The Goddess Of Fortune Page 2

  “Well, back to your question: when the Japanese attack the Americans, what does Germany do?”

  Stein had been waiting for this question since he opened the front door.

  “Nothing,” Stein replied.

  “Nothing, Professor?”

  “Albert, let’s be realistic. You know I spent ‘20 and ‘21 at Harvard, along with students from China, Japan, Britain and Austria.”

  Stein had spent two years teaching at Harvard, and another six months seconded at River Rouge in Michigan working with a Senior Vice President, who reported directly to Henry Ford. Stein had hosted a number of trips for his Harvard students.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but Europe is on a steeply declining parabola. We’re done for. The 14/18 war has sapped all our vitality—the Germans, the French, the English, the Italians, the Russians, all of us—kaput. When I was at The Rouge, as the Ford manufacturing plant is called—and it’s more a small nation-state than a factory—I realized Europe was doomed.”

  Stein explained to Albert how coal and iron ore and rubber entered one end of this behemoth and cars spewed out the other end,

  “‘Total Manufacturing Integration’ is what the Ford executives called it. And it makes Krupp look like a Lego factory.”

  “Do I think Germany will be successful when the Reich attacks Russia? Possibly, and much as I hate the current claptrap that I read in the German newspapers, the Slavs are peasants, and they need to be defeated. Stalin is just the latest in a long line of tyrants.

  Gorky was correct when he said about the Russians that ‘All the dark instincts of the crowd irritated by the disintegration of life and by the lies and filth of politics will flare up, and fume, poisoning us with anger, hate, and revenge; people will kill one another, unable to suppress their own animal stupidity.’ And the Russians have a history of five hundred years of pogroms and remember the Czarist Black Hundreds groups who hunted down and killed all the Yiddish-speaking people they could find.

  Russia never changes—my friends at the Swiss security department have some extremely disturbing recent reports about what Stalin is doing in Russia—secret trials, mass executions, wide-spread starvation as a weapon; food rations have been cut to 1,000 calories per day; the minimum for an adult to survive is 1,400 calories. It is truly horrific and, remember, pogrom—the mass killing of Jews in Russia—is a Russian word that means devastation. And while I hate to say anything good about the regime you serve, it is actually the lesser of two evils. It was the American newspaper the New York Times that stated about the Soviets, ‘For the first time in history, a nation has undertaken a general crusade against religion.’ That was 10 years ago, but it is even more true today according to my Swiss friends.”

  It was clear that Stein detested—and feared—the idea of a Soviet hegemony of Europe.

  Stein continued,

  “But America, that is a very different proposition—the Americans have an amusing phrase ‘a whole different ballgame.’ “

  Albert’s confusion showed.

  “Have you been to America, Albert?”

  Albert had not.

  Albert was becoming more and more concerned with what he was hearing, “So what can Germany do?”

  Stein explained the two essentials, and Sophie joined them with the much-delayed espresso. The first critical step was to distance Germany as much as possible, and as quickly as possible, from Italy and from Japan.

  “The Italians have wonderful coffee, and nothing else—il Duce is a clown, and a very stupid clown at that, albeit with some very colorful uniforms. I am sure you are aware of this from your friends in Berlin, and from fat Hermann’s transcripts.” (At this Albert looked very closely at his mentor).

  “The Italians are totally unprepared for war, even a small war. Pomp and bluster aside, they’re children. Remember how Musso headed nine of the 22 Italian departments, including the merchant marine and how he forgot to tell his merchant ships to put to sea when the Italians finally declared war against a prostrate France and a weakened Britain—a quarter of all the Italian merchant marine tonnage was immediately interned by the British. Of course, the smiling Italian sailors were completely happy to be imprisoned in safe and civilized Britain on the Isle of Man.”

  “Think of it as swords: Germany is one of the Saracen’s finest swords, England is a rapier, but America is the largest of terrible broadswords.”

  “And Italy?” Albert asked

  “As a child did you ever play pirates with an eye patch and hat and rubber sword?”

