take the Nasos into custody.

When they were all gone, Ingrid said, "Romanov was waiting to arrest me, wasn't he?"

Göring nodded.  "Nothing bad would have come of it.  He would have kept you down at the Palace of Justice for a day or two, asked you some polite questions about Wallenberg's whereabouts.  You would have refused to tell him, of course, and so he would have put you on a train to Danzig and shipped you back to Sweden."

"And you would have stood aside and let him," Ingrid said sadly.

Göring shrugged.  "I stick my neck out for nobody."

"So it seems," came a voice from above them.  Göring spun about and looked up at the top of the staircase leading to his apartment.

It was Raoul Wallenberg.


DBTL 12C: Bialystok - Reel Three

We'll Always Have Pasedena

Bialystok, Belarus Devo, Polish Commonwealth
23 April 1944

"I hope you don't mind," Raoul Wallenberg said to Hermann Göring.  "I took the stairs from the street to your apartment."

"Not at all," Göring said in a tired voice.  "I wish the bar did this much business when it was open."

Meanwhile, Ingrid Bergman stood up from the table she was sharing with Göring.  "My darling," she said to Wallenberg, "you made it!"

"I take it you two are already acquainted," Göring observed.  "Good.  That saves me the trouble of introducing you."

"Raoul is my husband," Ingrid said.

Surprised, Göring accidentally knocked his drink off the table.  "Lavi is right.  I haven't been keeping up properly with current events."

"We've kept it a secret," said Ingrid.  "The studio insisted."

Göring laughed.  "You should have stayed married to me.  Everyone knew you were married to me."

"And that didn't stop--"  Ingrid cut herself short.  "But that's all past.  Hermann, Raoul and I need you to get us out of Bialystok."

"I still don't see any compelling reason why I should involve myself," said Göring.

Wallenberg produced a pistol.  "Is this compelling enough for you?"

"I'll make it easy for you," said Göring.  He rose from his chair and moved to the bottom of the stairs.  "Go ahead and shoot.  You'll be doing me a favor."

"Raoul, put that away," Ingrid ordered.  She walked over to stand beside Göring.  "Hermann, what would it take to make you help Raoul leave Bialystok?  What do you want?"

Shlomo spoke up.  "Lady, why don't you leave the boss alone?  He was doing fine until you turned up."

Göring smiled wanly.  "Thanks, Shlomo.  But there's too much unfinished business between me and Ingrid."  He turned to Ingrid.  "All right, you want to know what I want?  When you get back to Hollywood, I want you to announce that you've decided to remarry me.  We made up here in Bialystok, and all is forgiven.  The marriage will be at the end of July.  That will give you and Wallenberg time to get a divorce."

Ingrid stood still for a minute.  She finally said, "Hermann, is there somewhere Raoul and I can talk together alone?"

"My apartment," said Göring.  "I'm pretty sure he knows the way."

When the two of them had gone up the stairs, Shlomo said, "Are you out of your mind, boss?"

"Possibly," said Göring.  "Would you mind getting my car ready for me, Shlomo?  We're going to be making a trip to the base very shortly."

Shlomo shook his head, but he went.

Ingrid and Wallenberg emerged from Göring's apartment.  "We have agreed to your conditions," Wallenberg said.  Ingrid was silent, her eyes lowered.

"Then come along," said Göring, "we've got a short trip ahead of us."

It was a silent ride to the airbase where Project Octopus was located.  Göring sat up front with Shlomo, while Ingrid and Wallenberg sat in the back, holding hands.

The guard at the gate waved them through when he saw Göring.  A few brief directions brought the car to one of the hangers.  Göring led the way, unlocked the side door, and switched on the lights.

There was a moment's silence, then Ingrid said, "Hermann, what in God's name is that thing?"

Göring grinned.  "The War Ministry in Warsaw ordered a bunch of them from the Sikorsky company in America.  It's called a helicopter."

Wallenberg said, "I hope you don't expect *me* to fly this thing."

"The pilot will be along shortly," said Göring.  "That gives us time to discuss the question of who will and will not be on it.  Because, you see, Ingrid, you are not getting on that helicopter with Raoul Wallenberg."

Ingrid was confused.  "I don't understand, Hermann.  What has happened to you?  Last night we said --"

"Last night we said a great many things," said Göring.  "We agreed that you would divorce Wallenberg and remarry me.  I've decided that it would be better for all concerned if you were to remain with me here in Bialystok where you belong."

"Hermann, no, I, I..."

"You've got to listen to me," Göring insisted.  "Do you have any idea what I'd have to look forward to if you left me again?  Inside of us we both know you belong with me.  You're part of my work, the thing that keeps me going.  If that helicopter leaves the ground and you're on it, I'll regret it."

"No," Ingrid said softly.

"Maybe not today," continued Göring, "maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of my life."

"You don't have to do this," Ingrid pleaded.  "We'll always have Pasedena.  Isn't that enough?"

"No," said Göring heavily.  "It wasn't enough four years ago, and it isn't enough now.  Ingrid, it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of bratwurst in this crazy world.  Someday you'll understand that.  Now..."

"Now Miss Bergman must be going," came a voice from behind them.

Göring was astonished.  "Lavi, what are you doing here?"

Captain Lavrenti Romanov strode forward into the hanger.  "I knew you'd come here after I left the bar.  I've got bad news for you, Hermann.  New orders from Brest-Litovsk.  Wallenberg is to be allowed to return to Sweden."  He turned to face Ingrid and Wallenberg.  "Miss Bergman, your plane has been released.  You can leave anytime."

Ingrid said, "Goodbye, Hermann.  I won't be coming back."  She and Wallenberg hurried out of the hanger.

Göring glared at Romanov.  He was about to speak when the policeman said, "Forget it, Hermann.  It's Bialystok."


DBTL 12D: Bialystok - Roll Credits

23 April 1944

Hermann Göring currently resides at his lavishly appointed mountain villa on the Obersalzberg.  In between morphine fixes, he fights bureaucratic turf wars with Albert Speer and plans for the upcoming Anglo-American landings in France.

Ingrid Bergman is in Los Angeles, where she is currently filming "Gaslight".

Raoul Wallenberg is in Stockholm, preparing for his upcoming mission to rescue as many of Budapest's Jews as possible from the Nazis.

Leonard Koznowski and Andrzej Skwigmund worked as informers for the NKVD from October 1939 to June 1941.  They currently work as informers for the Gestapo.

Captain Lavrenti Romanov was taken prisoner by the Red Army in September 1939.  He was shot in the Katyn Forest in May 1940.

Shlomo Kaminsky was gassed to death at Treblinka in October 1942.

------------------------

The Flying Deutchlander, Bialystok, Belarus Devo, Polish Commonwealth, Drowned Baby Timeline
23 April 1944

It was a pretty good crowd for a Sunday night.  No doubt many of them had heard about Ingrid's appearance the night before and were hoping to catch a glimpse of her.  Fat chance, Göring thought with bitter irony.

Shlomo was playing.  Although he had been taking requests earlier in the evening, and would take some more later on, he was currently favoring the crowd with some of his own compositions.  Göring listened to him sing.

"Deep inside of a parallel
Universe,
It's getting harder and harder to tell
What came first."

Damned if he knew what it meant, but it was a catchy enough tune, and the crowd seemed to enjoy it.

Lavi Romanov emerged from the game room and took a seat next to Göring at the bar.  He seemed surprised to find Göring drinking a glass of seltzer water.

"No Jack Daniels?" he asked.

Göring shrugged.  "I've got an early meeting scheduled at the base tomorrow morning.  Planning test trials next month.  Won't do to go in with a hangover."

"With all due respect, Hermann, you've never struck me as the stoical type."

Göring shrugged again.  "Ingrid's a sweet kid, but it was never meant to be.  As Koznowski is fond of saying, I'm a lone wolf."

"If you say so," said Romanov dubiously.  Looking over at Shlomo, he added, "I wonder if I can talk him into playing 'Red River Valley'."


DBTL 13: Octopus's Garden

Warsaw, Polish Commonwealth
17 July 1944

"If a single bomb falls on Poland," Hermann Göring assured Marshal Skwarazinski, "you can call me 'Meyer'."

Skwarazinski seemed puzzled.  "Why on Earth would I want to call you Meyer?"

"Perhaps he means Sir Anthony Mayer," suggested President Josef Beck.  "You know, the English spice magnate."

"But that makes no sense at all," Skwarazinski pointed out reasonably enough.

"No, no," said Göring in annoyance, "Meyer, the fellow from...oh, never mind.  My point is, once we have a few hundred of these babies in the air, there won't be a single aircraft in the whole world that can stand against them."

"Except for the anti-aircraft rockets von Braun's building in Lublin," Skwarazinski mentioned.  "I dare say one of them could take out one of your jet aircraft."

