The Gothengau Colony

By William F Logan

The Gothengau Colony is an alternate history novel set in 1965, in a Nazi-controlled Europe.  Britain turned its back on France and remained neutral if not friendly to the Third Reich. The So

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heart of the Bruce
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739665906

Book preview

Prologue

Western Siberia, May 1st, 1965.

Fir, larch, pine, and spruce stretched into the horizon. Their tallest reaches scraped the helicopter’s fuselage. In the near distance, the missile smouldered over the trees.

Konrad turned from the cockpit door to face his convicts. This is the real one!

The 500th. The troops raised their fists.

Metal dug into his shoulder when the chopper braked hard. Nose down, the gunship swung up and around the clearing, a swastika-bearing projectile in front of them. Ragged soldiers pelted away.

Cannon fodder. All fell before the rotating barrels. Body parts, the dead, and the dying surrounded the launch vehicle.

These few deaths might save thousands of lives. This rocket must not fire.

He grabbed a rope hanging from the ceiling, brushed the door aside and jumped out. Palms burned as he dropped. Earth banged against his feet, his knees. Soil. Forearms protected his face. Grass. Scorched hands pushed him up. Firearm switched from shouldered to brandished.

Peeled skin smarted from the wooden stock.

In the driver’s cab two men gurgled and twitched their way to eternal rest. Only one more, suicidal, launching option to check. He sprinted across the front. Movement near the smoking engine cone. In three bounds he exposed the final threat.

Danger screamed from a lever’s sign. A bloodied hand rested there by the time he aimed the gun. The broken Soviet soldier grinned and pulled, but Konrad pressed the trigger. No chance to hit Berlin now.

Only an impotent click. At least he warned Petra so there may be fewer killed.

Incineration stopped the Russian’s laughter. Airborne from the blast, Konrad witnessed failure accelerate away.

Chapter 1

New York, August 1946.

Metal screeched on metal as the train braked. Konrad almost filled the boxcar when he stooped through the sliding door. Seeing the track’s pebbles passing slowly enough to follow individual stones, he leapt down and strolled out of the yard.

Konrad – no country bumpkin now – had seen cities before, but not one as bustling and crowded as this. Despite hopes of anonymity, necks craned to see him better. Not surprising as he towered above everyone else. He roamed along the pavement, flinching with each brush of a passing coat. Would the local cops have received a wire yet? Suspect nearly seven-feet tall should do it.

A gaudy building caught his eye. Its glittering sign proclaimed that the ‘Bow Tie’ offered a double bill of moving pictures all day, every day. Konrad had never been to a cinema before, but he knew they were dark, comfortable, and safe. An ideal spot to think of a solution.

The peroxide-blonde clerk looked up from her magazine. Eyes down, startled by a glimpse of blue-veined cleavage, he paid and walked into the foyer. The theatre showed ‘Nazi Titanic’. A scarlet-uniformed, gum-chewing boy in a pillbox hat eagerly checked his ticket, and Konrad walked in, the only one occupying the massive room, besides stale cigarette smoke and the stench of yesterday’s hotdogs.

After Konrad sat at the back, the drapes parted, and light streamed out from just above him, its twinkling shafts painting moving pictures on the screen. Bold text and stirring music introduced something called ‘Answer the Call’. A soothing voice narrated over a scene of tall, blonde people laughing and playing volleyball.

‘Do you have a German grandparent? Are you an Aryan?’

Konrad wasn’t entirely sure what that was and had little idea why they asked.

‘Then you are a Volksdeutsche. You could Answer the Call! Come to live in the Reich. Look what the Fatherland has to offer to American Volksdeutsche like you.’

A man overseeing a production line in a small factory appeared. He gave orders in fluent German. The taciturn fellow looked to the camera.

‘This is Otto. Where are you from, Otto?’

‘I’m from Iowa, originally, but I answered the call in ’36, and now I own my own business.’

‘That’s great, Otto. Did you come to Germany with money to start your company?’

‘No, sir. I didn’t even speak good German. The government helped with that at the absorption centre. Then they gave me a grant to start this place.’

