Streseland

By Alexander Rooksmoor

Many alternate history novels look at greater success for the Nazi regime. This one considers the situation in Germany if the Nazis never came to power. It is 1936 and President Stresemann is being laid to rest. His policies have ameliorated the Depression and allowed German democracy to survive. Yet, in a time of change, political extremists remain a threat. Government agent, Gotthard Nachtigall, goes undercover, not only to prevent a new Nazi outrage but to capture Hitler now that he is back in Germany. Working among such killers can he survive and protect Germany from this revived threat?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223830238

Book preview

A ‘What If?’ Novel of 1930s Germany

Alexander Rooksmoor

Cover art by Jack Tindale

This book is a work of fiction. While ‘real-world’ characters may appear, the nature of the divergent story means any depictions herein are fictionalised and in no way an indication of real events. Above all, characterisations have been developed with the primary aim of telling a compelling story.

Published by Sea Lion Press, 2021. All rights reserved.

Foreword

Greater success for Nazi Germany has been a popular scenario for alternate history novels even while the regime was in existence, let alone in the decades that have followed its fall. The numerous books envisaging such an outcome have tended to suggest that the regime being overthrown as the result of a six-year war was the ‘best’ of any options available. Yes, some novels imagine the war coming to an end sooner – for example, if the River Rhine was crossed in 1944 – but such books still see there needing to be a war in order to get Germany and, indeed, much of Europe back to democracy. Of course, for half of Europe it was to take longer still, as the Nazi dictatorship and its allies were simply replaced by the Soviet dictatorship and its allies.

Far less common is alternate history which looks at what would have happened if Germany had been able to cling on to democracy during the 1930s. There tends to be an assumption that German democracy only began to come to an end in January 1933 when Hitler was appointed Chancellor and, over the following months, rapidly dismantled the democratic system. In August 1934 he was able to combine the roles of Chancellor and President to become Führer and finalise the dictatorship. In fact, German democracy had been suspended, if not abolished, as early as March 1930. An inability to establish a majority government led President Paul von Hindenburg to effectively rule by decree. He was able to appoint and dismiss the Chancellor. Elections still went on, but the connection between commanding a majority in parliament and the government passing legislation was already dead.

This book sees a different path for Germany, 1929-37. The prime point of divergence from our history is that, rather than dying in 1929, Foreign Minister – and sometime Chancellor – Gustav Stresemann lives on until 1936. Unlike other politicians of his time, Stresemann was able to garner widespread support from across the centre-right spectrum of German politics. He was, largely, a liberal democrat. However, he was also a nationalist and opposed to Communism, to the extent that he overthrew a German regional government which contained Communists. Importantly, unlike other German politicians of his ilk, Stresemann was able to innovate in terms of the economy. It certainly seems unlikely that anyone else would have had the influence or fresh ideas that enabled him to reverse the hyperinflation that Germany suffered following the French and Belgian occupation of the industrial Ruhr region in 1923.

It is imagined that, while Stresemann would not have been able to counter all the effects of the Great Depression, which had been developing even before the Wall Street Crash exacerbated it in October 1929, his policies would have reduced German unemployment. It is imagined that, like President Roosevelt in the USA, he could have stimulated the economy through public works, especially road and bridge construction and through schemes like a cheap ‘Nation’s Car’. Such steps, I feel, would help keep Germany closer to democracy and, if nothing else, would have excluded the Nazis from coming to rule the nation. Even in our world, by 1932, though the Nazi Party were gaining power in regional parliaments, in national elections they had passed their peak. They were likely to have gone into further decline in following years as the employment situation improved. If Hitler had been kept from power for just a year or so more, he might never have been able to achieve the regime that he built in our history, to the detriment of so many millions of people.

Of course, not being given/taking control of the supreme offices in Germany does not mean that the Nazis – or, indeed, the Communists who were similarly undermining German democracy – would have disappeared. This novel focuses on the role of one man, a government agent, charged with protecting German democracy in the late 1930s against the ongoing threats that the Nazis continue to represent to the safety and future of Germany and, indeed, Europe.

