Jamie and the Nazis
Jamie Poole is a time traveler. We have visited the distant past. In Sisterhood of the Sword, which will be available later in 2023, she will visit World War II Halifax. For many Americans, war was a distant concept. For people of Halifax, Nova Scotia, war visited their streets.
In the writing of this book, I interviewed several families who had relatives in the war. Both for the Germans and for the Canadians, British, or Americans. They had some amazing stories to tell. Some of them will appear in this book. I had family fighting on both sides of this war.
The United States did not join the war until after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Canada had already joined the war before this. Americans would vacation to Canada to see what a country at war looked like. This book will demonstrate some of that.
Be sure to read to the end where there is information on how to get other Jamie Poole books now, especially if you are in the Halifax area. All books are also available on your local Amazon store.
Here is an excerpt from Sisterhood of the Sword:
Somewhere in Berlin, Germany
August 1, 1939. Tuesday.
Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, with his horn-rimmed spectacles, weak chin, and spindly physique, looked more like a school teacher than a high-ranking Nazi officer. He hardly looked like the head of the Ahnenerbe and commander of the Schutzstaffel. The Ahnenerbe was his own gathering of scientists tasked to find evidence of an Aryan race throughout Europe. These men bent, reshaped, or altogether rewrote history to prove that an Aryan race—a superior race—existed. Their purpose was to find or create proof that the German people sprang forth from this race.
Of course, Himmler’s previous position had been as a chicken farmer. Perhaps one can never remove the stink of chicken shit. Had he lived seventy years in the future, he might have been labeled nerd. The sort to hang out at too many Comic Cons. He might have spent copious time reading Tolkien, or playing Dungeons & Dragons, or gorging on day old pizza in his mom’s basement, but likely he’d retain that darker side which still smelled of chicken shit, but who could know? Himmler existed now as Chicken Farmer Turned Mad Scientist, or so the man with him imagined.
Himmler shook hands with the nondescript man in the nondescript office building tucked away on a quiet side street on the edge of Berlin. The clatter of typewriters and snippets of conversation spilled from doorways as the two men continued down the hallway.
“Thank you for seeing me,” the nondescript man began the conversation.
“Doktor Platz, thank you for coming in person, but I’m not confident of your theory,” Himmler waved a folder in
emphasis. “I’m uncertain the value of a face-to-face meeting, but I appreciate your assertiveness.”
Doktor Platz discreetly wiped his hand along tweed pants. He found Himmler’s small hands sweaty and detestable, but he’d planned this meeting for many years, and he needed to win Himmler’s confidence. He moistened his lips with a flick of his tongue as he regarded the floor tiles. They walked slowly but deliberately toward the front door. Being shown the door so fast wouldn’t do.
“Mein Herr Reichsführer, I have a doctorate in anthropology, specializing in cult studies of ancient peoples. I assume you read that file. I’ve done extensive research. I’ve included detailed articles to support my theory. I wouldn’t have approached you personally if I didn’t think this was worthy of our Führer’s interest.”
Platz had no qualms with rewriting history. He knew the Aryan race never existed and equally that Himmler’s research was built on abhorrent deception which would lead to the deaths of millions of people. That should have made Platz sick to his stomach but on this, like many topics, he stood amoral. He had a specific goal, and he wanted Himmler’s blessing before proceeding.
“Ja, ja.” The Reichsführer appeared disinterested. He waved for him to stop as if brushing away an insect.
Doktor Platz began to sweat just a little under the tweed jacket. He must present a good impression. Himmler’s time was valuable, especially with things about to happen in the days and weeks to come. War loomed on the horizon. Actually many small wars and a great war. No one cared about small wars.
Himmler resumed in his nasal voice, “We already researched bog bodies in 1937. On that you received my reply? What new information can be found in two short years, ja?” His voice went up, sounding almost like a girl’s as he regarded the man from the corner of his eye.
“In 1937 members of the Ahnenerbe researched bog bodies primarily in the Netherlands specifically to determine that they were homosexuals, and that they had been murdered for their crimes. This has allowed you to…” Here Doktor Platz paused and moistened his lips again and considered carefully how to phrase what he would say next.