‘Thanks, Otto! If you like the joy of raising children, come to the Reich.’

A scene of tranquil home life – an ornately tiled stove, a mother nursing a baby in a rocking chair, and father playing with two toddlers on the rug – comforted Konrad.

‘This lovely couple are Edwin and Margaret. Where are you two from, Edwin?’

Edwin’s collarless shirt revealed the sinewy form of his skinny frame. He looked up from the game. ‘We’re from Minnesota, been living here since ’38.’

‘How many kids do you have?’

Edwin grinned. ‘We have ten.’

‘My, that must keep you busy, Margaret. How do you manage?’

Margaret’s smile showed her straight teeth. ‘There’s extra cash comes in from the government, and there are so many nannying services that I never worry about time or money.’

‘That’s great. The Fatherland thanks you for helping us reach our population goal. By 2010, we aim for the Reich to have 2 billion people.’

A map appeared. Red covered almost all of Europe, and three points marked out the colonies.

‘Our settlements in the East need people, people of good German stock, to relocate. Imagine the space you and your family could enjoy in the Baltic. Ingermannland and Memel-Narev welcome returning Germans.’

Drab shopping streets appeared. At least they filmed when the weather was good, thought Konrad. It looked dead.

Surprisingly, the next scene showed cowboys lassoing a steer.

‘But this is Gothengau, on the shores of the Black Sea, where SS soldiers grow our food and make their own, unique entertainment.’

It looked fantastic. Before he could get more interested, the scene changed to King Edward visiting Berlin, greeting crowds by Hitler’s side.

‘None of this would be possible without the Anglo-German Entente. Here, on its tenth anniversary, the King of England, Edward the Eighth with his Queen Barbara visit the Führer in Berlin.

All this was news to Konrad. He hadn’t followed the war, and by the time he joined the circus the fighting was over. Germany dominated Europe from the Pyrenees to the Urals, while Britain ruled the waves and expanded her global empire. A flicker of hope awakened in him. Heck, Konrad had four German grandparents, and he didn’t need help speaking German either. Maybe he could have a family, and a farm.

‘Sailings every Wednesday at noon from the Hamburg America Line docks in Hoboken.’

That meant there would be one the next day. Maybe he’d think about it and even go next week, with emigrating being so drastic he might need to consider it a little more thoroughly. Then Alabama’s electric chair crackled to life in his mind.

Konrad, sufficiently heartened at the potential end of his dilemma, relaxed and enjoyed the entertainment. The crazy Captain kept driving the doomed ship forward to meet its fate, just so the greedy ship owners could break the Atlantic crossing record and make even more money. Only the solitary German officer saw they were sailing into icefloes, but he put principles and people before profit. He saved the German passengers even though the grasping, clueless English ignored him, and let the ship sink.

Germans, these films told Konrad, were good sorts. It might be a good idea to go there and seek out the life that fate had denied him in America.

Intense pangs of hunger woke him from dreams where tall, blonde Nazis dressed like cowboys threw limbless Ed around. Konrad didn’t know how long he had been asleep or, momentarily, where he was, and it slowed his thinking. On the screen the settlement film played again.

Konrad had to eat and find a bed, so he stood. Next to the cinema, the diner’s pulsating sign beckoned him. Konrad obeyed. Several heads along the bar turned before the sudden silence encouraged everybody in the cubicles to stare at him as well. Some even stepped out to get a better look. No way, thought Konrad, could he make it to Canada without being caught. Even getting across the river to Manhattan appeared impossible.

Hey there, big guy. The rotund, grey-haired man behind the counter wore a name badge saying Klaus. What you having?

Above Klaus colour photographs illustrated the menu.

Hamburger and fries, please. And a coffee, too.

What brings you around here? asked the red-haired man beside him.

What business was it of his? Since killing the sheriff, nothing anybody said or did meant what it had before. There was always a subtext, an ulterior motive.

I’m sailing to Germany tomorrow.

Don’t you worry about going there? I heard they sent the Jews to death-mills.

Klaus looked up from wiping the counter. Oh, the kikes are asking for it.

