Das Elendskücken

Das

Elendskücken

[The Misery Chick]

A Not-Yet-Finished Tale

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

Synopsis: Hitler wins. Fifty years later, the Misery Chick comes to Lawndale.

Author's Notes: This story is about what could have been, but was not. Perhaps in some manner it could still yet be, but let us hope it never will. Further notes appear at the story’s end.

Acknowledgements are given at the story’s end.

It was from September 1941 that we saw an open road ahead of us, leading to the atomic bomb.

—Dr. Werner Heisenberg, German nuclear physicist (actual quote)

. . . [T]hey’re filled with curiosity and keep asking, “Why doesn’t he come?” Be calm. He’s coming! He’s coming!

—Adolf Hitler, speech given on September 4, 1940 (actual quote)

With the windows up, the shiny blue Mercedes-Benz-Ford Reichstar swept through the suburban rush-hour traffic so quietly one hardly knew the engine was running. Restless, the fourteen-year-old girl in the front passenger seat played with the car radio, hunting for a source of music that was neither classical, country, nor patriotic in nature. Her efforts were rewarded after a minute with a crooning male voice that brought a smile to her lips. She tossed her long orange-red hair and closed her robin’s-egg-blue eyes as she leaned back in the leather seat in contentment.

“Now, Mädchen,” said the well-groomed businessman in the driver’s seat next to her, “I want you to know that your mother and I realize it’s not easy moving from a small town like Highland to the great east coast—but we made it! Welcome to Lawndale, gateway to Baltimore, D.C., the Reichshauptstadt von Amerika!” He laughed. “I can’t believe we’re here! Boy, would my old man have a fit! ‘Mad Dog’ Morgendorffer must be spinning in his grave!”

“Faster and faster every second,” muttered the older girl lounging in the back seat. She looked out a side window at the passing urban landscape through her round-lens glasses. Her plain face was relaxed, betraying no trace of her thoughts.

“Your mother must be at the Hall of Justice now, meeting with Minister Coulter,” said the businessman in a cheerful tone. “Helen will show those legal beagles who the real eagle is! And I have my first appointment at the Commerce and Transportation Ministry at nine. There’s even a special luncheon at the capital building for new arrivals. You might even see me on the news tonight, shaking hands with Chancellor Duke himself!”

“We’ll be sure to videotape it,” said the girl in the back seat in a toneless voice, “assuming we remember how to use the machine.”

“She’s kidding, Daddy,” said the red-haired girl with a sigh. “Of course we’ll record it.” She inspected her manicured fingernails. “Make sure he remembers your name, unlike that stupid governor.”

“Idiot!” grumbled the businessman. “You’d think after all I’ve done bringing European investments into Texas, Governor Koresh would pronounce my blasted name right! Morgendorffer, not Mortengarten! Can’t beat that for a patriotic name, can you? Damn right! Even if my old man called me a traitor when I told him I was going to Politische Universität Middleton to become—”

“Don’t rant, Dad,” interrupted the girl in the back seat. “A Staatspolizei car is pulling up beside us, and you’ll attract their attention.”

With a gasp, her father ended his tirade on the spot. The orange-haired girl swiftly slouched down in the passenger seat to become invisible to anyone looking into the car. The girl in back allowed herself a secret smile as the Staatspolizei‘s low-slung Porsche flew past, taking no notice of the slower vehicle or its passengers.

“As I was saying,” said the businessman in a calmer tone as he loosened his collar with a finger, “it might be difficult making friends on your first day at schule. You have to let people get a chance to know you, and sometimes—”

“Excuse me,” asked the girl in the back seat, “who exactly are you talking to?”

“Ah . . .” Her father laughed nervously. “Oh, it’s nothing. You know me, always the kidder. I just thought that . . . ah, forget it.”

“I know you mean well, Daddy,” said the orange-haired girl, still slouched down in her seat as far as the safety harness would allow. She started to reach in her purse, but glanced at her father and stopped herself with a sigh. The cars around them slowed until traffic was at a crawl.

“What’s going on?” the businessman wondered aloud, reddening in frustration. “Damn these people, don’t they know we’ve got to . . .” He let his words drift away. He had spotted the source of the traffic problem, and he quickly looked away and stared ahead through the windshield with a frozen expression. Beside him, the orange-haired girl sat up for a moment, also saw what was producing the slowdown, and gasped. With a shiver she once again sank down into her seat, turned her face away, and closed her eyes.

They were passing a small city park in which was erected a huge wooden scaffold with an elevated platform one story high. From the crossbar another story above that, three rope-bound bodies hung from nooses, their feet mere inches above the platform: a man, a woman, and a thin teenage girl in a blue dress. In the custom of the times, none of the bodies wore a hood covering the head, so the trio’s death agonies from slow strangulation were visible on their blackened faces. Below them, nailed to the edge of the platform, was a sign. It did not have the crime for which the three had been executed. It had only a family name.