Note: Characters in this novel express racist, sexist and social discriminatory attitudes and use derogatory terms that, while keeping with common behaviour of the time, are not acceptable today in our world and are attitudes not held by the author. It must be noted that terms used by, and the behaviour of, extremist groups featured in this novel, notably the Nazis, were not accepted by many Germans and Austrians, even at the time.

Links are included from the start of a chapter to the historical notes related to that chapter. Click on the number marked ‘Historical Notes’ beneath the title of each chapter to jump to the relevant notes. To return to the story, click on the number next to the title of that chapter’s historical notes. Depending on the system you are using to read this book, in some cases the historical notes will simply appear next to the number at the start of the chapter instead. In either case, the notes can also be read at the end of the book.

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Alexander Rooksmoor, September 2020

Chapter 1

Historical Notes [1]

Landsberg, Bavaria, The German Republic

December 1925

The sound of the heavy door opening focused Herzfelder’s attention. Glancing at his watch, he noted it was to be right on schedule that the pardoned convict, an Austrian formally named Adolphus Hitler, was stepping through the prison doorway. The heavy black doors were quickly closed behind him. He was neatly dressed in a winter coat that, no doubt, some wealthy supporter had provided. His dark hair was combed precisely down the centre parting and his small toothbrush moustache was pristine. He lacked the paleness and gauntness of a long-term prisoner. In fact, he looked better fed than many men you might see in the streets of Munich.

Perhaps, Herzfelder reflected, none of this should be a surprise; even if his time of remand was considered, Hitler had spent little more than a year imprisoned. Added to that, he had been free to receive visitors and letters – as if he was simply convalescing at a rather austere Swiss hotel at Lake Konstanz, rather than being a genuine prisoner. It had been supposed to be a five-year sentence – a lax term of imprisonment for high treason. Then the Bayerisches Oberstes Landesgericht – this state’s supreme court – probably simply seeking to spite those looking on from Berlin, had pardoned him. It had run contrary to what Hans Ehard, the Staatsanwalt – the Public Prosecutor – had argued. That was, perhaps, why Ehard had insisted on the man’s immediate deportation.

Hitler looked around the various men gathered in front of him. He did not betray what he thought of the two groups. His chauffeur, Emil Maurice, and his assistant, Rudolf Heß, had also been pardoned, but Ehard still wielded enough influence to prevent them all being released together. There was a young man stood by the MAF car, perhaps something less opulent than this would-be leader might have expected. Whatever the Nazis had arranged, however, it was in fact going to be into the Green Minna, the standard police van, that Hitler was taken. The officers who would accompany him to Austria had been specifically selected for their opposition to the putschists.

As the convict headed to the MAF, Herzfelder realised it was time to intervene and wake Hitler up to the fact that he was not simply going to be driven from here to a rapturous celebration in a beer hall – or perhaps, given the man’s proclivities, one of Munich’s vegetarian restaurants. By the time the prosecutor had climbed from his car, fortunately, the Schupo Leutnant had intercepted Hitler. One of his officers went to stand, blocking his access to the MAF.

"Herr Hitler," Herzfelder called as he closed the distance to the man.

Hitler looked around slowly, maintaining that characteristic insouciant manner as if all of this was simply a mistake and those around him would soon see what blockheads they were.

"Good morning, Herr...? Are you responsible for this delay? I am a free man..."

A free Austrian, the Leutnant interjected.

Hitler ignored the policeman and instead looked to Herzfelder. He had prepared some words and was not going to have this putschist pressure him into revealing them prematurely.

Adolphus Hitler, having been released from Landsberg Prison...

Not just released, pardoned, Hitler said with a smug tone, looking from face to face with an apparent expectation that he would be commended.