Red-hair shook his head and smacked his lips. Nobody asks to be treated like that.

Pah, those death camps are just stories. Nobody at the Bund believes a word of it. Klaus waved a hand. They used to say stuff like that about Germans throwing babies on pitch forks in the Great War and it was a bare-faced lie then.

Well, the Jews ain’t there now, so what do you think happened to them?

Klaus shrugged. Someone told me they sent them to Siberia.

My grandfather was Jewish – would you have me sent to a death mill or Siberia too, Klaus?

The waiter lowered his eyes and wiped the far end of the counter

I’ve never heard anything like that. Konrad hadn’t, as far as he knew, met any Jews. Their treatment through history had always perplexed him. Weren’t Jesus and the apostles Jewish?

I guess they were. He looked surprised at this information. How are you getting to Germany? The Hamburg-America line?

You ask a lot of questions. Konrad pushed back the scowl creeping across his face.

That’s what my wife always says. I guess it comes from my job.

A chance for Konrad to overcome his new suspicious nature arrived. What do you do?

Cop.

Looking down, Konrad couldn’t see his heart pumping under his shirt, though its beats resounded through his eardrums. He sipped on coffee and the invigorating heat squeezed a sigh out of him.

Sounds like you needed that. I’m Jack, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.

Civility compelled Konrad to return Jack’s favour. Hercules.

Suits you, but that’s your nickname, right?

Klaus served Konrad’s food, and Jack at last fell silent. Konrad wanted to keep it that way – Jack’s interrogation returned Alabama’s sparking chair to the front of his mind.

Is there a hotel around here? Konrad asked Klaus.

Why sure, there’s the Palace on Newark Avenue. It’s only a couple of blocks away. You sure can eat fast! He laughed as Konrad consumed his meal.

It’s good, and I’m starving. The complete version went unmentioned. A few mouthfuls later and Konrad settled the bill.

Bon voyage, Hercules. Jack waved as Konrad sped out.

Konrad ignored him.

Like Klaus had said, the Palace stood close by. Its no-vacancy sign illuminated the alley opposite where there was room for Konrad to lie down. He got little rest on the kerb. All night he chased sleep in an eternal battle to put recent events from his mind.

Vehicles woke him. Three police trucks stood outside the hotel, Jack’s voice shouted orders to his colleagues in blue. Keeping to the back ways, Konrad hurried away from the main streets for the six blocks between him and Pier C where a ship would take him to his destiny.

Before breaking cover to board the liner, he poked his head around the corner. Police uniforms appeared regularly amongst the passengers and their well-wishers. Sweat stung Konrad’s brow when he searched for an answer. Boarding would end soon, the crew already finished putting friends and loved ones ashore.

Now the cops’ task neared completion without any sign of their prey, they looked uninterested. Some congregated in small groups to chat conspiratorially. A dark blue vehicle arrived, and they all trotted to it, ready to get in when the back door opened.

If Konrad didn’t run now, he would never make it.

He sprinted to the waving crowds at the stern of the black-hulled ocean liner St. Louis. Its foghorn blew, and smoke billowed from its two striped funnels. The side boarding hatch banged closed. His heart and lungs burned. You can do this, Konrad told himself.

It’s him. A policeman raised his baton. Stop!

Those waving farewell looked towards the shouting and scattered out of Konrad’s way. When the walkway slammed on to the dock, a wave of tight muscle raced down Konrad’s thigh, through the calf, and into his left foot. Propellers churned the river. Every fibre of strength in Konrad’s massive body flowed into a single purpose. Bounding up from his right leg’s thick coiled spring he pushed his left foot down on the iron mooring and flew high into the air.

Stop or we’ll shoot.

Konrad’s hands clawed at the stern railings, smashing his fingers. He grabbed a metal strut. A foot found a porthole. Another hand wrapped around a chain.

Shots whizzed by. In two reaches his nose touched the bottom of the guardrail. One more and the top of the barrier became his tipping point. He flipped over the fence and onto the rear deck.

After his breathing calmed, Konrad noticed applause. Jackboots filled his vision until a bottle appeared. He took the drink.