  “Well that is what the Italians are like—amusing and entertaining buffoons at best, very serious liabilities at worst.”

  “The Japanese?”

  The professor said nothing. He stood and went to the bookcase. He lifted a humidor elegantly decorated in mother of pearl. Silently, he opened it to Albert.

  “Albert, Cuban Cohiba—your favorite.”

  “Let’s go onto the terrace and I will tell you a story.”

  The two moved to the terrace. It had a large retractable shade, which was partially extended so the terrace had all the warmth of the glorious late summer day, but no direct sunlight.

  The Cuban cigars were less than four weeks old, their dark brown leaf was soft and fresh—no aged hardness, just moist, inviting, and tender. Albert wondered how, then remembered Julius did some very quiet consulting for the Swiss Federal Government in Bern.

  With the nubile young cigars lit and smoking happily, the Professor continued.

  “One of my students at Harvard when I was teaching there in ‘20 and ‘21 was a very bright and very funny chap everyone called Six Fingers. He was Japanese, actually descended from samurai. Spoke perfect English and went on to become a naval attaché in Washington after his time with us in Cambridge.”

  “He was in the party of students I took on a tour of The Rouge when I was there. I will tell more of that trip by and by, but I got to know Isoroku extremely well, and we exchange letters to this day. In fact, I’ll give you his Christmas gift to me as my Swiss doctor prohibits me from drinking spirits and I know you’re a whiskey man.”

  According to Six Fingers, Japan is being controlled by much the same people you work with—boldly aggressive, highly nationalistic, but petite bourgeois in the worst possible way: fanatical about rank; always wanting to be nearest The Palace; all having the finest and youngest mistresses; taking slight at the smallest issue; and constantly stabbing each other in the back.

  Albert looked at Stein, and said, “Sadly, that does strike very close to the quick, very close indeed. Replace ‘The Palace’ with ‘Berghof’ and actually it’s an exact parallel. Only last week, Paul related to me that when they were recently touring northern France, there was a caravan of 18 huge Mercedes—you know the dual axle type you see in all the newsreels. According to Paul, they were all competing to be the second car. Of course, for many in the procession their stomachs got the better of them and they stopped for a three-hour lunch.”

  “Well, according to Six Fingers, the problem in Tokyo is that the Army and Navy are at loggerheads and the Navy has built this huge fleet.”

  Stein learned forward for emphasis, “A huge fleet that is sucking the country dry of oil.”

  Stein explained how after the Washington Naval Agreement of 5/5/3, the Japanese were outraged when they were treated as the junior partner—Britain and America could lay down five times the amount of new tonnage to Japan’s paltry three times. The Japanese contemptuously referred to it as ‘Rolls Royce/Rolls Royce/Ford’. The Japanese had simply ignored the limitations—as had America—and had built, overbuilt actually, a navy fit for a celestial emperor, not just a mortal one. But this created a huge problem by consuming scarce and very expensive imported oil at an even faster rate.

  “They have built huge oil tanks, but with no oil to put in them, these tanks are useless. A blind man can see the Japanese with their so-called East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere need all the oil of Malaya and the D
utch East Indies. This is their only option—I doubt they can go through the Canal and sail up to Texas and the American Gulf states and ask for a few spare hundred million gallons, especially now that the Americans have unilaterally and illegally banned all Japanese ships from what they like to call ‘their’ canal.”

  “It does not take much to read between the lines of the letters from Six Fingers to see this.”

  “Yes, he is proud of the navy his country has built in less than twenty years, but he is a realist—they have this huge navy and no oil. At least we have the Romanian fields.”

  Albert inwardly smiled at the Professor’s choice of pronouns.

  “So?”

  “So the Japanese are a far greater liability to Germany than the Italians, odd though that sounds.”

  “So America is the enemy of the Reich?”

  “Not at all—the Americans are no one’s enemy at present, but I think it likely they will become Japan’s enemy soon.”

  “And the outcome?”