“‘Blum-Deckler,’” said the girl in the back seat, squinting through her glasses at the sign. “Sounds Jewish, wouldn’t you say?”

“P-probably,” said her father, and he swallowed.

“The family must have been in hiding all these years since the end of the war,” said the girl in the back seat. “Their daughter looked Asian, Indochinese maybe. Hard to tell under the circumstances. I wonder if she was adopted. I can’t imagine why Jews would adopt an Asian child, but there’s certainly no accounting for tastes, is there?”

“Can we talk about something else, please?” whispered the orange-haired girl, still turned away.

The girl in back turned her emotionless gaze from the window to her younger sister. “You have something against public education, Quinn?” she asked in a deadpan tone.

Her sister shifted in her seat. “No,” she said.

The girl in back smiled again and looked out the window at the dangling bodies. “It doesn’t happen often,” she said, “but sometimes the best education you can get is free.”

No one else spoke.

Traffic sped up once they were past the park. Moments later, the Mercedes-Benz pulled into the semicircle drive in front of the school: the Lawndale National Secondary Education Campus. A gold Teutonic lion standing on its rear legs decorated one side of the building, in front of which was a tall iron statue.

“George Lincoln Rockwell,” said the girl in the back seat, eyeing the statue. “Assassinated in Dallas in the 1960s, about the time this school was built. Now, there was a true-blue American chancellor.”

The businessman gave the statue the barest glance. It was impossible to tell when his eldest daughter was being serious or sarcastic. He elected to ignore her remark. “Now, girls,” he said as he pulled to a stop before the school doors, “don’t get upset if it takes the other kids a—”

His words were cut off by the slamming of a car door. The orange-haired girl was already on her way toward the building. Her short-short skirt, deep-cut blouse, and high heels did what nothing else could. Students male and female looked up at her, did a double-take, and immediately migrated in her direction.

A pigtailed girl wearing fashionable clothing designed in Berlin waved in excitement. “Hiel!” she cried in the vernacular of the so-hip young. “Du siehst stark aus! Wie heißt du?”

“Quinn Morgendorffer,” said the orange-haired girl. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, not caring if her father saw now that she was out of the car. “Hast du Feuer?”

“Hier,” said a striking brunette in a see-through blouse, lace bra, red high heels, and hot pants. She produced a lighter and touched it to Quinn’s cigarette. “Ich mag deinen Namen.”

“Danke.” Quinn drew a deep drag on the cigarette. “Wie heißt sie?”

“Alexandra, sort of like the conqueror,” said the brunette with a slutty smirk. “Alexandra Griffin.” Her gaze went past Quinn to the blue Mercedes. Her brown eyes widened in shock.

A silence fell across the school grounds as a slight, barely five-foot-tall teenage girl got out of the back seat of the Mercedes. Her perfectly brushed auburn hair flowed freely down her back. The sun glinted off the double lightning-bolt pin on her collar and the silver buttons with gold-inlaid swastikas down the front of her dead black jacket. Her knee-length skirt and high leather boots completed her all-black wardrobe. She carried no books, only a long ebony baton dangled from an ornate strap around a belt under her jacket. The girl closed the car door with care and waved to the driver, who pulled away from school and out into traffic again. Standing alone in the bright October sun, the black-clad girl looked over the school grounds with a detached air. She never once appeared to look at another living person, as if no one else existed in her perceptions.

The morning, which had been rather warm, was now on the chilly side.

“Wer ist das?” Alexandra whispered.

Quinn gave a bitter smile. “Meine Schwester,” she said.

The color drained from Alexandra’s face as she turned to look at Quinn.

“Don’t worry,” said Quinn, accustomed to this response. “I’m not like her. You can relax.”

The brunette did not relax. She cleared her throat. “Lindberg Youth?” she said, indicating the girl, who was walking toward them now.

“Jawohl.” The bitter smile deepened. “Ehrenführer Daria Morgendorffer, Amerikanische Jugendschultzstaffel.” Seeing that Alexandra was genuinely frightened, Quinn leaned close, turning her face so her sister could not see. “Stay by my side, and you’ll have nothing to fear.”

“Danke,” whispered Alexandra. She forced herself to look away.

With a casual air, Daria walked by them on her way into the building. Three boys nearly fell over themselves opening the doors for her. She never once offered her thanks.

Quinn blew out a dragon’s breath of smoke, holding the cigarette lightly in her fingers. “Willkommen in Lawndale,” she said, watching her sister head down the hallway toward the main office. The doors then closed with a double boom and shut out the view.

[to be continued]

08/12/07