Two bog bodies, known as the Weerdinge Couple, had been discovered clutching each other in death. According to Himmler and others it was absolute proof that they had been homosexuals. He had used the “proof” to justify some of his most atrocious actions. It had played its part in affirming a provision known as Paragraph 175, which criminalized homosexuality. If Platz recalled correctly, the provision hadn’t been revoked until 1994. Indeed, Himmler had put many such men in concentration camps. Personally, Platz held no opinion on homosexuality—why should it matter? He regarded this meeting merely as a business proposition. He had an agenda. He wanted—needed—something from Himmler. Himmler’s misguided views held no impact on his agenda. On a good day, Platz was entirely amoral. On other days he might have relished in the terror Himmler caused.
Platz finished with, “The Ahnenerbe’s research on bog bodies has allowed scientists like me to make further
discoveries. What I provide in that file expands on accepted doctrine.” He lowered his head humbly.
There was the rub. While he could accomplish his plans without this man’s permission or resources, where was the
satisfaction in that? It was all about the ripples he’d create by forming an alliance. He made no attempt to smile, even if this idea delighted him. Today was one of those days he relished terror.
Not all scientists believed bog bodies were homosexuals. Bodies like the Weerdinge Couple were found throughout northern Europe. They were human cadavers naturally mummified by the peat bogs in which they’d been buried. Dozens of centuries ago men primarily, but sometimes women, had been buried in boggy marshes also known as fens. Their bodies, sometimes garroted, hanged, or stabbed, indicated their deaths had not been natural. Who these people were was hotly debated. Himmler remained convinced of a single theory. Doktor Platz offered another. Again not as a result of any personal conviction or philosophy. It was all about the end goal: those ripples that would reach out to impact future events.
While other men might have been elated at the opportunity to discuss a theory with a man as great as Himmler, Doktor Platz was not such a man. This man was simply a tool to achieve his own goal. The reasons behind this goal he would share with no one—except for one person, of course. Oh, to observe the expression on her face when he told her!
Platz continued to choose his words carefully as they seated themselves in comfortable chairs in a corner room at the end of the hall not far from the front door.
Excellent, he thought. He wasn’t being shown the door immediately as he’d feared.
A woman arrived with a tea service and poured a cup for each. Platz took a small sip before saying, “What if a specific group of bog bodies were sacrificed to the gods?”
“Sacrificed?” Himmler spat the word as if it the idea was detestable. His eyes glanced toward the clock on the mantle. A smile played across Platz’s face. “Come now. We know sacrifices are sometimes made. My report defends my theory with documented facts. I can prove them quite easily. I would like to do this for the Ahnenerbe.”
“And why would I wish to have you join my brightest scientists?”
“You’re expanding your researchers. You need someone as thorough as I.”
Himmler paused and studied his tea for a few moments. He shrugged, a ghost of a smile breezed past his thin lips. “We started with a handful. We have 137 now. What’s one more?”
He had read his report! Inwardly, Platz smiled. “One more indeed. Did you read everything I sent?” He narrowed his eyes over the top of his cup.
“I scanned it,” Himmler conceded without enthusiasm. “We have a team that just returned from Tibet. I admire your writing talents. What if you helped them write the articles that will be published?”
Platz leaned back and snorted softly. “We both know that is a waste of my specialized talents.”
Himmler gave a snort of his own into his cup. He muttered something Platz didn’t catch. Excuse me?” he asked calmly.
“Karelia?” Himmler repeated tightly.
“Yes, Reichsführer. Karelia.” He hadn’t just scanned it.
“Even this has been done before.” He bit off each word.
Platz leveled his gaze. “1936. I am familiar. Anthropological work. Studying the local shamans and soothsayers. Learning their ways of mixing Christianity and ancestor worship. Recording their heathen rituals, their spells. Documenting their brewing of local plants. This is not what I proposed. Shall I proceed?” His voice had grown hard, and Himmler reacted with a twitch not so unlike a rat’s.
He took another sip of tea, slurping a bit. “Proceed.”
“Something important was missed.”
“Impossible! We sent experienced scientists.”
“But you didn’t send me. What if we combined their information with my theory on bog bodies?”
“And exactly what is that? Here your report grows thin.” Over his cup Himmler regarded his guest with suspicion.
And with curiosity, Platz discerned with pleasure. “I don’t trust everything to the post.”
Himmler continued, squinting behind his glasses. “Explain.”