  Stein ignored the question and asked,

  “Albert, do you remember how the Russians fought before their surrender in 1917? To remind you, they had one rifle for every four solders, so one soldier would race toward our troops, be shot down dead, and then the second Russian soldier would jump up and snatch the dead man’s rifle—a baton race of the dead as it were. That, my dear Albert, is what you are facing when your Chancellor turns to the East, as he will sooner or later. The Slav peasants all fear everything, from the crowing of the cock at sunrise to the gentle dusk. But, in spite of all these fears—or perhaps it is because of all these fears—they all passionately love Mother Russia, regardless of whom the current autocrat is.”

  Albert rose and thanked his host,

  “With your permission, I should like to return tomorrow to discuss this further Professor.”

  Stein scowled at Albert, “Only if you call me Julius.”

  They both laughed.

  Albert left his mentor’s apartment and walked back down the slight hill back to the Trois Couronnes. In the distance on the left he could see the simmering lights of Avian, famed for its baths and waters and at the other end of the lake the early evening lights around Geneva with its banks and casinos and whores.

  Albert’s mind turned over the idea of Japan’s feet of clay and the possibility of America having the power of Hercules. Stein had no reason to dissimulate; there was no motive—or benefit—Stein could gain. Actually, the opposite—wise and prescient counsel could only help Stein.

  Albert returned to the hotel. In the early evenings the hotel was the epitome of Swiss dullness. Albert was greeted by the concierge, a man Albert had hand-picked for the job four years early; Albert was nothing if not thorough.

  “He’s in room 301,” the concierge whispered.

  Albert nodded.

  The lift was the old-fashioned type with the pair of wrought iron doors.

  Closing the wrought iron doors himself Albert rotated the long brass control arm clockwise and took the lift to the third floor. Albert found 301 immediately—across the archway from the lift, it was the first door on the left.

  As Albert reached the outer door of the suite, the door was opened by one of Berlin’s leading actresses, a personal favorite of the Propaganda Minister—“Suzanne” or something like that, Albert vaguely remembered—Paul had mentioned her, actually gushed about her, but Albert had not been in the mood to listen.

  “Suzanne” smiled at Albert and left along with another actress Albert recognized from the Berlin stage.

  Albert entered and greeted his guest. Lord Nasherton was a tall man in his forties. His family had made its fortune in Scotland with patented inventions centering around bobbins and spools for automatic knitting machines. Over time, the Scots had moved south. Nasherton retained his Caledonian cautiousness regarding money and had handsomely improved the family fortune.

  Albert asked after Lord Nasherton’s two daughters.

  “Yes, both bonny. Shiny coats and wet noses.”

  Albert remembered Nasherton’s tedious habit of referring to his daughters in terms of a dog’s health.

  “And young Stephen looks like he will be going to Sandhurst this year. I understand there is something of a European war going on at present—hate to see Stephen miss the party.”

  Both men laughed.

  Albert sat down and Nasherton poured Albert a very generous whiskey—a single-malt that Nasherton favored.

  Small talk, idle gossip for a few minutes about Nasterton’s subterfuge about travelling to Spain and then to Italy and finally to Switzerland.

  The single malt warmed Albert and he guessed Nasherton was already sufficient relaxed after the actresses and now the Scotch for Albert’s spiel. Nasherton’s German was as good as Albert’s.

  So Albert got to the point immediately, which was: England was bankrupt after the Great War, same as Germany, not quite as apparent as Germany’s penury, but real just the same; France was a whore, and a disheveled whore at that—a Montmartre strumpet, not a nice, fresh, young, polite “niece” who you could readily take to polite society; Russia—not Germany—was England’s natural adversary—the Slavs had created a crazy patchwork quilt of Europe’s races that make the place a constant powder keg; dealing with the Americans would surely spell the end of the British Empire

  Nasherton listened pensively; he had the gift of quiet. In some ways an odd man—just moments ago carousing with two of the Reich’s finest ladies, and now he had smoothly shifted gears and was giving Albert his complete attention.

  “I agree, but what on Earth can we possibly do?”