The Nazi officer helped Konrad to his feet. "Sie haben das verdient." Why Konrad had earned that in a Texan accent confounded him.

They raised their glasses. To one of us!

Konrad swigged the scorching alcohol down when they drank to him. Scrunching his eyes from the fiery liquid he doubted the officers’ words, having heard ‘one of us’ before. Now Konrad had a chance to look at the young men, the more toothy-smiled and all-American they appeared. A barrier separated them from the passengers waving farewell on the narrow deck.

What are you guys doing in those outfits? Konrad asked.

You boarding like that, and us in these uniforms? The Texan laughed, highlighting his lined brow. We should be asking you. His bottom lip pouted youthfully, but receding, thinning hair mocked his boyish facial expression.

We’re ethnic Germans. That explained this officer’s New York accent. He grinned as he looked Konrad over. Recruiting people to answer the call. Maybe that was the reason for his predatory leer.

Konrad shook his head, still panting from his race to board. I barely picked up this call.

Though his head kept moving, none of the New Yorker’s smooth black hair did. Amazing stuff, but what the hell was all that about?

Flop sweat stung Konrad’s eye, and he rubbed it. What could he say that wouldn’t ruin his chance at a new life? Almost all the truth?

I stopped a mob murdering a man. Konrad eyes found detail on the deck and the company went quiet. I killed someone when I did.

When we get to the Reich, you’ll get a medal.

Konrad’s brow tensed from the confusion the honour generated. What, for – saving a life or jumping on board?

For being over 2 metres tall. It’s called the Giant’s Cross.

I’m six feet ten, how many meters is that?

The New Yorker touched his fingers and muttered to himself. That’s nearly 210 centimetres.

The Texan shook his head. I make it more like 208.

New Yorker patted the Texan on the shoulder. That’s why you’re the boss. The Texan flinched at the touch, glaring contempt back at his underling.

You look like a farm hand wearing those overalls. The Texan’s eyes roamed over Konrad. Am I right?

I was until a few years ago, when I was still an Amish. I’d like to go back to it now I’ve quit the circus.

"You’re a volksdeutsche, so maybe you can go back to it. Gothengau needs experienced farmers."

The New Yorker overcame his earlier rebuke. If he’s Amish he’s got no paperwork. But for someone his size who speaks German, that’s not an issue.

Where’s Gothengau? Konrad recalled the name from the documentary he’d seen the previous day.

It’s in Crimea.

Memories of the newsreel shimmered through. Is it called the Breadbasket of the Reich?

The Texan nodded confirmation. A man of your height gets an instant commission when they join the SS.

You seem to know about the Amish, so I’m not one for fighting. Konrad saw the sceptical looks on the SS officer’s faces. Save yourself. Isn’t the SS a kind of army?

No sir. Tex’s hair flayed in denial. I’ve never fired a shot, and neither have these two. He shrugged. It’s a lot more than just an army. We’re the protectors of Nazi leaders, and we do social care, grow food. Hell, we’ve even got a religion too.

Farming and religion. There was more to the SS than Konrad first thought.

They’d give you land straight away. The New Yorker nudged him. What’s your name?

Without hesitation, his circus moniker spewed out. Hercules A. Samson.

What’s that, your sideshow name? asked the Texan to general laughter. We meant the one from your christening.

Konrad Lapp.

We’re all named Hans, but people call us Tex, Brooklyn, and Minnesota. In an hour there’ll be a party in the ballroom for all the returning Germans. You might want to sort out your cabin and come along.

Ripples ran along the deck’s sightseers, mumbles preceding them. When the disturbance reached the barrier, a moustachioed man in a navy-blue uniform elbowed his way out of the crowd.

A very impressive if somewhat unorthodox boarding method, sir. I am Captain Schröder. May I see your ticket, please?

Tex put himself between Konrad and the Captain. This is Konrad Lapp and he’s with us. Arrange for him to have the best available suite.

The Captain stared at Tex for a moment, grinding his jaw. He clicked his heels and bowed his head. Of course, sir.