"And don't forget the British have jets of their own," Beck added.  "In the unlikely event of a war between us, I'd wager theirs could give ours a run for their money."

Göring had an awful urge to grab the heads of the two Poles and bang them together.  Since they were the two most powerful men in the Polish Commonwealth, and his bosses to boot, it was an urge he had no trouble suppressing.  Still...

"Still," Skwarazinski concluded, "your point is well made.  Your jets have acquitted themselves well here today, and they would indeed prove a formidable addition to the Commonwealth's arsenal.  I will recommend to the Cabinet that your research project be converted into a full-scale production facility, and that plans be made for the creation of a jet fighter squadron within the Polish Air Force."  Shaking Göring's hand, he added, "You've done well, Director.  You've earned the gratitude of the whole Polish Commonwealth today."

A welter of unfamiliar emotions flooded through Göring's heart.  After all the disappointments and failures of the last five years, he had finally managed to win through to success, to carry an important task through to completion.  It was, he knew, due to the man standing in front of him.  Skwarazinski had believed in him when no one else had, even Göring himself.  It was with perfect sincerity that Göring answered, "I couldn't have done it without you, sir."

Smiling, Skwarazinski asked, "Have you given any thought to what you're going to name your new jet plane factory?  The Hermann Göring Works, perhaps?"

Göring thought of the ornamental rose garden he had had planted outside his office, in honor of his beloved first wife.

He said, "I think I'll just call it the Garden."

Four jets in a diamond formation roared by overhead.


DBTL 14: The Wild Wild East

Lomza, Polish Commonwealth
12 August 1944

Lt. Karol Wojtila of the Polish cavalry was having dinner in the officers' mess when he saw his friend Wojciech Jaruzelski amble in.  Wojtila waved the younger officer over.

"Where have you been hiding out?" Wojtila asked.

"I was visiting with Anna," Jaruzensli confessed.

Wojtila chuckled.  "That's the third time this week.  Are you two becoming an item?"

"Not if her father has anything to say about it," said Jaruzelski.

"Ah, forbidden fruit," Wojtila said knowingly.  "How does the rest of her family feel about you?"

"Her brother Stanislaw likes me well enough," said Jaruzelski.  "In fact, I spent the afternoon with both of them."

"Providing cover for both yourself and Anna," Wojtila commented.  "Very sound tactics.  I've taught you well, young squire.  Was Stanislaw actually present at all during his sojourn with the two of you?"

"The whole time," Jaruzelski said with a small sigh.  "He might like me, but he insists on observing the proprieties."

"Such is life," said Wojtila.

"Mind you," said Jaruzelski, "there were compensations.  Stanislaw is a veritable font of gossip.  If it's happening anywhere within fifty kilometers of Lomza, Stanislaw knows about it.  For instance, did you know that the Koczanskis are planning to move to Bialystok?"

"You don't say," said Wojtila dryly.

"According to Stanislaw, Andrzej Koczanski has been hired as a machinist's assistant at the Garden.  Good money they pay at the Garden, Koczanski is a lucky man.  Stanislaw also told me that the Nasos are planning to torch a wheelwright's shop in Yedwabne tonight."

Now Wojtila frowned.  "And how would Stanislaw know what the Nasos are planning?"

"He keeps his ear to the ground, that's all," said Jaruzelski.  "He knows people."

"People wearing black shorts?" said Wojtila, his frown deepening.

"Well now," Jaruzelski said, "I'm sure he's not a Naso himself."

"I should hope not," said Wojtila.  "What's the point in going to all the trouble of beating the Brownshirts if they're just going to turn up again in our back yards?  Have you told Colonel Lasky what the Nasos are planning?"

"What could he do about it?" Jaruzelski pointed out.  "If he sends some troops to Yedwabne, the Nasos will just keep out of sight, and wait until tomorrow night to torch the Jew's shop."  The younger man shrugged.  "It's not our problem."

Jaruzelski continued to chatter, but Wojtila heard none of it.  He was turning over his friend's words in his mind.  The worst thing was, Jaruzelski was right.  Colonel Lasky could send a hundred men to Yedwabne and accomplish nothing.

But Wojtila wasn't ready to dismiss the Nasos.  Like many young Poles, especially in the Army, he had always idolized Marshal Josef Pilsudski.  When Pilsudski said that anti-Semitism had no place in a great nation, Wojtila took his words to heart.

One man could not change the hatred in millions of hearts.  However, Wojtila realized, one man could act effectively where a hundred men would be helpless.  And just like that, Karol Wojtila knew what he had to do.


Yedwabne, Polish Commonwealth
12 - 13 August 1944

Moshe Abramowitz was awakened in the dead of night by the sound of voices and the smell of smoke.

"Hey, Jew-boy, rise and shine!  We got a little present for you!"

Abramowitz exhanged a glance with his wife Manya, likewise awakened by the tumult outside their shop.  The wheelwright looked down from the window of his bedroom to the growing crowd outside.

No, he thought to himself.  Crowd is the wrong word.  Mob would be more like it.

At least a dozen men, most of them wearing Naso uniforms or armbands, most of them holding torches aloft.

"Come on out, Jew-boy!"

"Stay here," he told Manya.  Quickly donning a pair of boots, Abramowitz hurried down the stairs to his shop, and out into the street to confront the mob.

"What do you want?" he said.

"We want you to get the hell out of Poland, you Yid bastard!" bellowed one of the torch-bearing men, a heavyset man in full Naso regalia.  The others chorused their agreement.  "We'll give you one minute for a head start, then we take care of your shop!"  Another chorus of agreement, accompanied by enthusiastic waving of torches.

 A shot rang out, and the ringleader's torch was torn out of his grip.

"Do you think you've got enough men to handle one Jew?" a voice rang out.  "After all, there's only fourteen of you!"

As one man, Abramowitz and the Nasos turned to see the dark figure of a man silhouetted against the flank of a white horse.  He was dressed in black from head to foot, and his face was hidden by a mask.  Both hands held pistols, and both pistols were pointed at the Nasos.

The fat Naso's words were threatening, but Abramowitz could hear the fear lurking beneath them.  "Butt out, stranger.  This is none of your concern."

The masked man took a step forward, and the Nasos shrank back.

"I've made it my concern," the dark figure said in a voice that was low and menacing.  "My first shot was a warning.  The next one will be fatal.  If any one of you thinks he's man enough to stand against someone who can fight back, go ahead and try.  Otherwise, you'd better all crawl back under whatever rocks you came from."

Abramowitz could see sweat running down the fat Naso's forehead.  The frightened bully glanced to his men, but none of them seemed inclined to test the stranger's claim.

The masked man took another step forward, and one of the Nasos broke and ran.  He was quickly joined by the rest of the mob, until only the ringleader remained.

"You may have won this round," the Naso snarled, "but we'll be back."

"The next shot," the stranger repeated, "will be fatal."  He pointed one of his pistols directly at the Naso's heart, and the uniformed thug turned and ran after his men.

Abramowitz watched the last Naso pelt away, then he turned to face the masked man.  "They'll be back," he said.

"So will I," said the man in black, as he holstered his pistols.  Hanging a small object from the sign above the shop's door, the stranger turned away.  A sharp whistle brought the horse to his side, and he vaulted effortlessly into the saddle.  As the horse reared back, the rider cried out, "Hajo, Argent!  Away!" and a moment later he was gone in a cloud of dust.

Manya emerged from the shop to join her husband.  "Who was that masked man?" she wondered.

Moshe Abramowitz shook his head.  "I don't know."  Taking down the object the rider had hung from his sign, he added, "But he left behind this silver cross."


DBTL 14A: Songs of the Old East, #1

He Rode a Blazing Saddle
Music and lyrics by Shlomo Kaminsky

He rode a blazing saddle
He wore a shining cross
His job to fight the Nasos
And show them who was boss
He conquered fear and he conquered hate
He turned our night into day
He made his blazing saddle
A torch to light the way

When blackshorts ruled the East
And fear filled the land
A cry went up for a man with guts
To take the East in hand
They needed a man who was brave and true
With justice for all as his aim
Then out of the night rode the man for the fight
Though none knew his name, yes none know his name

He rode a blazing saddle
He wore a shining cross
His job to fight the Nasos
And show them who was boss
He conquered fear and he conquered hate
He turned our night into day
He made his blazing saddle
A torch to light the way
A torch to light the way


DBTL 15: The Speer Squad

Berlin, Brandenburg Devo, Polish Commonwealth
6 October 1944

Geli Raubal Skorzeny Speer was not having a good day.  Her husband Albert had been gone all week on a business trip to Vilnius, where he had been commissioned to design a new legislative building for the Central Lithuanian Devo's Seimas.  Although Geli was pleased at the success of her husband's career, she regretted the long periods he had to spend far from home.  Ever since his neoclassical design for Brandenburg's new Bundestag building had been chosen four years before, Albert had been in great demand.  The legislatures of Poland's other devos had insisted that Albert design their new meeting places as well, and the result was a series of long absences from Berlin on his part.