  Albert explained that the thinking in Germany—meaning what Albert and some of the senior military types suspected—was that the biggest obstacle to an immediate cessation of all hostilities between Germany and England was Churchill. With Churchill gone, progress could be made; a peace could easily be brokered, the Empire saved, and Germany could get on with the business at hand, which was the annihilation of the hated Bolsheviks, and the final stabilization of Central Europe.

  Nasherton stood and walked to the window. He looked out over the lake to the lights of Avian and then to the mountains in France—in spite of it being September, tiny swatches of last winter’s snow were still visible on the highest peaks.

  He turned to Albert.

  “Of course, I completely agree. How could I not agree? Winston is rum, he’s always been rum, always will be rum. Just look at the ‘15 disaster in the Dardanelles. Last year, God only knows why we didn’t get Halifax. Churchill is as brave as a bulldog, but with about the same amount of brains. (Albert, have you ever noticed how Winston actually looks a lot like a bulldog? Of a certain bastard line, a miscegenate line. Have you ever noticed that?) And he deludes himself that he has the Yanks in his pocket—he’s in for a rude awaking there; that is for certain. Actually, Albert, it just may be possible to get rid of Winston—just kick him up stairs somewhere—just as he himself did to poor old David Windsor. As for David, well his only problem—his only weakness—is that he loves to have that woman’s mouth over his you-know-what. But nevertheless, how in God’s name did the King of England fall for that Baltimore tart, a blind man could see she was a slut of the worst sort.”

  Albert smiled thinly, but only to be polite.

  Albert had heard that the former king loved Wallis Simpson’s attention, and—from a different source—that she was renowned throughout Europe as being without equal at being able to get the dead to rise to life again. It was said she had tricks with her mouth for her most prestigious lovers, tricks she had learned before her marriage to Mr. Simpson when she worked in some of the very finest brothels in Shanghai.

  Nasherton went on, “And Winston is far too friendly with the frogs—damn French had done little or nothing for England, simply whine all the time. Look at this total rout three months back at Dunkirk—what a total cock up.”

  “But, be sure Albert; we’d have to play our cards very shrew
dly—a little too early and one or both of us find ourselves swinging from the end of a rope—remember ‘treason’ is often defined as ‘premature truth,’ so timing is of the essence.”

  Albert agreed.

  Nasherton returned to the PM,

  “It never ceases to amaze me that Winston has the gall to spout the nonsense he does. In reality, he is the opposite of what the press and the cinema newsreels portray. Truth be told, he is a bully and he becomes a violent and bitter bully when drunk, which essentially means any time after two in the afternoon. And his friends are so ill-chosen. Add to this that he is constantly in debt—he does not have a bean to his name.”

  Nasherton then expounded on the wisdom of a coalition, possible with Halifax as the new PM. On and on the two men planned and plotted.

  After an hour of extremely useful conversation, Nasherton suggested a detailed plan of campaign.

  “Well that’s damn well done it—I think we two have done a fine job of reshaping the map of Europe here in quiet Vevey this evening.”

  Albert fell silent but thought Nasherton was not overstating the case.

  Nasherton said, “I always find that playing Bismarck makes me so extremely randy—no chance of calling back those two Berlin sweeties, is there Albert?”

  Albert simply smiled, and lifted the telephone receiver. Nasherton couldn’t quite make out the instructions, but his curiosity was satisfied five minutes later when four exquisite Japanese young ladies quietly glided in. They were four of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. All in the Fall/Winter ‘41 Chanel. The four were all extremely quiet and moved as if any sound was an insult to their hosts. Only later did Nasherton learn that their classic geisha training forbad them from talking while they walked—they could only speak when stationary.

  It was clear from their carriage and demureness that they were very different from white women—all four affected a shyness (and perhaps they truly were shy?). They all looked like models from Paris, but with soft almond eyes and the most delicate soft skin Nasherton had ever seen—their skin seemed to have no pores. They varied in height tremendously—the tallest, in heels, was taller than Nasherton, who was a good six-foot, while the shortest, even in heels was only of modest height.