Harry Turtledove - In the Presence of Mine Enemies

Praise for

In the Presence of Mine Enemies

“Chilling.”

—East Bay Express(CA)

“The suspense of the confrontation of good and evil remains intense in Turtledove’s hands. So does the

impact of his handling of more cerebral matters such as the devolution of dictatorships and the survival of

Jews and Jewish identity.”

—Booklist(starred review)

“Engaging. Some alternate histories get so caught up in speculation about the course of history that they

forget to tell a good story, but this one manages to escape that trap.”

—Chronicle

“This novel is more than a little scary, but it has a good deal of hope embedded nicely in the structure.”

—The San Diego Union-Tribune

“In the Presence of Mine Enemiesclearly fits into Turtledove’s oeuvre, with his usual close attention to

detail, which adds a richness and verisimilitude to the alternate worlds he is creating.”

—Science Fiction Research Association Review

“Turtledove does a great job of building the suspense….In the Presence of Mine Enemies …comes to a

satisfactory conclusion even as it raises questions about what will happen next. Turtledove’s Germanic

Empire, and the people who live in it, exist beyond the bounds of the novel’s pages, providing food for

thought to the reader.”

—Changing the Times

“Harry Turtledove, the master of alternate history, has written a sweeping saga of a world where the

Fascists won and to the victors go the spoils.”

—Baryon Magazine

Ruled Britannia

ASan Francisco Chronicle Best-of-the-Year Selection

ALocus Recommended Read

“Sprinkled with literary jokes, peopled with a lively supporting cast, and filled with engaging plot

reversals,Ruled Britannia is a smart, enjoyable exercise in ‘what if?’”

—San Francisco Chronicle

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“[Turtledove’s] lines of blank verse are artful combinations of real lines from Shakespeare and the work

of some of his contemporaries.”

—The Denver Post

“An amalgam of Elizabethan stagecraft and spycraft: at once elegant and engrossing.”

—Home News Tribune(East Brunswick, NJ)

“[A] fascinating what if…. The author revels in complex turns of language and spouts brilliant

adaptations of the real Shakespeare’s immortal lines. Superbly realized historical figures…. An intricate

and thoroughly engrossing portrait of an era, a theatrical tradition, a heroic band of English brothers, and

their sneering overlords.”

—Publishers Weekly(starred review)

“Spectacular….Ruled Britannia can stand proudly beside works like Tom Stoppard’sRosencrantz and

Guildenstern Are Dead …. It extends this mini-genre in new directions, making Shakespeare into a sort

of writerly action hero.”

—Locus

“A fascinating stand-alone work…. Using Shakespeare as the hero and reluctant catalyst to signal the

beginning of the revolution is an inspired plot device, one that guarantees reader interest for more than

just Mr. Turtledove’s legion of fans.”

—Midwest Book Review

“One of his finest achievements…full of scenes that provoke tears, as well as of Turtledove’s hallmark

good humor. A thoroughly magisterial work of alternate history.”

—Booklist(starred review)

“Alternate history’s premier chronicler focuses on sixteenth-century Europe for his tale of personal

heroism and the power of language. Turtledove’s command of facts and his understanding of the period

allow him to portray his characters with believability, while his prose, liberally salted with Shakespeare’s

own words, stands as a tribute to both the man and his work.”

—Library Journal

“Successfully lands betwixt his Byzantine roots and his modern military ‘alternities.’ And this tale

alternates readily between thriller and history, with a dash of romance and a double heaping of detail

thrown in. Turtledove masterfully captures the pomp and circumstances of occupied England as he

equally masters the mode and idiom of Elizabethan dialect.”

—Talebones

“Alternate history is Turtledove’s field and no one explores the possibilities in such depth as he

does…the era comes vividly to life in his taut, all-too-possible thriller…. Chilling.”

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—Lisa DuMond, SF Site

ALSO BYHARRYTURTLEDOVE

“Daimon” in

Worlds That Weren’t

Ruled Britannia

In the Presence of Mine Enemies

Days of Infamy

IN THEPRESENCE OFMINEENEMIES

HARRY TURTLEDOVE

A ROC BOOK

ROC

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of

Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of

Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a

division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South

Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Originally published in a New American Library hardcover edition.

ISBN: 0-7865-8696-6

Part of Chapter 1 appeared in different form in the January 1992 issue ofIsaac Asimov’s Science Fiction

Magazine

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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means

(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of

both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was

reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received

any payment for this “stripped book.”

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the

permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic

editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support

of the author’s rights is appreciated.

To Ernest Turtledove, Herman Appelman,

Bernard Appelman, Harry L. Turtledove,

David R. Friesner, and Ralph Shwartz,

all of whom, along with so many others, helped ensure

that this is alternate history.

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

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Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

I

HEINRICHGIMPEL GLANCED AT THE REPORT ON HIS DESK TOmake sure how many

Reichsmarks the United States was being assessed for theWehrmacht bases by New York, Chicago,

and St. Louis. As he’d thought, the numbers were up from those of 2009. Well, the Americans might

grumble, but they’d cough up what they owed—and in hard currency, too; none of their inflated dollars.

If they didn’t, the panzer divisions might roll out of those bases and take what was owed the Germanic

Empire this year. And if they collected some blood along with their pound of flesh, the USA might

complain, but it was hardly in a position to fight back.

