CHARLIE TAGGART WAS A GOOD NAZI.
Or so everyone thought. Charlie himself knew that wasn’t true.
At sixteen years old, he knew he was not a Nazi like the others, and he would never be a Nazi. But he couldn’t risk not appearing to be one.
That would be dangerous. No, on the surface he was just as good and as loyal a Nazi as anyone else in Amerika. Today was one of those days when it was important to be counted amongst the Nazis. April 20th, 2016 was, like all the other April 20ths, a special day. A day of parades and celebrations to mark the anniversary of Adolf Hitler’s birth.
If the dictator had lived, he would have been one hundred and twenty-six years old on this bright Spring morning. But his memory and his work lived on, an inspiration to people all over the Greater Third Reich. And no more so than in New York City, where thousands thronged the streets to watch the parades.
Of course, just like Charlie, there were many spectators who only pretended enthusiasm at the spectacle of the massed tanks, rocket launchers and huge missile trucks that passed endlessly before them. But they kept their thoughts to themselves.
They might wave heartily at the ranks of goose-stepping soldiers and give the stiff-armed Nazi salute to the Generals and Party Leaders who passed in gleaming limousines. They even smiled and cheered for the children of the Amerika Youth who skipped by, garlanded in flowers and each one bearing the familiar red and white armband with its black swastika that was the emblem of the Party.
But in their hearts, they resented and hated their oppressors. So, Charlie Taggart was not alone in faking his approval and enthusiasm. It was far too dangerous not to. In a crowd like this one, there were sure to be those who would report any ‘anti-social’ behavior to the feared secret police — the Gestapo. Another cheer went up, as above their heads the crowd saw the twin Führers appear on the gigantic video screens suspended high above the intersection of W. 54th and 6th Avenue.
Since their father’s death in 1984 at the grand old age of 95, Hitler’s sons, Erich and Johann, had ruled the Third Reich. It was a vast territory stretching from the west coast of what used to be the United States, across the Atlantic to Europe, and Churchill’s Gold 7 eastwards to the border with the Japanese territories of the former Soviet Union. Charlie sighed with disgust as he watched the twin Führers wave and smile on the video screens. Beside him, his friend Andy chuckled.
“What’s funny?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just the expression on your face whenever you see the Terrible Twins.”
Charlie glanced around uneasily. “Sshh, don’t let anyone hear you…”
“Relax, Charlie,” Andy said. “Who could hear anything above this noise anyway?”
The snarl and roar of passing military vehicles was replaced by martial music as an S.S. Marching Band came swaggering down 6th Avenue, trumpets blaring, drums thumping like a gigantic heartbeat, and cymbals crashing.
Behind them marched the black-uniformed ranks of the S.S.1st Division Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler, the most famous regiment in history.
As every American schoolchild knew, these were the same battalions that had overrun Moscow in 1943, removed the Communists from power, and installed surviving members of the Romanov family to the Russian Czardom.
The same regiment that, in the winter of 1940, had been the spearhead that landed on the English shores, quickly overcoming all resistance, and placing Nazi sympathizers King Edward and his consort, Queen Wallis, back onto the English throne.
A hush swept over the crowd for a moment. All that could be heard was the colossal stamp of leather jackboots in perfect synchronization.
Then, so low it was almost as if they were flying between the Manhattan skyscrapers, came a formation of Heinkel supersonic fighter jets — red, white, and black smoke streaming from the edges of their wings in a fantail of patriotic color.
The noise was immense. The crowd gasped and then cheered, thousands of citizens raising their arms in the Party salute and shouting ‘Heil Hitler!’
At that moment, Charlie noticed a man and a woman pushing through the crowd.
The man was burly, clean shaven and wearing a grey suit a size too small for him. The woman was blonde, her hair tied back severely. She too wore a suit, under a knee-length leather coat.
Both she and the man pushed people aside roughly, without apology, their eyes fixed towards the rear of the crowd. Charlie knew at once that they were Gestapo. He turned to look at what had interested them and saw that an elderly woman had clambered up on the statue in the middle of Pettibone Plaza — the statue of Henry Pettibone himself, the financial genius who had rescued the economies of the failing Western democracies for the Nazi conquerors back in the 1950s.
Charlie tapped Andy’s arm and got his attention. “Look,” he said.
“Leave it alone, Charlie,” Andy said after a quick glance. “Maybe all she wants is a better view?”
“You’re not allowed to climb statues,” Andy said.
“Look away. Don’t forget the cameras. They’re watching everything.”
But Charlie was already following the Gestapo agents through the crowd, and Andy felt obliged to follow. The old woman had managed to climb up onto the pedestal and was hanging on to the statue’s outstretched arm.
Charlie could now see that she was most likely a vagrant of some sort.
Her clothes were filthy and torn, her hair a matted rat’s nest. He’d heard of ‘street people’, but he’d never seen one.
It was against the law not to dress properly or to be without a home. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the old woman began to shout in a thin, tremulous voice that steadily strengthened.
“USA!” she shouted. “USA! USA! Down with the dirty Nazis! USA!” People in the crowd turned in her direction, and the old woman was now screaming, “USA! USA!”
The Gestapo agents broke into a run, pushing people aside. The female agent got there first, grabbing the old lady’s ankles and yanking her down.
Those people nearby quickly moved away, and Charlie saw the Gestapo man kick the old woman, then pull her up by the hair.
The old woman screamed, and the agent punched her in the mouth. A black Mercedes police van appeared, driving across Pettibone Plaza, blue lights flashing.
The two Gestapo agents dragged the barely conscious old woman away. Her heels dragged and both her shoes came off. An officer jumped out of the van and held open the rear doors.
The Gestapo agents tossed the old lady inside. The doors slammed shut, and the van moved off. It had all taken less than two minutes.
“Where do you think she’ll end up?” Andy asked in an undertone.
“Nowhere good,” Charlie replied. “The way I heard it, they’ve got camps in Kanada for ‘anti-social elements’.
A black and red Messerschmitt surveillance helicopter weaved into sight, coming through the skyscraper canyons. It hovered over Pettibone Plaza for a moment, the pilot watching the crowd.
“We should go,” Charlie said. “Before we get our picture taken.”
“Too late for that,” Andy said with a grin. The pair threaded their way out of the Plaza, leaving the crowds behind.
Charlie walked deep in thought. Andy kept glancing at him, and finally said, “Did what happen back there upset you that much?”
“We should do something,” Charlie said.
“Do what? Climb a statue? Yell slogans for a country that doesn’t exist anymore? Get arrested and sent to a camp for re-education?”
“No, I mean really do something,” said Charlie. “Do you remember The ‘Sons of Liberty’?”
“The ‘Sons of Liberty’ was a joke, Charlie. Something we used to play at when we were kids. It wasn’t serious.”
“But it could be.” Andy sighed. “
“We shouldn’t just talk; we should act. I want to get everyone together. Tonight. I’m not joking, Andy. Can you do it? Can you get everyone to come for nine o’clock?”
“No cells, no texts, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, Charlie,” Andy said. “Just don’t get us all arrested or killed. Promise?”
“Promise,” said Charlie, and smiled.