Unperturbed, Herzfelder continued, you are now to be deported from the territory of the Reich and are forbidden from re-entering it indefinitely, on pain of arrest and imprisonment.

Hitler let a smile play across his face. Herzfelder imagined the man would be an appalling cardplayer. As it was, the prosecutor was sure that he knew the ‘trick’ that Hitler imagined he could play.

I am a German, I fought in the German Army, I have Bavarian and Prussian decorations. Dr Ramek has said that, as such, I am a German; a citizen of... this ‘Reich’, even while it is riddled with the disease of Judaism and Communism, too weak to fight what is killing decent, pure Germans...

Herzfelder had anticipated that this irritating man would launch into a speech, no matter how restricted his audience. He held his hand up and spoke forcefully over Hitler’s words.

You are not the only Austrian who fought in one of the Reich’s armies. If that secured you anything, it was that you could remain in Germany after you had been demobilised, nothing more. You forfeited any such consideration when you sought to overthrow the government of Bavaria, a crime for which you were convicted.

And now pardoned, Hitler insisted, bringing his right hand down into the gloved palm of his left.

Herzfelder wondered if it was simply easier to let the man stampede on into one of his famous rants. However, he realised quickly that today he lacked the patience.

"On that basis, Herr Hitler... on that basis, the prosecutor tried again, you have been released from prison. However, as an undesirable alien, you will now be deported back to your home country. The Austrian authorities do not contest that you were born in the Austrian Empire and were schooled there; you were resident there for much of your life."

Herzfelder pulled out the letter from Vienna confirming all these points. As far as he knew, the Austrian Bundeskanzler remained unhappy about having Hitler returned home. Herzfelder imagined, though, that, even with the world so changed, Austria, especially now so reduced, was still the junior partner in any issue that Germany was concerned with.

And... and you were drafted into the Imperial Army on two – two – occasions: a duty that you evaded by coming to Germany.

That army was not fit to have the name. It was a mob, a mob of Jews and Slavs, the dross that could be scraped from anywhere in the Balkans.

A man serves in his nation’s army, no matter who else is in its ranks. A man who does not do so, who flees to another country to escape that duty, is a deserter.

How dare you! Hitler flared and lunged towards Herzfelder.

Fortunately, the Wachtmeister by the car door seized him, grasping both of Hitler’s arms tight to his body. Herzfelder realised that, if pressed, he would have conceded that Hitler was a brave man; he did not dispute the citations. However, he had been very picky about who he served and, while he had said them as much to cut the man, Herzfelder’s comments about him dodging the draft in Austria-Hungary were true.

Take him home, officer, Herzfelder commanded.

In the next few minutes, though accompanied by a torrent of claims and abuse from the convict, Hitler was again handcuffed and bundled into the rear of the Minna. His voice continued to echo from within; Herzfelder wished a gag could have accompanied the handcuffs. He stood as the van turned and headed off. It was a hundred kilometres to the Austrian border. Hitler would not be the first prisoner to be passed over it, but to make sure that no-one at a local level proved more obstructive than Dr Ramek, some friendly policemen from Innsbruck had been induced to come and collect him.

Herzfelder returned to his car. As the driver turned it and began to follow the police van, the prosecutor was sure that the Innsbruck officers would find some good reason to take and hold this Hitler, especially given all his shouting and flailing. Perhaps the best place for him, anyway, would be in a remote asylum. However, Herzfelder knew this putschist had some ability to twist many people, even those who should have known better than to succumb to his way of thinking. If this deportation was going to work, to keep this dangerous fanatic out of Bavaria – out of Germany – it would need vigilance, and probably for some years to come. As the van and the car behind pressed on southwards, Herzfelder prayed that there would be men enough willing to do that job.

Chapter 2

Historical Notes [2]

Chemnitz, Saxony

September 1936

How much longer is this going to take? Prausnitz whined.

We know the guns are in there, that warehouse, but that is no good if Gotthard’s ‘birds’ are not caught with them, Wegener explained.