That in itself might not be so bad.  What made Albert's absences particularly trying was the need to care for their six children.

Albert's wife had died seven years earlier in the course of the Polish siege of Berlin, leaving him alone to take care of their three sons.  Geli's own husband Otto, an officer in the Austrian Army, had died while piloting a glider during a training mission in 1940.  He had left for work that day saying, "I'll be back," just like always, but he had vanished with his glider somewhere in the Tyrolian Alps, leaving Geli to care for their three daughters.  She had gone to work as a chambermaid for a government minister in Vienna, and it was there that she met Albert while he was designing a new ministry building for her employer.

They had fallen in love, and Albert had brought Geli and her daughters to live with him and his sons in Berlin.  After four years, their composite family had mostly come to accept each other, but there were still plenty of rough patches.

This afternoon, for instance, Geli had been treated to a long tirade from her second daughter Jana, brought on by the news that her elder sister had been chosen to deliver the Autonomy Day address at their school.  "All the boys want to dance with Marta," Jana complained.  "All the girls want to be friends with Marta.  Everywhere I turn, it's Marta, Marta, Marta!  And what do I get?  I get to wear these stupid glasses, that's what I get!"

As though to prove Jana wrong, minutes later Marta had rushed into the house holding a bloody hankerchief to her nose, followed by an abashed-looking Celine clutching a rubber ball.  Celine, it turned out, had thrown the ball to Marta.  Marta had missed it, and the ball had hit her in the face.  Now Marta sported a swollen nose and two black eyes, and she declared that she couldn't possibly deliver the Autonomy Day address looking the way she did.

Meanwhile, Geli's stepson Peter had been moping around the house for days.  He had come back from the cinema the night before imitating the voice of some movie-actor or other, muttering "Pork chops and sauerkraut," to himself.  Peter's elder brother Gregor had lately been suffering a number of unfortunate accidents.  Geli knew she was being superstitious, but she couldn't help thinking it had something to do with the pagan Lithuanian idol Albert had brought from a previous trip to Vilnius, and which Gregor had taken to wearing on a cord around his neck.

As if all this weren't enough, their housemaid Alyx had recently eloped with the neighborhood butcher, and now Geli suffered from a lack of both housecleaning and fresh meat.  The only member of the family who wasn't causing Geli headaches was her stepson Robb.  In fact, she hadn't seen Robb all day...

On top of everything else, even the news was proving to be bad.  All day the radio had been carrying reports of fighting in Lithuania since the death of President Smetona   One group calling itself the Socialist Peoples Front had seized a radio station in Kaunas and announced it had signed a mutual defense pact with the Soviet Union.  Another group called the Commonwealth League was calling for union with Central Lithuania under Polish rule.  The ruling Nationalist Party had fragmented into competing factions, and the Lithuanian government was paralyzed.  Everyone was afraid that Poland would go to war with the Soviets over Lithuania, and if that happened Albert would be practically on the front lines.

Geli was in the kitchen getting more ice for Marta's nose when the doorbell rang.  She spent a few seconds waiting for Alyx to answer it before she remembered that Alyx didn't live there anymore.  Setting down the ice cube tray, she made her way to the front door, where the doorbell was again being rung.

"All right, all right, you can stop now," she muttered to herself as she opened the door.  More loudly she said, "How may I help you?"  Then she felt herself growing faint.

"I'm back," said Otto Skorzeny.


DBTL 16: The War Begins

Excerpt from a TASS communiqué of 7 October 1944:

In response to this morning's invasion of Lithuania by forces of the reactionary bourgeois Beck regime, the Soviet Union has chosen to honor the terms of its mutual assistance pact with Premier Paleckis of the Lithuanian Socialist Peoples Front.  A general advance has been initiated into the so-called autonomous regions of Central Lithuania, Byelorussia and Galicia.  The heroic regiments of the valiant Red Army are honorably fulfilling their duty.  The whole Soviet people welcomes the wise policy of the Soviet government.

Warsaw, Polish Commonwealth
8 October 1944

"It's an odd-looking invasion force," said Kastus Baranouski, President of the Belarus Duma and Secretary of State for Belarus in the Polish Cabinet.  "Tanks in the front, and horse-drawn supply wagons in the rear."

"What sort of reception are they getting?" asked War Minister Stanislaw Skwarazinski.

"A cold one, as you might imagine," said Baranouski.  "A lot of the people have relatives in the BSSR, or know someone who escaped across the border.  They have no wish to become collectivized like the easterners."

"It's the same in the south," said Vasili Rozhenko, Baranouski's Galician counterpart.  "The Bolsheviks don't like kulaks, and as far as they're concerned, every peasant in Galicia is a kulak.  I've also learned that all the Red Army troops who've entered Galicia are Russians, which was wise of Stalin.  If he'd sent in Ukrainians, his units would all be facing east by now."

"I'm afraid things aren't as clearcut in Central Lithuania," said Antanas Vardys.  "Even with autonomy, a lot of people want reunion with the Republic.  They would prefer an independent Lithuania, but if not then it's all the same to them whether they're ruled from Moscow or Warsaw."

"And how are our own forces dealing with the odd-looking Red invaders?" President Jósef Beck asked Skwarazinski.

Skwarazinski shrugged.  "About as we expected.  The Soviets' tanks are turning out to be tougher than we anticipated, which is the reason they've been able to advance as far as they have.  On the other hand, our own forces are falling back in good order.  It helps that a lot of them are veterans of the German War.  They've been through this sort of thing before.  Had the attack been a total surprise, doubtless our situation would be a dire one.  Fortunately, our intelligence section was able to give us enough warning of the Bolshevik buildup to allow us to mobilize."

Skwarazinski continued, "As far as the air war is concerned, General Karpinski reports that Dr. von Braun's anti-aircraft rockets are proving to be quite effective in bringing down enemy planes.  We've had at least twenty confirmed kills so far.  This is fortunate, since the Bolsheviks have been putting twice as many planes into the air as we have.  Göring's jet fighters, his 'Lilies', are also proving effective for their numbers, but of course since the Garden has only produced a dozen aircraft so far, their impact has been relatively minor."

"In summary," said Skwarazinski, "the situation is serious, but not desparate.  Barring any unwelcome surprises from the Bolsheviks, we should be able to contain the invasion within the next week or two, after which we can put General Guderian's plans for a counterattack into operation."

"Thank you, Marshal," said Beck.  "Count Raczynski, how are our allies reacting to the invasion?"

Count Edward Raczynski, the Foreign Minister, said, "I'm afraid the Pact isn't working out quite as well as we had expected."  Beck himself had spent the previous five years building a military alliance called the Warsaw Pact among the various nations that bordered on the Soviet Union.  "Our embassy in Bucharest reports that the Romanians show no interest in entering the war against the Bolsheviks.  General Antonescu says he fears that if Romania goes to war with the Soviet Union, the Hungarians will take advantage of their preoccupation to invade Transylvania."  Raczynski sighed.  "To do the General justice, Admiral Horthy might well do just that.  But it also gives Antonescu the excuse he needs to wait on the sidelines until it becomes clear who will win.

"The Finns, on the other hand, have just issued an ultimatum to the Soviet government demanding their withdrawal from Poland by noon tomorrow."

"I think I detect the work of Marshal Mannerheim," commented Skwarazinski.

"I wouldn't be the least bit surprised," said Raczynski.  "He at least is well aware that a Soviet Union which triumphs over Poland will be going after Finland next.  If Finland declares war on the Bolsheviks, I think there's an even chance that Estonia will as well.  And if Estonia does, there is a chance that Latvia will also."

"And what of Japan?" asked Beck.

"As for Japan," said Raczynski, "we have received no word yet from Ambassador Lipski.  A Japanese attack on the Bolsheviks would be very helpful, but as the Japanese are deeply mired in China, I do not foresee such an attack in the immediate future.  Thus, out of our five Warsaw Pact allies, we have one probable cobelligerent, two possibles, and two unlikelies."

"What of the British and French?" asked Skwarazinski.

"Prime Minister Attlee and Premier Weygand have both condemned the Soviet attack, but that is likely to be their only contribution to the situation.  The British are preoccupied with India and Palestine, the French with Algeria and Indochina."

Nobody bothered to ask what the American reaction might be.  Under President Taft, the United States had become thoroughly isolationist.  The recent grant of independence to the Philippines seemed to mark a final retreat by the Americans from the world outside their hemisphere.

There were a few seconds of silence while the Cabinet members absorbed the information they had been presented.  At last President Beck spoke.  "The Marshal," by which of course he meant Marshal Pilsudski, "always believed that we would eventually find ourselves at war again with the Bolsheviks.  He devoted his life to preparing for that war, and we who follow in his footsteps have continued his work.  The coming weeks and months will determine whether our preparations have been sufficient. 

