Life Unworthy

Part 3

Spring in Berlin was still snowy, the clouds low and heavy, which made the city relax more. There had been few raids since the previous fall, and those long-range British bombers could not bomb what they could not see, but the memories were still strong. The snow was old and dirty, piled up beside the roads to slowly melt and it was warm enough that water stood between the cobblestones rather than ice.

The flags over the Reichstag were barely stirred by the limp breeze, crimson showing on the flagpoles. A tall, thin man dressed in a black coat walked up the steps briskly like he'd been here dozens of times. In truth, Vladimir Czerny had seen the building only briefly, in passing. His small round spectacles flashed reflecting the cloud-covered sunlight, and his bowler hat covered a completely bald head tattooed with startling designs in old black ink. Czerny stopped for a moment and consulted what looked like a pocket watch for a few moments, unmoving in the cold air. German men dressed in suits and overcoats stepped by Vladimir with barely a sideways glance, busy with the regimen of life. After a few moments, Vladimir snapped the device shut and tucked it into a pocket inside his woolen coat, then briskly walked up the steps and into the building.

Inside, Reichsleiter Martin Bormann waited impatiently. True, that Romanian consultant wasn't late yet, but a good man was always early. Bormann hated to wait; he hated to be at a disadvantage to any man. Best to make the foreigner wait outside before seeing him, yes, perhaps a good cigarette first.

The folders sat on his desk mocking him with their absurd notions and faerie tale words. How could any modern leader of the Reich believe any of this, discuss this nonsense? Aryans were not afraid to admit that there were more things than dreamt of in the philosophies of lesser men, but there were limits. Whoever wrote these papers clearly had read entirely too much of the old tales for Bormann's liking. He'd heard all the legends of course; Thor and Frey, the dark elf Svirfneblin, the dwarves, the dragons. Tales from the ancient honored history of the Aryan race. Tales to stir the heart, to make the soul sing with heritage and connect to the strength of ancestors. But to believe them?

It was true that the Fuhrer was fascinated with these things, ever seeking more power from the occult, ever sending men to find rumored artifacts, hinted objects of arcane might. There was a crack team of chemists, the best that Germany and Poland had to offer, working in Berlin on the Philosopher's Stone – turning lead to gold. But still... werewolves? Bormann finished his cigarette and stubbed it out, deciding on the proper course of action and tone with this Romanian. He began to reach for the intercom button and his door opened revealing the tall, thin man.

Behind him was Helga, young, lovely Helga with the shining blonde hair looking worried with her hands clasped.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Herr Bormann, he just walked up to the door and ... well it opened before I could stop him!"

Bormann allowed himself a rare smile, awkward and unfamiliar on his face. He couldn't ever stay mad at Helga for long, she was even more charming and lovely than her predecessor. Helga would never have to be sent to a camp. Well, probably not.

"I was expecting him. Close the door Helga." Bormann said, trying not to scowl. Everything relied on being in charge, in never letting anyone see you confused or unready. There was could be no weakness in the Reich.

"Be seated, Herr... tserrny is it?"

The thin man's eyes were cold as Russian winter through the round spectacles, a pale ice blue almost indistinguishable from the whites of his eyes.

"Cherrny."

Bormann turned his back, facing a wide window overlooking Berlin. A Slav, perhaps not a Russian but still, one of those people, thought Bormann. More Asiatic than European even. You could teach them to speak and act properly but they were still barbarians inside.

Martin Bormann held against his back with both hands a folder with photos and graphic descriptions of the Auschwitz Shower event, Die Auschwitzer Duschefall. His eyes were on the window, looking outside at the glory of the new Berlin, future seat of the world's capitol. Bormann waited a moment; deliberately slow to speak to build tension for the visitor. But when he turned, Vladimir Czerny had not changed expression in any way, still sitting patiently and quietly like he'd rehearsed this again and again and was simply filling a role. Bormann sneered.

"When the Third Reich has subjugated the lesser countries, we will have a more standard language. For commerce and to teach the children, you see."

If Czerny had any thoughts on the matter, he did not betray them, as if willing to let Bormann lead the conversation to a point he felt important enough to respond to. The Reichsleiter frowned and turned to the window again. What would shake this man, he couldn't have blood as icy as his gaze suggested.

"You have been briefed on this... statement, I trust?" Bormann said to the window.

Vladimir Czerny's expression remained totally unchanged, the light outside from the sinking sun now reflected off his spectacles, obscuring his eyes entirely.

"The soldiers at the work camp at Auschwitz have discovered and been attacked by a lycanthrope, which then fled into the countryside nearby. It apparently was among the men placed in the shower there for decontamination."

Bormann glanced back and watched Czerny's face for any hint of sarcasm or judgment regarding Birkenau or the showers. He could read nothing; it was as if the man was indeed made of ice, or stone.

"And you believe this report to be, shall we say, accurate?"

The Romanian responded in a calm, neutral tone. "The details, the creature's actions and the deaths of the men, the report of the tower guard describing a dark shape tearing through the fence seem consistent. It is possible, but unless I visit the site I cannot know. I was told to report to you for papers and instructions on how to proceed."

"But surely you do not believe such nonsense! Monsters in the modern age, what are we, children reading tales of Fafnir?"

"Apparently not everyone in the Reich is so skeptical. Do you have the full reports for me?"

Bormann turned to the window again, feeling vaguely ashamed. Damn this icy Romanian, damn his calm. Martin Bormann has no superiors! Other than the Führer, of course. He gestured vaguely at the desk without turning.

"They are in the folder for you, as are your instructions, straight from the Fuhrer's office. You are to proceed to the camp and examine what evidence is left. From there you will track this creature and find it; I am told that you claim to have faced such things in the past in your home land."

"Such creatures are rare—even in Romania—but I have faced one before," Czerny replied to his back.

"You will leave immediately. There is a car waiting that will take you to a plane. There are a few marks in the packet for your discretion, but the Reich will not tolerate waste. Heil Hitler!"

We shall test his loyalty, thought Bormann, and he waited for the response for a time but heard nothing. Turning with a savage look, he found his office empty, the door closed.

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