The fact that he had to do so simply added to Gotthard’s sense that Egon Prausnitz was really not ready for even this, the end of a mission, let alone working undercover himself. He was too eager for the excitement, to be getting his pistol out. Working for the RfV, in contrast, was ninety-nine percent patience. Many times, a mission would come to nothing.

Gotthard estimated that he had probably penetrated three times as many groups that turned out to be no more than men spouting big words, perhaps with a handful of wartime pistols stashed away, as ones which represented a real threat. They might end up shooting someone, but there was usually a good chance they would not end up getting far beyond political arguments in the barroom.

And don’t come with all that ‘we can sweat it out of them’, Wegener added irritably.

In reality, Gotthard felt he knew where all the arms stashes were anyway – though, as his boss for this mission had said, it was a lot better to catch the perpetrators with them. That made the court cases much easier, especially when the prime source of the prosecutor’s information was coming from a man he was not permitted to interview, or even to know his real name. In addition, in this case, Gotthard was particularly eager to find solid evidence that this group had funding from Moscow.

Can we trust the local bulls? Are we sure that every one of them is not going to simply turn around and help his ‘brothers’?

Not everyone in Saxony is a Red.

Wegener’s point was well made. Though Saxony was often assumed to be a ‘hotbed’ of revolutionaries – perhaps because of that reputation ­­– it had also fostered those who were willing to forcefully oppose them. The DNVP and KVP had made solid returns in the last state parliament elections.

As it was, probably with the care he had seen him exercise before, Wegener had recruited reliable Schupo men for this action. They were sat in a lorry, parked in a narrow road between two warehouses a short distance away. Both Wegener and Gotthard had whistles to summon them.

That’s Gehr – Emerick Gehr, Gotthard said abruptly.

He could tell from the way the man was moving, before he even came beneath the beam of the street light.

Once the man was clearer, Wegener confirmed for himself, the number two. Good.

They’re not going to start the uprising tonight?

"No, Prausnitz, you’re not going to get your chance to act the Freikorps trooper. It’s just something Gotthard organised. It’s been well done, making them worry that someone – they do not know who – is looking to get their guns. These Reds don’t fragment half as much as the nationalists... saying that, in Saxony they might. Didn’t they have not just the MSPD and USPD here, but ‘Left’ and ‘Right’ USPD too?"

Yes, for a while, Gotthard confirmed.

"But yes, still these days all these groups fight amongst themselves and arms caches are the prime cause of friction. You must have read this in the files of the Vehme squads. Just because the political shade is different, the behaviour does not change... much."

Wegener appeared ready still to teach Prausnitz; it seemed his patience with the young man had not yet worn that thin. Gotthard did wonder what motivated him to hold on to this one, when he had passed over or discarded others, seemingly that little bit better. Who was Prausnitz’s father? Were strings being pulled to get this man a job and keep in him in it, no matter his diffidence? Could he go over Ulrich’s head – to Fröhlich, to Dräger – to get Prausnitz moved on? Would they prove just as beholden as Wegener to whatever deal had got this man employed by the RfV in the first place?

That was from ten, fifteen years ago. A lot is different now; is any of that still relevant? Prausnitz asked.

Gotthard had been in Chemnitz seven months and so had not witnessed the young man’s training. It sounded now, however, that Prausnitz had not even done the reading expected of him.

Yes, Gotthard said gruffly.

Their breathing was the only sound the trio made until another of their targets appeared.

That’s Joachim Tendler. I thought he’d be bringing the lorry.

Maybe they are not scared enough yet, Wegener suggested.

No – if that was the case, they would have met in one of the usual places; at some member’s house. They’d use one of the foot soldiers’ places if they thought the bulls were watching Möser’s, Gehr’s or Schöler’s home. I’m getting out. Three men in a car, especially in this part of town, is going to look suspicious.

I’ll come with you, Prausnitz responded, beginning to open the passenger-side door.