"I do not need to remind any of you of the stakes we play for.  The very existence of our Commonwealth is at risk.  If we fail, the whole of the Commonwealth from Belarus to Brandenburg will be at the mercy of the Bolsheviks, and the Hanoverians and Bavarians will find themselves with some unpleasant new neighbors. 

"But we faced these people twenty-four years ago, and under the Marshal's wise guidance we prevailed.  I believe that the Marshal's spirit watches over us still, and that under his watchful eye, and with the help of God, we can prevail again."


DBTL 16A: The Helsinki Syndrome

 by Jussi Jalonen

The following two-episode story - of which this post is the first installment - has been written with the approval and enndorsement of Johnny Pez, the author of the Drowned Baby Timeline, the drowned baby in question being Adolf Hitler. As you can see, this is chronologically a follow-up to the sixteenth part, "The War Begins". Comments are more than welcome...


Helsinki, Finland
9 October 1944

Brakes screeching, the black Marmon halted on the cobblestone street in front of the House of the Estates. President Väinö Tanner left the car, quickly paced the steps of the building followed by his adjutants and entered the main hall where the cabinet was expecting him. As usual, heads turned to look at the President when he walked into the room. Tanner greeted the cabinet members with a quiet gesture and took his seat at the end of the table. Everyone in the room could sense the
silent anger emanating from the President, and Prime Minister Risto Ryti seemed extremely distressed by it. Only Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim, the Chairman of the Defence Council, maintained his calm, tranquil appearance. After four years of working under Tanner, he had come to understand the heavy pressure which history had placed on this man, the first person from the north of the long bridge who had risen to become the President of the Republic.

The extraordinary elections which had followed President Kallio's untimely death in March 1940 had, against all odds, resulted in Tanner's victory, making him the first Social Democrat to ever rise to the position of the President of Finland, something which many people even within the party had regarded as virtually impossible at the time. But it had happened; Tanner had carried the electoral college in the third round, with all the Social Democratic and Agrarian, plus half the Progressive votes behind him. A year later, after the parliamentary elections had ensured the continuation of the Centre-Left government coalition, the new President had made a bold decision and appointed Ryti as the new Prime Minister instead of Cajander, who had expressed his wish to withdraw from the position. The old Marshal Mannerheim had remained as the Chairman of the Defence Council with Tanner's full approval. The handshake of the Social Democratic President and the Marshal, with the right-wing Progressive Prime Minister as the third party, had marked the final seal on the national reconciliation begun during the Kallio years, healing the
last remaining traumas of the Civil War. Finland was once again, beyond any question, a united nation - and the following years, which had seen the hostility of the Kremlin towards the "Social Fascist Manner-Tannerheim régime" develop to pathological levels, had painfully demonstrated the necessity of the newly-found national
concord.

But the new consensus had not bridged all the political cleavages. Tanner directed his gaze at foreign minister Rudolf Holsti, who was struggling to conceal another morning hangover. The veteran Agrarian politician had experienced his triumph five years ago, when the Cajander government had signed a treaty which had associated the Finnish-Estonian maritime defence arrangements with the Warsaw Pact. Although the Social Democrats and the Progressives had been unwilling
to support the Agrarian proposal for a treaty with Poland, the surprising endorsement of the right-wing opposition had secured the parliamentary ratification for the agreement; after the Polish conquest of Berlin had effectively eliminated the possibility that a pact with Poland might draw Finland into a conflict against Germany,
many National Coalition members had suddenly turned into ardent champions of Polish-Finnish cooperation. The grand alliance of all border states, led by Poland and Finland, which Holsti had envisioned already in 1922, had finally, after almost two decades, become reality. But it had also split the opinions within the government, and the new controversial foreign political commitment had caused a lasting friction in the cooperation between the Social Democrats and the Agrarian Alliance.

And now, after eight long years of continuous service as the foreign minister in the successive cabinets of Cajander and Ryti, Holsti had found himself increasingly marginalized. After his election, Tanner had concentrated the control of foreign policy back to the office of the President and, with the full support of the new Prime Minister, sought to distance the country from the Warsaw Pact. Even worse, the new generation of politicians within the Agrarian Alliance - including Kekkonen, the young upstart - who were free from the old fennoman prejudices and thus more inclined to favour Tanner's Scandinavian-oriented foreign policy over the Polish connection, had also started to regard Holsti as a useless relic of an old era. The frustrated foreign minister had eventually turned to alcohol for refuge - which had not helped to restore his prestige, but at least made its loss easier to bear.

But today, Holsti had made a smashing comeback. He had decided that he was not going to fall to obscurity and allow all that he had worked for to be quietly buried. How did these people even dare to think that he could be overlooked in the affairs of this state? Who else in the political establishment had as profound an understanding of the international relations and the role of the League of Nations as he did? Who else could comprehend the depths of the social and political
human interaction like he could - he, Rudolf Holsti, the Westermarckian philosopher-King, the man who was destined to guide this nation through the stormy waters of European politics? As soon as he had received the news of the Soviet attack on Poland, he had known exactly what to do. And he had done it, and acted in accordance to the obligations which he had as the foreign minister of Finland, and which Finland had as a treaty partner of the Polish Commonwealth and as the
member state of the League of Nations.

The idea had at least seemed good at the time, but now, on the following day, when Holsti looked at the ominous figure of the President, he couldn't help but wonder whether he had really gone too far.

"Now, let's get down to business." Tanner's voice was both calm and menacing. "Two hours ago, I received a personal telephone call from the Soviet ambassadour, who told me that the Kremlin has decided to give a negative answer to the ultimatum dispatched by our government yesterday morning. Since I happen to be the person in charge of the foreign policy of this country and had neither issued nor given my permission to issue any ultimatums, you can perhaps imagine my surprise. It took a quarter of an hour for me to discover that the Foreign Ministry has acted on its own authority in this matter." The President snapped his fingers, and his adjutant handed him a document. "Eloquent text, I must say. 'If the Soviet government fails to provide a satisfactory answer to the demands of the Finnish government and if the armed forces of the Soviet Union continue their advance against the Polish Commonwealth, the Finnish government will consider itself forced to take action in accordance to the Eighth Article of the League of Nations Covenant and the Seventh Article of the Warsaw Pact agreement, and resort to harsh measures intended to bring the Soviet government back to its senses.'" Tanner leaned back in his chair and gazed at Holsti even more intensely than before, with the wrath of God
in his eyes. "Now, minister Holsti, I'd like to hear you to explain just what the hell were you thinking when you sent this to Moscow?"

Holsti cleared his throat and began to wipe his eyeglasses. "International law, Mr. President", he answered after a brief moment. "The Relation of War to the Origin of State. While we must, first and foremost, seek for non-violent solutions in our conduct as a member of the European community - and I still continue to believe that in time, this will become an accepted norm everywhere - we still cannot ignore the fact that at ttimes, circumstances may require that we take action in defence of our principles. Our reputation and our entire standing as an independent nation are based on how we observe the treaties and agreements which we have concluded with the other sovereign states. We cannot overlook our obligations simply because we may have, for one reason or another, come to find them uncomfortable. Even among the primitive tribes of the Pacific islands..."

"I'm not interested in a lecture in Westermarckian sociology at the moment, minister Holsti", Tanner interrupted bluntly. "Are you equally aware of the fact that aside from international law, our political hierarchy is also based on a certain order, and that we have various norms and procedures, often dictated by legislation, which are meant to ensure that this country practices its foreign policy as a cohesive entity? Or is it really too much to ask that you would know this?"

For a while, Holsti thought that he could actually hear Tanner's teeth grinding against each others. "If you question my intellect, Mr. President, I must refuse to respond", he answered. He put his glasses back on, but somehow, everything looked even more blurred than before.

Sensing that the possibility of a murder was becoming high, Prime Minister Ryti decided to intervene. "Mr. President, if I may... I'm as surprised as you are, but since you've called this meeting under a state of emergency, both I and the rest of the cabinet have to know what kind of an action we are going to take, and whether you have established your own communications with the Russians."

Tanner grunted. "The Soviets won't goddamn talk to me. I'm a bloody Menshevik, see." He grimaced bitterly. "In fairness to our foreign minister, it appears that Stalin had prepared at least some kind of a diplomatic offensive against us already before this mess. That still doesn't mean that Black Rudolf here made the right decision when he decided to fire the first shot. But what's done is done." Tanner now directed his words at Ryti and the rest of the cabinet. "In any event, our association with Poland, in spite of the fact that it has become more and more remote in the past years, would have made us a direct Soviet target. Stalin trusts no one, least of all us. And I must admit, against my own wish, that we simply cannot back down from our commitment, especially at a moment like this. I opposed the decision to sign the pact, but it nonetheless binds me. We signed a contract, and we must fulfil our end of the bargain. It's the only honest thing to do, as our Prime Minister here said of our debt repayments to the United States."