They stepped into a walnut lined corridor. Schröder stopped, produced a key, and then opened a near-perfectly hidden door.

These are your quarters. I wish you good luck on your new life in the Reich.

Konrad looked around, stunned by the luxury of the gold and cream fittings, the crystal chandeliers, the dark panelling.

I think my luck starts here!

The Captain handed over the key. "This is what the right connections can get you in the Fatherland. Your size will bring you much more of this, my friend. Good day, and bon voyage."

Immediately Konrad entered he ran to the white porcelain bathroom and started a shower. After the refreshing cleansing, Konrad didn’t relish donning the same filthy old clothes he’d worn for the last week. Somebody, however, had let themselves in and left fresh clothing on the bed. A pair of pants that almost reached his ankles and a tuxedo whose sleeves nearly touched his wrists exceeded Konrad’s hopes. He stepped out into the hallway and followed the signs to the ballroom.

Pushing the double doors, Konrad stood at the top of a twin staircase looking down into the sea of well-dressed emigrants returning to their roots. Their attire varied between dinner jackets, dresses, suits, leather-shorts and dirndls. Examining his ill-fitting clothing, the shame made it difficult to look back up at the guests swirling on the dancefloor.

The three SS men stood at the foot of the stairs with their drinks held high. Tex stood at the front. Here’s Konrad, our vaulting star!

When his gaze returned to the party below, all eyes were on him. Shoulders back, he descended the grand steps, and rivulets of clapping merged into a flood of applause. Pride battled shame within Konrad, before the smile on his lips showed pride’s victory. He held up his arms to the crowd’s whoops.

Minnesota tapped Konrad’s arm. We have a VIP here tonight who would love to meet you, Minnesota turned to a man all in morning dress, besides the top hat. Allow us to introduce the Reich Minister of Transport, Julius Dorpmüller.

A sour-faced, stocky, bald man stuck out his hand to shake Konrad’s. His grey pencil moustache stayed straight along his upper lip when he stared.

It’s an honour to meet you. Konrad meant it only as a pleasantry.

The feeling is mutual. Julius’ stony expression lent his words as much faith.

A teenager with eager blue eyes stepped forward and grabbed the VIP’s hand before he could return it. I’m Karl Dietrich.

Julius’ pupils dilated. Konrad thought he saw the minister’s thin lips pursing before showing his teeth in an unexpectedly vigorous display of pleasure. His hand rested on Karl’s shoulder.

Good day young man, welcome to the Reich. May I be of any assistance to you in your exciting new life in Germany?

Konrad found their dialogue a little strange, and when he looked around in bemusement, Minnesota’s jaw hung open in disbelief. Brooklyn let a wrist go limp, then inched away from Julius. Tex rolled his eyes at his colleagues.

Why, of course Minister Dorpmüller. I’ll do anything to ensure a good future for myself in the glorious new world of the Reich.

Well, I’m here all evening. The minister laughed to himself. Perhaps we could talk about your talents and abilities, and I’ll see if and how the Reich transport ministry can put them to use. He turned to Konrad. You American volksdeutsches really go and grab the things you want.

Brooklyn hurried away, hand over mouth and shoulders heaving.

Tex sighed. Seasickness.

Dorpmüller frowned. But it’s flat calm. What’s he doing on this duty?

Good question, minister. It might well be his last.

Everybody. At the top of the staircases, a woman waved. Look over here everybody.

Her blonde perm rested above garish make-up and her bosom struggled to remain inside her frilly red dress. She and a small, sallow-skinned pubescent girl stood on the balcony connecting the staircases.

This is my daughter, Petra. She’s gonna be the Fatherland’s singing sensation, you mark my words.

Konrad pitied the poor young girl. Frills and epaulettes decorated the sailor dress she wore, emphasising its suitability for one five years younger. Despite her mother’s arm on her shoulder, she cast her eyes down. The woman tucked Petra under the chin and whispered to her.

The delicate bones of Minnesota’s face turned to Konrad. Here’s another American volksdeutsche grabbing what they want with both hands. The only question is what she tells Petra to sing.