No, you stay here; try to look like Utz’s lover.

Hey – Nachtigall – some decency, please. Remember, I am your superior. I think you’ve been spending too much time with these apes... Wegener complained, but Gotthard closed off the words as he shut the rear door.

For some moments Gotthard stood close to the warehouse wall, then ran alongside where the car was parked. The size of the vehicle, especially in a street like this, made it suspicious. He reflected that his jibe might not have been misplaced. He could only imagine one of the managers of a warehouse or a factory in this district would have come here in his large Auto Union 430 for illicit sex. He continued to worry, though, that the revolutionaries would instead see it from the start for what it was: a police car – or, at least, its equivalent. Policemen in Germany, after all, counted as civil servants and so were not that far removed from the staff of the RfV.

Stepping away from the wall and crossing the road into the shadows on the other side, Gotthard wished he could light a cigarette. He knew, however, that it would immediately draw attention to him. He walked back down the street, away from the building holding the revolutionaries’ cache, and lent into a doorway to get himself deeper among the shadows. He kept his eyes looking up the street, the way Gehr and Tendler had come. The fact that no-one, as yet, had followed on behind them began to make Gotthard wonder if Wegener’s assessment had been correct and, contrary to what he expected, the guns would not be moved tonight.

Something pricked the back of Gotthard’s neck. For a moment he imagined it was simply a breeze, or that being out here, standing impassively in what was now September, had begun to chill him. Loath to look away from the warehouse’s side entrance, he finally made himself turn. Immediately he saw, coming up along the opposite pavement, a man in a hat – not the kind of cap he or any of the Reds were wearing – and a dark raincoat. Now Gotthard worried that some detective on the Chemnitz force had got wind of tonight’s activities and was going to make a fuss about jurisdiction. It was a problem even when operating in Prussia, let alone in one of the other states jealous of their privileges.

For a moment Gotthard thought to intervene, but guessed Wegener was better placed to handle the situation. He, after all, was at least dressed like a civil servant, whereas in his assembly worker’s wear Gotthard could have still blended easily with the revolutionaries gathering here tonight. Switching his attention back towards the warehouse, eager that Karl Möser, the leader of this Red band, show up, Gotthard was only dimly aware that the man in the raincoat had pulled up beside the car. Then, as the man tapped on the glass on Prausnitz’s side, he trusted that he was enough of a professional not to expose the RfV men.

If Gehr, Tendler and whoever else was in the warehouse already fled, it would not be the end of everything, but Gotthard knew he would not judge it a true success. Rifles were rifles; Germany was still awash with them. Men who could inspire others to assassination, let alone a putsch, were far rarer; catching one or two with a direct link to Moscow seemed like the premium outcome.

Then came the gunshot; the shattering of glass. Gotthard snatched the very Nagant revolver Möser had given him out of his waistband. Even then, it took some moments for him to realise what had happened. The flash of the revolver being fired into the car came again and again. The gunshots echoed in the street and Gotthard’s eyes retained the dazzle. His mind reeled as he assumed his two colleagues had been ended. He raised his revolver but struggled to find the right words. As the killer stepped back from the car, apparently stunned by the result of his own action, Gotthard saw it was Möser himself. Too easily he could envisage the next moments ending with one or both of them dead.

Hey!

Möser looked up sharply and waved the revolver in the direction of the voice. Gotthard let his gun hand drop to his side, thinking that he might be able to prevent further killing. As he stepped towards the Communist leader, however, it looked as if the murders he had committed – apparently with little thought – had, in fact, jarred him sharply and his senses were battling to recover.

Paul? Is it you, comrade?

Yes... yes, it is, Karl. Those men?

Bulls. I got... a tip, a friend... Möser said.

Gotthard could believe that. While Wegener might have secured policemen willing – happy, even – to move against Chemnitz’s revolutionaries, he was sure there were bulls whose loyalty lay with the Party.