Ryti smiled. He just loved being quoted. "Have we consulted the Estonians?" he asked.

"I have", Marshal Mannerheim suddenly said. "I had a long talk with general Laidoner on the telephone this morning. They are ready to fight, with or without us, and they are quite frankly expecting the Red Army to cross their border any second now. Given that they have experienced a Communist coup attempt once in the past, their feelings are understandable. At any rate, they will stand or fall with Poland, and would like to know that we are on their side... but the general
made it clear that this time around, they will not wait forever so that we can make up our minds first." A quiet smile lingered under Mannerheim's moustache. "I have never heard the general so uncompromising. It seems that our southern neighbours want us to finally take them seriously."

Tanner didn't even consider questioning Mannerheim's right to negotiate with the Estonian general; as everyone knew, the Estonian foreign affairs were conducted entirely from Pagari Street, and it was best to allow soldiers to discuss with other soldiers. "What I'd like to know is if _we_ are taken seriously", Tanner said. "Have you made any other phone calls this morning, Marshal?"

"I ran into ambassadour Sokolnicki on my way here. Everyone in Poland already thinks that we are at war on their side. Three hours ago, Marshal Skwarazinski formally declared in a radio broadcast that 'in alliance with the Commonwealth, the Republic of Finland is also facing the Soviet aggression'. He used the Polish word '_unia_', and even made a brief reference to 'the common historic experiences of our two great nations', specifically to the February Manifesto and the Kirkkonummi Conference." The Marshal gave a hearty laugh; as an old Tsarist officer, he was still inclined to regard these references with amusement. "The latter one must have been intended to accommodate our Social Democratic President. The first time that I have heard the Marshal of Poland quoting Leon Wasilewski with so much gusto. But I suppose that citing our participation in the suppression of the November and January Insurrections would not have been quite as politically correct under the present circumstances."

Tanner clenched his fists. "As soon as I find out the blasted block-head who has made these premature promises to the Poles..." He stopped and looked once again at Holsti, who had opened his mouth to speak. The foreign minister's words died on his tongue when he saw the flames in the President's eyes. This time, Tanner had to really struggle to suppress his rage.

"Marshal, if you have made any preparations for a situation such as this, this would be a good time to put those plans in effect", Prime Minister Ryti said.

Mannerheim shook his head. "No state of war has been declared yet. The President of the Republic is still the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces."

The room fell quiet. Tanner lifted his hand on his forehead. He knew what he had to say, and he had prepared for it, but it was nonetheless difficult, and at a moment like this, _how_ he would say it was especially important, both for himself and the rest of these people. For a while, all the right words had been clear in his mind, but then he had lost them. The President was still trying to remember them when the door of the hall opened again and the second one of his adjutants strode inside, handing him a telegram. Tanner read the text on the paper, and turned to address the cabinet in a low voice:

"It seems that Stalin has made the final decision for us. Twenty-five minutes ago, the Red Air Force attacked our forward positions on the Isthmus. We're at war." He sighed. "Marshal, you're nominated as the Commander-in-Chief, effective immediately."

Mannerheim nodded. "Do I have your permission to take action and respond to the hostilities without any further consultation?"

"Absolutely", Tanner answered without hesitation. The old, stern look had returned to his face again. "Do your worst, Marshal."


DBTL 16B: Tora! Tora! Tora!

by Jussi Jalonen


This last episode is dedicated to the beautiful city of St. Petersburg and its wonderful inhabitants, currently celebrating their 300-years' birthday. Congratulations, and may your future be bright!


Suur-Merijoki airbase, Finland
10 October 1944

The wind-sleeve at the edge of the runway was being torn to the left by the hard, chill wind blowing directly from the southeast. It was raining, but the planes were already prepared on the airfield. The Blenheims and Capronis of the Coastal Squadron, joined with an assortment of fighters of all varieties; British Hurricanes, American Buffalos, French Caudrons and Italian Centauros, most decorated with Count von Rosen's coat of arms, the colours of the Finnish Air Force, but a few of them also carrying the black-blue-white triangle of the Estonian Air Arm. The fighter pilots were taking shelter from the rain under the roof in front of the main barracks.

"Goddamn rain", flight master Eino Ilmari Juutilainen cursed. "What's the pitch, anyway? Is the GHQ seriously planning an air raid in this weather? It's not that I wouldn't like to get some trigger time at long last, but I'd prefer to have at least some sunlight so that I could see what I shoot at."

"From what I've heard, it's supposed to be much more than just an ordinary raid", lieutenant Hans Wind answered. "Something really big is going to happen. The brass seriously wants to open this campaign with some kind of a grand slam, something which is supposed to hammer it down to everyone that messing with this country carries a heavy price-tag."

The first twelve hours of the war had been far less dramatic than anyone had expected. The Finnish radio intelligence was constantly reporting on the ongoing Soviet troop concentrations on the Karelian Isthmus and north of the Ladoga, but the Red Army hadn't actually crossed the border except in two localities at Kuokkala and Salmi. The Red Air Force had made several appearances over Finnish territory, the Soviet artillery was throwing shells across the border on a regular basis, and the navy had received word of a submarine sighting near Hanko, but otherwise this first day of the hostilities had been surprisingly uneventful. On the southern side of the Gulf of Finland, the Soviet bombers had attacked the fortresses of Aegna and Naissaari, but without much success. For the moment, Stalin had had to abandon the plans of a large-scale offensive against Finland and Estonia, mostly due to the unexpectedly fierce resistance of the Polish armed forces, which was forcing him to throw all the reserves of the Red Army to support the advance towards Vilnius, Brzescz and Lwów on the central front. The Soviet dictator had calculated that he'd be able to keep a check against the Finns and Estonians in the meantime; both countries could always be finished after Poland had fallen.

The two sister nations weren't going to grant him that luxury by remaining passive. The fortresses on both sides of the Gulf, connected by the maritime cables, were ready to close the sea to all hostile vessels, and the air forces were about to take an action which would force Stalin to pay attention to his northwestern flank.

Wind and Juutilainen turned and noticed major Magnusson approaching them. The senior officer was wearing an old, grey overcoat and ordinary infantry combat boots; about the only thing suggesting his service in the air force was his blue cap. He was carrying a black, leather-covered folder. The major saluted both pilots, who responded to the gesture in an orderly manner.

"Evening, gentlemen", Magnusson said, pulling a paper out of his case. "The GHQ has provided us with a new order, which you shall read to the rest of the squadron. As you may have guessed, we have been given an escort duty. Here's the detailed mission outline." He handed the paper to Wind.

Wind read the message. Filled with disbelief at the words, he looked at the commanding officer and read the text once again. His expression became more and more stupefied, and unable to figure out anything to say, he passed the document over to Juutilainen. The flight master took a look at the order and gave a cracking laugh. "Are these orders for real?" Juutilainen asked. "No, of course they have to be, right?" He looked first at Wind, who looked even more baffled than a moment before, and then at Magnusson, who nodded quietly.

"This is what the Coastal Flight Regiment has been trained to do, gentlemen", Magnusson said. "You must ensure that the bombers reach their target. The main attack will be made in three waves, with you in the first and the third, and the Estonians leading the second. The last wave will be delayed, to take out whatever may remain of the target. We've made an estimation of the enemy forces as well, which is written there. Although the fighter defence is likely to be considerable, your main worry will be the anti-aircraft batteries. But it's still easy enough. Hit and run. You know the drill."

Wind drew a deep breath. "All right, then. Let's go."

Juutilainen shook his head. "Grand slam, indeed. After this, we'd bloody well better win this war." He grinned. "Still, this _is_ going to be fun..."

In less than forty-five minutes, the first wave of Blenheims and their Brewster escorts had taken to the wing from the airfield and vanished into the night sky.



Leningrad, USSR
10 October 1944


Smoke arose from the devastated harbour of Kronstadt. In the course of the early morning hours, the entire coastline of Leningrad had been turned into a graveyard of battleships, and the cataclysmic scenery was dominated by the largest of the destroyed Soviet dreadnoughts. The mutilated corpse of "Gangut", which had received a direct hit from a flight bomb on its deck, together with the still burning, massive sixty-thousand-tons' hulk of "Sovyestkiy Soyuz", which had had its hull penetrated by two torpedoes, were slowly sinking in the grey, still waters of the Neva estuary. A cold, sad October drizzle was falling over the remains of the once-mighty Soviet Baltic Fleet, and high in the sky above Leningrad, the fourth wave of Finnish fighters and torpedo-bombers, their blue swastika insignias gleaming in the dim
autumn sunlight between the rainclouds, continued to circle over the city, like a swarm of vultures returning to a carrion.

They were not going to find anything to feast on anymore; the first three waves had annihilated every single capital ship in the port, and the few cruisers and destroyers which had made it to the sea would not escape the net of mines, small warships and coastal artillery barraging the Gulf of Finland. Deep under the dark waves of the
Baltic, the Finnish and Estonian submarines were already preparing to pursue their prey.