Platz smirked. “I must humbly apologize. I cannot explain. Not yet.” To this Himmler scowled, and Platz wondered if he had played his hand too quickly. “I must prove it or disprove it before I explain. To do this, I must go to Karelia. However, I think I provided enough data to show that the initial team missed a critical factor—something that will make Karelia a region we will want to visit again and again to collect all the significant Aryan data. You did understand the data, ja? Do I need to simplify it?”
“Ja, ja, I understood, but you are certain?”
“I have never been more certain,” Platz vowed sincerely. “And soon the Karelian region may be cut off from us…well, parts of it perhaps…well, not perhaps. But certainly the part I need to access. The Russians, you know. Or, perhaps you don’t know? Have the Germans taken Poland yet? I keep forgetting the date Germany invades Poland. July? August? Ah, no. September 17 of this year! Not yet then. Sometimes when it comes to dates, I really need to make notes on my hand.” He smacked his forehead and grimaced.
Himmler’s eyes bugged slightly, and Platz hurried along, “You—Germany—and Russia both wish to insulate your capitals from each other. Surely a man of your status is aware of the planning.” He cleared his throat, and the other man continued to eye him oddly. He’d said too much. He could clearly see that. He coughed then continued quickly, “Forget the last thing I said.” He regarded Himmler closely over his cup. “Just wipe it from your memory. Clean as slate, it is.”
Himmler shook his head once, blinked, and took a sip of tea. “Well, speak up man.” He pushed his glasses back into place. “For a man who writes a lot, you’re a quiet fellow. If you don’t show a bit of backbone and defend your data, what good are you?”
“Right. Of course. My point is clear. Time is of the essence.” The Winter War was but months away. The region known as Karelia would be carved up like a Christmas turkey.
Himmler set his cup on the small table between them. “How large a team of scientists do you want? You did not specify.”
“I didn’t specify because I wish to go alone.”
“Without a team?” The Reichsführer clipped each word.
Platz simply nodded. “I do my own stunts. That is to say I produce better results when working unencumbered. What I must do requires little time and less Ahnenerbe money.”
Himmler’s scowl deepened. “If you don’t want money, what do you want?”
“The blessing of the Ahnenerbe. A footnote in your archives showing my name. And a desk for research upon my return, most certainly. I don’t presume too much?”
The Reichsführer’s scowl pulled into a thin smile. “Not at all. I am accustomed to requests for money.”
“Don’t need it. Trust me.” Platz clinked his cup into the saucer to punctuate this decision.
“Then, I think there is only one question left. How soon before you can leave?”
Platz gave a small chuckle. “As soon as the next train for Karelia leaves.”
“Ausguzeichnet.” The Reichsführer grinned like a rodent. “Then you shall be on it. I am excited to see your report. And may I introduce you to someone?” Platz and Himmler stood as a young man entered the room. He wore a red bow tie and a similar suit to Platz’s, only his was newer and too short about the wrists and ankles. “Joachim Quietscheentchen. He is a photographer.”
Doktor Platz tried not to gape at the man. He had curious blue eyes set in a broad face with an angular nose and wide lips. He was the picture of Aryan perfection.
“I can’t help but notice the Leica camera about his neck.”
Platz tried to keep sarcasm from his voice. “Unmistakable as that bowtie. I said I didn’t need a team.” For this man to appear so quickly, Himmler had made his decision before his arrival. This had all been a game, and he had been played. It took a lot for Platz to be played. He didn’t like it, but he fought to hide his distaste. It wouldn’t do to anger Himmler.
“I know. And to be truthful, Herr Doktor Platz, you would have disappointed me had you asked for one. All those accounts I read. You never had a team. I didn’t expect you to need one. A photographer, however…”
Platz opened his mouth to argue.
“For the Germanien,” Himmler added as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “He is an assistant. He will document your findings and transcribe them for the journal, so all German people can read about their Aryan ancestors in Karelia.”
“Mein Herr Reichsführer, I do not need a photographer.”
“Ah, but you do.” Himmler tapped his temple. “Your report, while fascinating, lacked one thing. Photographs. Your artistic ability is unquestionable, but the people need photographic evidence.”
“A pleasure.” Quietscheentchen extended a hand.
Platz tried to force his hand to move from his side. He tried not to scowl. “I trust you will hide that while we travel. I wish to keep this trip, unlike other Ahnenerbe ventures, under the radar, shall we say.”
“Who will we interview?” Quietscheentchen asked eagerly.
“It’s a surprise,” Platz answered darkly.
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