Put it down, Karl, Gotthard said firmly, raising his gun hand to his hip.

He had raised his voice; the sound of the approaching lorry engine told him that the revolver shots had been taken by the Schupo men as their signal. Möser looked at Gotthard as he closed the gap between them, at first uncomprehending and then aghast.

You’re working for them?

Gotthard did not reply, instead using those moments to hurry to get closer, worried now that the lorry whose headlight beams lit the street would simply run him down. Seconds later it roared past; before it had properly come to a halt in front of the warehouse, rifle-armed policemen were piling out of the rear.

Working for Germany, Karl.

Gotthard had fired before Möser had even raised his Nagant up again. The shot had been into the wall, to convince the man that he was serious. However, the Communist staggered and with his free hand reached for the small of his back. Gotthard realised that the ricochet had gone into Karl’s body. It would have lost some of its force, but still had the power to harm.

Put it down, Karl. There is nowhere to go. It is all over.

Möser looked up the street. Only one of the Schupo men was visible; he remained as a sentry, his rifle grasped in both hands. Distantly, shouts and then a couple of shots came from inside. Karl looked back to Gotthard, seeming perhaps even more dazed than before; he wondered how deep his bullet had gone. For all the bold claims about how they were going to hang the exploiters of this city and execute the nationalists, Möser looked to have been utterly stunned by his murder of just two men. He was old enough to have been in the wartime generation, but perhaps, Gotthard reflected, his skills had kept him from the front.

Gotthard stepped closer to Karl, hoping perhaps to snatch the gun from him even if he did not yield. That proved to be the wrong move; it was only a matter of millimetres which meant the revolver shot passed his head rather than gouging his skull. Without thought, Gotthard fired back, the shot coming up from hip height to cut into the upper right side of Karl Möser’s body. He staggered back; not gambling any more, Gotthard charged the man, thumping him into the wall and snatching at the man’s pistol with his left hand. It clanged to the pavement and Gotthard pulled the revolutionary down, pressing him hard to the ground with his knee.

Karl wheezed and Gotthard released the pressure. Unless the first shot had hit the man’s liver or kidneys, it seemed probable he would survive. The death penalty was still on the statute books but had not been used often since the war. Karl Möser would probably get a life sentence for these murders; his comrades, now being hauled from the warehouse and directed towards the Minna, would spend the next couple of decades at the Blue Camp on Hiddensöe.

Gotthard stood up, waiting for some moments to see Karl’s reaction. With no movement bar his laboured breathing, Gotthard went to the car. He opened the passenger-side door. Prausnitz was unrecognisable; at the close range from which Möser had fired, the bullets had pulped his skull. It was a grotesque tableau with his head bent towards the 430’s dashboard, glinting from the glass the first shot had scored into it.

While he had been irritated by the man, Gotthard would not have wished him this outcome; had thought that men younger than himself would be spared the ends with which too many of those that little bit older had become familiar. Gotthard said a prayer, then dug into Prausnitz’s jacket to find the handcuffs, sending glass showering to the street and letting the body slide sideways to rest against that of Wegener. His wounds were not so severe, but the long streaks of blood running from the holes in the side of his head meant no-one could mistake him as sleeping.

Möser was unresisting as Gotthard handcuffed him, though he did moan – incoherently but loudly – as he was hauled to his feet. Stumbling on behind the RfV man, he was dragged to the Minna and added to the growing number of complaining Reds already inside. This Aufstand was over before it had begun. The puppet-masters in Moscow, Gotthard imagined, would mark it down as another ‘overhead’. The cost to Germany had been two public servants – if not ‘good’ men, then at least competent ones.

Chapter 3

Historical Notes [3]

Berlin, Prussia

October 1936

Has Berlin decided that this is to be a regular event?

Around Gotthard Nachtigall, some of the crowd looked towards the speaker in disapproval. He turned to face the man; the voice was familiar and here, as the road began to cross the Landwehr Canal, was where they had agreed to meet. He