From a distance, Anna Akhmatova watched the destruction which opened before her, unable to believe her eyes. Earlier in the morning, she had witnessed one political commissar publicly executing three dock workers suspected of collaborating with the enemy and guiding the attacking airplanes to their target. Most likely the men had been innocent, but at least the commissar could now report to his superiors that he had succesfully captured and eliminated the enemy spies. Akhmatova had also seen many of the townspeople rushing for bomb shelters in various parts of the city - in vain, as it turned out, since none of the enemy aircraft had attacked the city itself, butinstead concentrated entirely on Kronstadt. And the havoc which they had wrought there...

For a passing moment, she thought of Lev, who had been released and drafted immediately at the outbreak of the war three days ago. He was supposed to be serving in one of the airfields close to the city. Was he alive? Or had he been killed in some other attack by the enemy? Why had this war been started in the first place? Who bore the main guilt for it? We, or the enemy? And how could we have ever underestimated the Finns and Estonians so badly? We have received a retribution for our pride today.

This is a day of gloom, Akhmatova thought to herself. A day of infamy. Not for them, but for us. They have shamed us, they have humbled us, in all their austerity. They have stolen the sky and brought an apocalypse on our ironclad shores...

Feeling the sting in her heart growing more and more painful, Akhmatova slowly sketched the first verses of the poem on her writing pad.


DBTL 17: Counterattack

Vilnius, Central Lithuanian Devo, Polish Commonwealth
22 October 1944

It had been raining in Vilnius ever since General Heinz Guderian's arrival there a week before.  A cold, penetrating rain that seemed indifferent to whatever sartorial barriers were placed in its path.  Guderian thought, if Poland's troops can make it through the Russians as easily as Poland's rain makes it through my topcoat, this war will be over in a week.

Just how effective the Polish army would be had yet to be demonstrated, but Guderian was hopeful.  Although the Russians had flooded the country with men and tanks, and the sky with planes, the Poles had kept them from making any breakthroughs.  The Russian push into Central Lithuania, for example, had ground to a halt twenty miles from Vilnius.  Overhead, Russian and Polish aircraft ducked in and out of the cloud cover in a deadly game of hide and seek, while the Polish anti-aircraft rockets exacted a steady toll from the Russians.

In the last forty-eight hours, Guderian had traveled up and down the line of battle, visiting with his divisional commanders, the rocket batteries, the artillery regiments, and especially the armored cavalry regiments.  It was, to Guderian's thinking, an oddly diverse army.  There were Polish units, Belarussian units, Ukrainian units, German units, even Jewish units.  And the journalists!  Guderian had never seen so many journalists from so many countries in his life.  Englishmen, Frenchmen, Italians, Swedes, Dutch, even Americans.  Which reminded him...

"Colonel Blair," Guderian called out.

"Sir!" the Englishman answered as he followed Guderian across the muddy field of Airstrip One.

"Has General Sosnowski reported back from Lwow?"  Guderian spoke in French, because for the life of him he couldn't understand Blair's Polish.

"Not yet, sir!" Blair answered in the same language.

"Damn!  Send another message to his HQ!  I'll be back in one hour, and I'll expect an answer by then!"

"Sir!"  Blair saluted and ran back to the communications room while Guderian climbed aboard his helicopter.  They really were the most amazingly versatile aircraft.  Guderian wondered how he had ever managed to get around without one.  As he choppered through the Lithuanian night, Guderian pondered the fate that had led him to his current station in life.  A promising career in the old Reichswehr had ended abruptly in 1933 when the fat scarfaced queer who called himself Germany's Führer had relieved him of his post on the General Staff.  When some of Guderian's former colleagues had started showing up in concentration camps and morgues, he had decided to take a quiet leave of absence.  Poland was the closest foreign country to hand, so Guderian had joined Warsaw's growing community of expatriate Germans.

A mutual friend had introduced him to a Polish cavalry officer named Stanislaw Skwarazinski, and the two had spent long evenings discussing weapons, tactics, politics and personalities.  When the fat queer declared war on Poland in '36, Skwarazinski had offered him a place on his staff.  Guderian couldn't bring himself to join the Polish army and make war on his countrymen, but he did provide Skwarazinski with some unofficial advice from time to time.  As the war between the two countries ground on, Guderian had the odd experience of watching as his casual suggestions to Skwarazinski were translated into Polish army tactics.  It was with a combination of elation and despair that he followed the course of Skwarazinski's campaign from Warsaw to Berlin.

After the war, Guderian had returned to Germany, to help his shattered homeland recover from its self-inflicted wounds.  Along with the rest of his countrymen, his heart fell when he learned of Poland's annexation of eastern Germany.  Then there came an unexpected hope when the Law of Devolution was passed by the Polish Sejm.  On Autonomy Day Guderian joined the throngs in the streets of Berlin as they celebrated Brandenburg's rebirth.  That evening, he had received a phone call from Stanislaw Skwarazinski, who had succeeded Josef Pilsudski as First Marshal of Poland.  Brandenburg was to have its own militia, the National Guard, and Skwarazinski wanted Guderian to command it.  After days of soul searching, Guderian had finally chosen to accept.

As other devos came into being, they too gave birth to National Guard units, with Guderian acting as midwife.  By the end of 1940, Skwarazinski had appointed him to the Polish General Staff, and Guderian had found himself directing the creation of Poland's Armored Cavalry units.

Now Poland was at war again, and this time at least Guderian had no qualms about fighting Poland's enemies.  His last-minute inspection tour over, Guderian leapt out of the helicopter to the welcoming mud of Airstrip One, where Colonel Blair was waiting to meet him.

"Sir," Blair shouted above the still-spinning rotor, "General Sosnowski reports that all units are in position and awaiting your orders!"

"Excellent," said Guderian.  "Send word out to all units that Operation Lightning will proceed as scheduled."


DBTL 18: I'll Say They Are

Moscow, USSR
3 March 1945

"How can the kulaks be revolting?" General Secretary Josef Stalin demanded.  "I thought we killed all the kulaks?"

"We did," Lavrenti Beria affirmed.  "I suppose more have arisen in their place."

"I was under the impression," Stalin said in a voice that was even more menacing than usual, "that it was your job to see to it that more did *not* arise in their place.  I was under the impression that it was your job to liquidate any kulaks that appeared to sabotage the workers' paradise we have established."

Beria was not a happy man.  As head of the NKVD, every internal security problem that appeared within the USSR was his responsibility.  And there was just no getting away from the fact that the loss of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic to a counterrevolutionary uprising represented a significant internal security problem.

The Poles were to blame, of course.  The Galician lackeys they had sent across the border into the Ukrainian SSR had spread awful, terrible lies about the Soviet government and Beria's own noble security service.  The poor, simple, gullible Ukrainian peasants had fallen for the Poles' slanders and, goaded by the treacherous kulaks that Beria had to admit shouldn't have been there in the first place, had risen up against the Party hierarchy and had even, so reports indicated, joined the brutal, undiscipled hordes of degenerate bourgeois monsters who were terrorizing their way across the Beacon of Socialism.

"The, er, trouble is, Comrade Stalin," Beria finally managed to say, "is that every peasant is by nature a kulak at heart, and we, um, couldn't kill them *all*.  Could we?"

Stalin glared at Beria and said nothing, which was probably the very worst thing that could happen to a man while speaking with the General Secretary.  It suddenly seemed very hot to Comrade Beria.

Some temporary relief (but Beria knew it was only temporary) was provided when Stalin shifted the focus of his attention to General Georgy Zhukov, Chief of Staff of the Red Army.  "How is it, General Zhukov," Stalin asked, "that the Poles and Finns are able to advance at will against us, despite the fact that we outnumber them two to one?"

Beria hated Zhukov for the confidence and equanimity with which he was able to answer Comrade Stalin.  "Comrade General Secretary, the Poles and Finns have both tactical and technical advantages over our forces.  They have rockets and jet aircraft which we lack, and their use of massed tank formations in close conjunction with aerial and rocket bombardments is a tactic to which we have as yet been unable to formulate an effective response.  Remember as well that it is not simply the Poles and Finns which we face; the Poles have incorporated considerable numbers of Germans into their forces."  It was, Beria recognized, a masterful answer, which of course made Beria hate Zhukov all the more.  Zhukov could not be blamed for the Red Army's technical deficiencies, for weapons development was ultimately under Beria's control, as Comrade Stalin knew very well.  And Zhukov had countered the contempt for the Poles and Finns which all Russians shared (and which Stalin, a Georgian by birth, had absorbed from the Russians) by emphasizing the presence of the Germans, whose presence inspired as much awe and dread among Russians as that of the Poles and Finns inspired contempt.

"And do not forget," Zhukov added, "that our forces continue to advance on the Manchurian front.  The Japanese do not share the Poles' tactical and technical advantages, and thus cannot stand against us."