While her stage-mother continued her encouragement, Petra launched into a strong-voiced rendition of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Cheers went up. Konrad willingly participated. She’s got a lovely voice.

Tex nodded. She might go far. Who knows? The Reich is the real New World. Anything could happen. When my folks took me to the Fatherland, I didn’t think I’d be living the high life on ocean liners, that’s for sure.

Petra’s mother bustled into the VIP group. She squeezed past Konrad, rubbing her breasts along his stomach as she pushed up against him. The mother dragged Petra behind her, who gawked up at him, then down at the tent in his pants. Konrad deflated instantly. The sin of lust simmered on his cheeks. After he waved at her she ran behind her mother’s skirt.

Don’t you worry about her. That’s how she shows she likes someone. I’m too big to hide behind skirts myself. I’m Barbara. She stuck out her hand and they shook. Like the Queen of England. Don’t worry, I know your name. Everybody does. That was quite a stunt you pulled to get on the boat. You’re a real action man. The Fatherland is lucky to get you. It startled Konrad when she reached up and caressed his upper arm. Is it like that between your legs as well?

A meek man in a crumpled dark suit sidled up beside Barbara and harrumphed with a hand to his lips. She looked away and stopped fondling Konrad.

This is my husband, Markus.

When Konrad stepped away from the woman, he bumped into someone. Excuse me.

Watch where you’re going, you big show-off, said a voice soft enough that only Konrad heard it.

Konrad turned and scowled at Karl, who stepped back, spun around, and pushed through the people glowering behind him. Julius exclaimed when Karl stepped on his foot.

I’m so sorry, Minister Dorpmüller. Please, may I get you something for the pain? A Scotch, perhaps?

No thanks, but I will have a brandy. Dorpmüller grabbed Karl’s arm before he could turn. And join me on the deck afterwards while I smoke a cigar – we can talk about your future in Germany with some . . . privacy.

I bet that man has a lot of nephews over to visit, said Barbara.

Her husband nodded. Yes, dear.

Why don’t you get me a drink, instead of hanging around like a bad smell? Barbara punched Markus in the shoulder. Would you like one, too, Konrad?

No. He didn’t want to be in her debt, avoiding eye contact when she gazed up at him.

Can we go out on deck as well, mummy? Petra asked.

Maybe. Konrad, would you like to walk on deck with us?

Petra grabbed on to Konrad’s pants. Please, please, Konrad. Please come with us.

Barbara slipped her hand through Konrad’s elbow and linked her arm to his. He had to lean over to accommodate her, close enough for her to whisper. Come on, I know you want to.

Surprised, Konrad reached up to scratch his ear and wrenched his arm from hers. There needed to be some distance between him and this woman. He grabbed Petra’s clasping hand from his trouser. Race you there, Petra.

Once through the door the salty air invigorated him. Out at sea, the setting sun glinted on the mill-pond stillness of the Atlantic. Birds followed the boat, filling the evening with their calls.

Put me on your shoulders, Petra begged. I want to see even further than you.

Smiling, he lifted her behind his head.

Wow, Konrad. I think I can still see America. It must be great to be as big as you.

Petra! Konrad! cried Barbara.

Let’s hide. Petra’s eyes gleamed with mischief. She’ll make me sing again and I don’t want to.

Konrad obliged. In front of them, the deck widened. They hurried to it, slipping behind the bulkhead. He heard pacing. Shhh.

Petra kissed the top of his head. Footfalls increased, but it still startled Konrad when Barbara and Markus walked by.

Petra! cried her mother when she disappeared from view.

Konrad turned and trotted in the opposite direction. That was close.

They reached a point where a higher deck jutted out. Smoke wafted over them.

Pooh. Petra faked a cough. Cigars stink. It’s the minister and that horrible Karl.

Not the tallest, for once, Konrad only saw two pairs of feet on the deck above them. One, by the railings, sported leather and spats. Facing them stood feet shod with canvas tied with mismatched laces. He heard grunts. The pair of knees with the cheap footwear banged on the deck, drawing a wince of sympathetic pain from Konrad. It appeared