He gestured to an imaginary crowd, fixing his intense silver eyes upon them. From his uniform’s breast pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with a border of black swastikas to swipe at his brow.
“Since 1939, the Jews have maneuvered the British Empire into the most perilous crisis it has ever known. The Jews were the carriers of that Bolshevist infection which once threatened to destroy Europe. It is no longer a question of the interests of individual nations; it is, rather, a question of conflict between nations which want to make the lives of their people secure on this earth, and nations which have become the helpless tools of an international world parasite!”
With that, he looked over to the producer of the radio address and made a slashing movement with his forefinger at his throat. It was the end of the broadcast, and Adolf Hitler slumped down in his desk chair, breathing heavily.
As Hitler closed his eyes in exhaustion, rapturous applause erupted. The men were gathered around a small table in Hitler’s private office in Wolf’s Lair, his Führerhauptquartiere—Eastern Front military headquarters. The top-secret, high-security site was in the Masurian woods, five miles from the small East Prussian town of Rastenburg. It had been built in 1941 on damp swampland at the start of Operation Barbarossa, the invasion of Russia. According to Joseph Goebbels, the Reichsminister of Propaganda, Wolf’s Lair looked like “a holiday resort”—although the guarded railway, armed walking patrols, machine gun towers, and antiaircraft artillery on the roofs belied his description.
The assembled inner circle consisted of Joachim von Ribbentrop, foreign minister of Nazi Germany; Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS; Adolf Eichmann, one of the architects of the roundup and extermination of the Jews; and Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, Hitler’s commander in chief of the West.
“A triumph!” Ribbentrop exalted, as the producer silently removed the microphone and other broadcasting equipment. The foreign minister’s once-handsome face was aging; a softening jawline detracted from his cleft chin.
Eichmann nodded, one side of his mouth drawn up in its characteristic mocking half smile. “I would only add, my Führer, that in your speech for the Reichstag, you might include more about Roosevelt and his Jewish clique.”
Hitler was still breathing hard, as if he had just run a race. He reached down to pet his Alsatian. “Good girl,” he panted, stroking her head. The dog wagged her tail. “Good Blondi.” He rummaged through his desk drawer and pulled out a treat for her, making her wait and beg until finally, almost with disappointment, he let her have it.
The Führer’s office was surprisingly modest, with simple wood furniture, plain carpets, and cotton curtains. A tall-case clock ticked in the corner, its brass pendulum swinging. In a normal tone of voice, Hitler asked Eichmann, “What news from France?”
“We just received this telegram from Prime Minister Pierre Laval,” Eichmann answered, rising to hand it to Hitler. “Laval suggests including the children in the July roundup.”
“The children?” Hitler asked flatly, scanning the document.
“Yes, the Jewish children. Younger than sixteen. Laval says, and I quote, ‘Children should remain with their parents.’?”
Hitler pushed away the paper. “The fate of the French Jewish children does not interest me.” He sounded bored.
Eichmann hesitated. Then, “If you have no objections to including the children, we must hurry. Before the international community—Eleanor Roosevelt and her Jew cohorts—can hear of it and start an outcry.”
“There may be a hue and cry—for the moment. But who remembers the Armenian children now?” Hitler referred to the Ottoman Empire’s Armenian massacres of the late nineteenth century. “In a few decades, no one will remember what we do.”
A secretary knocked and then entered, carrying a tea tray with a plate piled high with Lebkuchen—spicy cookies. Young, with a full, childish face and pouty lips, the woman set it down in front of the men at the table, then poured a steaming cup for Hitler and brought it to him at his desk.
“Ah, caraway tea!” he exclaimed with a genuine smile. “Thank you, Fr?ulein Junge.” The young woman ducked her head shyly, then left. “Caraway tea helps with the blood, you know,” he proclaimed to the men. “Aids in digestion, too.”
He blew on his tea, then raised the cup to his lips. “Now, we must turn our attention to other matters. The so-called Allies must be planning an invasion of Europe, even as we speak. I fully expect that sometime in the next weeks, months—or even years—Churchill and his band of thugs will land on the shores of the Continent.”
His eyes closed. “It will be the final showdown. The destiny of the Reich and Occupied Europe hangs in the balance. It will be the decisive event of the war. If landings succeed”—he drew in a deep breath—“then the war is lost.”
Von Rundstedt, a Prussian with hard features and an unflinching gaze, tugged at his sparse mustache. “Of course, we have the men and arms, sir—but the Allies have the element of surprise. We must not underestimate that.”
“What we need to do is hand them a defeat, as we did with the Poles, the French, and now the Russians.” Himmler pushed up the small silver spectacles sliding down his nose, then reached for a gingery Lebkuchen.
“Where will they land?” Hitler murmured, as though to himself. “That’s the gamble, the toss of the dice, the war game on which everything depends.”
“Regardless, we have the forces to defeat them!” Ribbentrop insisted. “And when defeated, they will never have the strength, men, and materials to invade again—we’ll see to that.”
“What then, my Führer?” von Rundstedt asked.
“By then, not only will we have the V-One and V-Two rockets, but our atomic weapons will be operational as well. We’ll conquer Britain. Then we’ll turn to the United States and Canada.”
“And what about Japan?” Ribbentrop asked.
Hitler waved a hand, as if discussing how to divide a loaf of bread. “We will give them the west coast of North America, Vancouver, San Francisco, Los Angeles. There will be a small unoccupied zone, split by the Mississippi River, no, the Rocky Mountains. We, of course, will take the East—Boston, New York, and Washington—and the Midwest.”
He squinted at von Rundstedt. “Where do you predict they will land?”
“France, my Führer,” the field marshal replied without hesitation. “Definitely. We consider four sites most likely for the landings—Brittany, the Cotentin Peninsula, Normandy, and Pas de Calais. But Brittany and Cotentin are points—it would be too easy to cut off their advance. So I don’t think those are serious options.”
Von Rundstedt moved to the edge of his chair. “A landing in Normandy would permit simultaneous threats against the port of Cherbourg, coastal ports farther west in Brittany, and an overland attack toward Paris and eventually into Germany. However, the drawback of the Normandy coast—and it’s a big drawback—is the lack of port facilities.
“And so I consider Pas de Calais the most likely initial landing zone. It’s the closest point in continental Europe to Britain. Between England and Calais, there’s barely twenty miles of open water. It’s their best option,” von Rundstedt continued. “They could deliver men and materials to a bridgehead in Pas de Calais four times faster than they could to Normandy, and six times faster than to Brittany.”
“They can also use their airpower to best effect in Calais,” Ribbentrop mused. “Their plan will most likely be to seize and open a major seaport—and Pas de Calais is the best option, with the most advantages.”
Hitler gave them all a look that silenced them instantly. “They will land in Normandy,” he stated flatly. “If I were planning the invasion, I’d use Normandy.”
The assembled men remained mute, no one wishing to disagree.