Another excellent point, Beria thought with growing hatred.  Once the Japanese had seen the success the Poles and Finns were having against the Red Army, they had decided that the USSR would be easy pickings, and had launched their own attack on December 7.  But Stalin, the ever-watchful, the unrelentingly paranoid, had been expecting just such an attack from the Japanese all along, and the Red Army had been ready and waiting for them.  The Japanese Kwantung Army had run up against a brick wall, and the Red Army had driven them back across the Amur, and had been advancing ever since.  The whole of Manchuria was now under Soviet control, and the Red Army was poised on the frontiers of Korea and China proper.

The proof of Zhukov's success was Stalin's reaction.  He simply said, "Very well, Comrade Zhukov", and turned his attention to Foreign Commissar Vyacheslav Molotov.

"Comrade Molotov," he said evenly, "as you can see, our efforts to win back the western regions lost by the reactionary traitor Kerensky regime have not met with total success.  I would be interested to hear your own views on how we should proceed."

Beria felt his dark mood lightening.  This was a familiar game that Comrade Stalin liked to play.  You had to guess what he had decided to do, and advise him to do it.  If you advised him to do the wrong thing, you lost points.  Lose enough points, and you also lost your job, your freedom, and eventually your life.

Molotov of course showed no fear, which was one of the things Beria hated about him.  He said, "Comrade General Secretary, in the present circumstances, I believe our best course of action would be to negotiate a truce with the Poles and Finns.  If we continue on our present course, we may find the events of the Ukraine being repeated within Russia itself.  After all, if there are secret cells of reactionary kulak traitors within the Ukraine, who can say that there are not also similar cells within Russia?"  Beria's mood plunged back into depair.  Just like Zhukov, Molotov was shifting the blame onto him!

Molotov continued.  "Until Comrade General Zhukov can develop sufficient weapons and tactics to deal with the Poles and Finns on equal terms, there is little point to be gained in continuing the western war.  We need a breathing space in which to develop such weapons and tactics.  It may prove necessary to temporarily cede to the Poles and Finns some of the territories which their forces have occupied.  Those can be reoccupied at a later time when we are better prepared for the task.  Concerning the eastern war against the Japanese, I see no need to offer a similar truce to them.  We may accept such a truce if one is insisted upon by the Poles and Finns as a condition of a truce with them, but if so we should insist upon the retention of all our gains in Manchuria."

Stalin nodded.  "And you, Comrade General Zhukov?"

"I am in agreement with Comrade Molotov," said Zhukov.

Beria had been dreading the moment when Stalin would ask him his advice, but to his horror Stalin ignored him completely.  Instead, the General Secretary said, "Comrades, I believe the course you advise is the one we should follow.  Comrade Foreign Commissar, bring me a draft for a proposed truce with the Poles and Finns."

"You shall have it within the hour, Comrade General Secretary," said Molotov.

"Very well, comrades.  You are dismissed."

If pistols had been allowed within Stalin's presence, Beria would have blown his brains out right then and there.  As it was, he would have to wait until he was back in his office to do so.


DBTL 19: The Darkness and the Light

Warsaw, Polish Commonwealth
16 March 1945

"Ambassador Kurusu isn't pleased," said Foreign Minister Edward Raczynski.  "He wants us to keep on fighting until the Bolsheviks agree to evacuate Manchuria."

War Minister Stanislaw Skwarazinski shook his head.  "Being allied with the Japanese does not obligate us to be as stupid as the Japanese."

It was dark in the Cabinet room of the Belvedere Palace.  The windows were blocked off as part of the wartime blackout conditions, and most of the lights had been switched off to conserve power.  The four men who made up the Polish Commonwealth's War Cabinet sat in the dim light and tried to steer their embattled country towards a peace that beckoned through the gloom.

"It's not a matter of stupidity as much as stubbornness," pointed out President Josef Beck.  "In their whole history, the Japanese have never lost a war, and Prime Minister Tojo does not intend to be the first Japanese leader to do so."

"You don't have to tell me about stubbornness," said Skwarazinski.  "I am a Pole, after all.  We are a stubborn people.  But we also know when to cut our losses.  If the Japanese keep fighting, they may well be driven off mainland Asia completely.  They are lucky the Bolsheviks are willing to call a halt to the war now."

"They will not accept the loss of Manchuria," said Raczynski.  "They consider it a matter of honor."

"Then they will fight for it alone," said Skwarazinski.  "We will not sacrifice our victory for the sake of their pride.  If they will not agree to the terms of the truce, then we should sign it without them."

"Would we truly be sacrificing victory?" asked Prime Minister Edward Rydz-Smigly.  "In five months of campaigning, we have halted the Bolshevik invasion of the Commonwealth, and gone on to drive them back hundreds of miles.  Kiev and Smolensk are ours.  If we wished, we could take Moscow as well."

Again Skwarazinski shook his head.  "Napoleon took Moscow, and what good did it do him?  This is Russia.  The Bolsheviks could retreat for another year, and still not be beaten.  And do not forget, when they first invaded our country, the Bolsheviks had not fought a real war in over twenty years.  But they have spent the last five months learning how to fight, and they *are* learning.  Another six months, and our armies would be deadlocked.  In a year, *we* would be retreating.  In three years, the Commonwealth would be gone, and a new clutch of Soviet Socialist Republics would be hatching in Central Europe."

Now Skwarazinski smiled.  "It is said that genius consists of knowing when to stop.  The Marshal," by which of course he meant his predecessor, Marshal Pilsudski, "was a military genius, and he proved it by knowing when to stop in 1920.  I do not claim the title of genius, but I do at least claim to know when to stop.  The Bolsheviks have offered to cede Belorussia and the Ukraine to us, Setaland to the Estonians, and Karelia to the Finns.  It is enough, and more than enough.  The Finns and Estonians have pronounced themselves satisfied with these terms, and if the Japanese had more sense and less pride, they would do the same.  I believe we should accept."

"If we do," said Raczynski, "our alliance with the Japanese will be at an end.  They will neither forgive, nor forget."

"The price they ask is too high," said Skwarazinski.

"I find I must agree with the Marshal," said Beck.  "The Japanese have been given a chance to back away with most of their empire, if not their dignity, intact.  If they refuse this chance, on their own heads be it."

"It would be better," said Rydz-Smigly, "if we could end the Bolshevik threat once and for all."

"On that much," said Skwarazinski, "we agree.  The Bolsheviks will only keep the peace for as long as they think they must.  They have learned much from us about how to fight a modern war, and they will build on what they have learned.  Once they decide they are ready, they will attack again.  I believe we will have ten years at least before that day comes, but I also believe we will have no more than twenty.  Rest assured, gentlemen, there *will* be another war."  Skwarazinski blinked, then added, "Barring anything unforeseen."


Murzuq, Tripolitania, Kingdom of Italy
16 March 1945

General Galeazzo Ciano, Director of the Prometheus Project, stared in awe and exhilaration as the small, man-made sun rose up above the Libyan desert, temporarily turning the arid night into day.  The human race was entering a new era today, and Ciano was proud to know that he had done so much to bring it about.

His father-in-law, he knew, would be quite pleased.


DBTL 20: 1945 - Where Are They Now?

It is the morning of 7 May 1945 in the Drowned Baby Timeline.  To recap:

ADOLF HITLER has been dead for fifty-six years, having accidentally drowned while being bathed shortly after his birth.

ERNST RÖHM, ex-Führer of Germany, has been dead for eight years, having committed suicide just before the fall of Berlin to the Polish Army.

JOSEF PILSUDSKI has been dead for seven years.  He lived long enough to fight off the German invasion of Poland in 1936, and to appoint the great hero of that war as his successor:

STANISLAW SKWARAZINSKI has been War Minister of Poland for seven and a half years.  As Pilsudski's chosen successor, he has been instrumental in making his predecessor's vision for Poland a reality.  Since passage of the Law of Devolution by the Sejm in 1939, the Polish Commonwealth has developed into a multi-ethnic federalist state.

GREGOR STRASSER is President of the Brandenburg Bundestag.  Brandenburg is the oldest of the Polish Commonwealth's autonomous regions (or devos as they are popularly known), having been established in October 1939.  Originally a German nationalist, Strasser has become one of the pillars of the Polish Commonwealth.

JOSEF STALIN is General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.  It is a tribute to the utter terror Stalin inspires in his subordinates that the late LAVRENTI BERIA, ex-head of the NKVD, never once considered trying to depose or assassinate him.  However, Stalin is well aware of the fact that the recent attempt to liberate Lithuania from its capitalist oppressors, and the subsequent invasion of the Polish Commonwealth, was the greatest blunder of a career filled with blunders.  Although Beria has taken the blame for the USSR's poor showing, Stalin knows that he is going to have to kill an awful lot of people, even by his standards, to cover up his own responsibility.

The body of ALEXEI KOSYGIN, ex-Mayor of Leningrad, was recently exhumed from the ruins of Leningrad's City Hall.  Being safely dead, Stalin can turn him into a heroic defender of the Soviet Union and a martyr in the cause of Socialism.

The body of NIKITA KRUSHCHEV will not be so easy to find, since the Ukrainian party boss was torn apart by a mob during the uprising in Kiev.

They said it couldn't be done, but Polish President JOSEF BECK and Prime Minister EDWARD RYDZ-SMIGLY have done it.  In the atmosphere of euphoria that pervaded Poland after the Second Soviet War, the half dozen political parties that made up the governing coalition, including the Socialists, the United Peasants Party, and the pro-government parties of the devos, united to form the Federalist Party.  Now, for the first time since Poland's rebirth, a single party holds an absolute majority in the Sejm.

WLADISLAW SIKORSKI is the leader of Poland's conservative National Democrats, the Federalist Party's main opposition.  The recent addition of the Byelorussian and Ukrainian SSRs to the Polish Commonwealth has reduced his party's power in the newly-enlarged Sejm.  Unless he can think of some way to overcome his party's limited influence, both it and the cause of Polish nationalism it stands for will be drowned in the rising tide of non-Poles.

BOLESLAW PIASECKI is the Duce of the National Socialists (aka the Nasos), Poland's anti-Semitic extremists.  Piasecki is overjoyed by the addition of the ex-Soviet Republics of Byelorussia and Ukraine to the Polish Commonwealth.  The more the Poles become a minority within their own country, the more popular his own brand of xenophobic nationalism will become, and the closer he will come to his ultimate goals of abolishing the devos, establishing a Polish ruling class, and expelling Poland's Jews.

HEINZ GUDERIAN is widely -- and correctly -- perceived as the mastermind behind Poland's victory in the Second Soviet War.  In recognition, he has recently been appointed First Marshal of the Polish Commonwealth by War Minister Skwarazinski, a post previously held only by Josef Pilsudski and by Skwarazinski himself.  Guderian cannot help but contrast the honor he has been accorded in Poland with the shabby treatment he received in Germany under Röhm.  Previously apolitical, he has now become a fervent Federalist, as have his many admirers among Poland's Germans.

MAXIME WEYGAND is widely -- though incorrectly -- perceived as the mastermind behind the Polish victory over the Red Army in August 1920.  In recognition, he was appointed Premier of France in 1944 when it became clear that his predecessor, HENRI DE KERILLIS, was incapable of dealing with the Algerian uprising.

WINSTON CHURCHILL has been absent from public life since resigning as Military Governor of Hanover in December 1939 to protest the new Attlee government's decision to grant Indian independence in 1944.  His memoirs of the Danzig War were moderately successful, and he has begun work on a multi-volume History of the English Speaking Peoples.

EDWARD ALBERT CHRISTIAN GEORGE ANDREW PATRICK DAVID SAXE-COBURG UND GOTHA became King of Hanover when the country formally gained its independence on 1 May 1944.  As he and Queen Wallis are childless, the Hanoverian crown is likely to revert to the family of his younger brother KING GEORGE VI in the future.  King Edward has established an excellent working relationship with his Prime Minister, KONRAD ADENAUER.

THEODOR HEUSS became first President of the Republic of Bavaria when the country formally gained its independence on 30 April 1944.  His Prime Minister, LUDWIG ERHARD, first rose to prominence in Bavaria in 1940 by defying an order from Military Governor PIERRE LAVAL to create a secret slush fund for his personal use.  The resulting scandal forced Laval's removal and made Erhard a hero among Bavarians.

ANTANAS MERKYS has emerged as the leader of the Lithuanian Devo's Independence Party.  A plebiscite on the fate of the newly-united halves of Lithuania is scheduled for 1 June, and Merkys plans to spend each day until then trying to convince the disparate peoples of his country that they should vote for full independence from the Polish Commonwealth.

BENITO MUSSOLINI is Duce of Italy.  The recent success of Italy's secret research project to create an atomic bomb has left him in a curiously schizophrenic state.  On the one hand, he feels a strong desire to use the bomb against the British and French bastards who put a halt to his attempted conquest of Ethiopia five years earlier.  On the other hand, he knows that as soon as the bomb's existence is known, the British and French (at least) and the Poles and Russians (probably) will start building atomic bombs of their own, and Italy will be back to square one.  Thus, while he is now master of the world, he is not quite sure what to do next.  But he will think of something.

GROUP CAPTAIN ARTHUR C. CLARKE is the Director of the RAF's Rocket Research Project.  The remarkable success of Poland's rocket weapons in the Eastern War has resulted in a sudden flood of resources for the Project, and Clarke has at last been able to give the green light to his long-cherished (and long-neglected) pet project: a multistage ballistic missile which he hopes will serve as the model for an orbital spaceship.

ALBEN BARKLEY is the President of the United States.  He blames his defeat by Robert Taft in the 1940 election on his then-running mate, Ambassador JOSEPH KENNEDY, who was enveloped by a series of scandals during the fall campaign.  Determined not to make the same mistake twice, at the 1944 Democratic convention Barkley passed on his first choice for a running mate, SENATOR HARRY S TRUMAN.  Although personally honest, Truman was too closely associated with the corrupt Pendergast machine for Barkley to risk choosing him.  Instead, Barkley chose the popular Governor of New York, THOMAS WAGNER, JR.  Wagner is currently discovering for himself the truth of his predecessor JOHN GARNER's adage about the Vice-Presidency.

Meanwhile, former Vice-President THOMAS E. DEWEY is now regarded as the Republican Party's front runner for the 1948 presidential nomination.  From his office in New York City, Dewey observes and occasionally comments on the Barkley administration's policies.

FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT retired from public life in January 1941.  He now divides his time between his family's home in New York and his winter home in Warm Springs, Georgia.  His memoirs of his eight years in the White House, which he co-wrote with his friend HARRY HOPKINS, have proved surprisingly popular. 

The strange world of Wisconsin politics has produced a new national curiosity.  The CPUSA's strident criticism of the Polish Commonwealth proved attractive to the state's large population of German-Americans, who had their own reasons for disliking Poland.  In 1944 an ambitious local judge took advantage of the state's unusual political landscape (and the widespread disenchantment with the Taft administration's economic policies) to get himself elected to national office: "Comrade" JOSEPH R. MCCARTHY is now the sole Communist member of the US House of Representatives.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY is currently in Los Angeles, putting the finishing touches on a screenplay adapted from his bestselling novel _To Sail Beyond the Sunset_.  ERROL FLYNN has already been signed to play the film's lead character, Captain Clark.  Hemingway's efforts to get Warner Brothers to hire his fianceé LENI RIEFENSTAHL to direct have been unsuccessful.

ROBERT A. HEINLEIN is also in Los Angeles, having been hired by MGM to write the screenplay for *their* new science-fiction epic.  Heinlein decided to use his novel _Methuselah's Children_ for the purpose, though as he finishes the script's third draft he is beginning to suspect that the final result will bear little resemblance to his original.  Still, the studio pays very well, always an important factor with Heinlein; he and his wife LESLYN have bought a new house in Burbank with the proceeds from his screenwriting stint.

ISAAC ASIMOV, PhD is in Newark, Delaware, having accepted a position with the University of Delaware's Department of Chemistry.  It has been two years since his girlfriend GERTRUDE BLUGERMAN dumped him, citing his lack of job prospects.  Since moving to Delaware, Asimov has rekindled a romance with his first love, a fellow chemist named IRENE.

ANNE FRANK started a diary when she was 13, but nothing ever really happens in Amsterdam, so she has let it lapse.  However, after reading a Dutch translation of "To Sail Beyond the Sunset", she has started writing stories set in outer space.

STANISLAW LEM has also read "To Sail Beyond the Sunset", but he was not impressed.  WITKACY's recent "Fear and Loathing in Lwow", on the other hand, impressed him greatly with its "bad craziness", and Lem now considers himself a part of the growing Gonszo School of modern Polish literature.

After a decade and a half spent knocking around Europe, ANDREAS VAN KUIJK has come to rest in Warsaw.  There, operating as "Colonel Tadeusz Paruszewski", he has found a niche as a bottom feeder within Poland's burgeoning recorded music industry.  However, the ambitious van Kuijk keeps a keen eye peeled for an up-and-coming act he can use to make himself rich.

CAPTAIN KAROL WOJTILA is currently stationed in the town of Chernobyl in the newly-organized Ukrainian Devo.  He is rather dismayed to find that many Ukrainians blame the Jews for the terrors they have undergone at the hands of the Bolsheviks.  The Polish army is able to keep any major pogroms from occurring, but is helpless in the face of hundreds of acts of random terrorism.  Fortunately, one man can act where a hundred would be helpless...


To parts 21-30