Heinrich entered the new figures on his computer, then saved the study he’d been working on for the

past couple of days. The Zeiss hard disk purred smoothly as it swallowed the data. He made two

backups—he was a meticulously careful man—before shutting down the machine. When he got up from

his desk, he put on his uniform greatcoat: in Berlin’s early March, winter still outblustered spring.

Willi Dorsch, who shared the office with Heinrich, got up, too. “Let’s call it a day, Heinrich,” he said,

and shook his head as he donned his own greatcoat. “How long have you been here atOberkommando

der Wehrmacht now?”

“Going on twelve years,” Heinrich answered, buttoning buttons. “Why?”

His friend cheerfully sank the barb: “All that time at the high command, and a fancy uniform to go with it,

and you still don’t look like a soldier.”

“I can’t help it,” Heinrich said with a sigh. He knew too well that Willi was right. A tall, thin, balding man

in his early forties, he had a tendency to shamble instead of parading. He wore his greatcoat as if it were

cut from the English tweeds professors still affected. Setting his high-crowned cap at a rakish angle, he

raised an eyebrow to get Willi’s reaction. Willi shook his head. Heinrich shrugged and spread his hands.

“I’ll just have to be martial for both of us,” Willi said.His cap gave him a fine dashing air. “Doing anything

for dinner tonight?” The two men lived not far from each other.

“As a matter of fact, we are. I’m sorry. Lise invited some friends over,” Heinrich said. “We’ll get

together soon, though.”

“We’d better,” Willi said. “Erika’s going on again about how she misses you. Me, I’m getting jealous.”

“Oh,Quatsch, ” Heinrich said, using the pungent Berliner word for rubbish. “Maybe she needs her

glasses checked.” Willi was blond and ruddy and muscular, none of which desirable adjectives applied to

Heinrich. “Or maybe it’s just my bridge game.”

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Willi winced. “You know how to hurt a guy, don’t you? Come on. Let’s go.”

The wind outside the military headquarters had a bite to it. Heinrich shivered inside his greatcoat. He

pointed off to the left, toward the Great Hall. “The old-timers say the bulk of that thing has messed up

our weather.”

“Old-timers always complain. That’s what makes them old-timers.” But Willi’s gaze followed Heinrich’s

finger. They both saw the Great Hall every day, but seldom really looked at it. “It’s big, all right, but is it

big enough for that? I doubt it.” His voice, though, was doubtful, too.

“You ask me, it’s big enough for damn near anything,” Heinrich said. The Great Hall had gone up sixty

years before, in the great flush of triumph after Britain and Russia fell before the planes and panzers of the

ThirdReich . It boasted a dome that reached two hundred twenty meters into the sky and was more than

two hundred fifty meters across: sixteen St. Peter’s cathedrals might have fit within the enormous

monument to the grandeur of the Aryan race. The riches of a conquered continent had paid for the

construction.

The dome itself, sheathed in weathered copper, caught the fading light like a tall green hill. At the top, in

place of a cross, stood a gilded Germanic eagle with a swastika in its claws. Atop the eagle, a red light

blinked on and off to warn away low-flying planes.

Willi Dorsch’s shiver had only a little to do with the chilly weather. “It makes me feel tiny.”

“It’s a temple to theReich and theVolk . It’s supposed to make you feel tiny,” Heinrich answered. “Set

against the needs of the German race and the state, any one manis tiny.”

“We serve them. They don’t serve us,” Willi agreed. He pointed across the Adolf Hitler Platz toward the

Führer ’s palace on the far side of the immense square next to the Great Hall. “When Speer ran the

palace up, he was worried the size of it would dwarf even our Leader himself.” And, indeed, the balcony

above the tall entranceway to theFührer ’s residence looked like an architectural afterthought.

Heinrich’s short laugh came out as a puff of steam. “Not even Speer could look ahead to see what

technology might do for him.”

“Better not let the Security Police hear you talk that way about aReichsvater .” Willi tried to laugh, too,

but the chuckle rang hollow. The Security Police were no laughing matter.

Still, Heinrich was right. When theFührer ’s palace went up, another huge eagle had surmounted the

balcony from which the Germanic Empire’s ruler might address his citizens. The eagle had been moved to

the roof when Heinrich was a boy. In its place went an enormous televisor screen. Adolf Hitler Platz held

a million people. When theFührer spoke to a crowd these days, even the ones at the back got a good

view.

A bus purred up to theOberkommando der Wehrmacht building. Heinrich and Willi got on with the rest

of the officials who greased the wheels of the mightiest military machine the world had known. One by

one, the commuters stuck their account cards into the fare slot. The bus’s computer debited each rider

eighty-five pfennigs.

The bus rolled down the broad boulevard toward South Station. Berlin’s myriad bureaucrats made up

the majority of the passengers, but not all. A fair number were tourists, come from all over the world to

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view the most wonderful and terrible avenue that world boasted. Blasé as any native, Heinrich usually

paid scant attention to the marvels of his home town. Today being what it was, though, the oohs and ahhs

of people seeing them for the first time made him notice them, too.

Sentries from theGrossdeutschland division in ceremonial uniform goose-stepped outside their barracks.

Tourists on the sidewalk, many of them Japanese, photographed theFührer ’s guards. Inside the barracks

hall, where tourists wouldn’t see them, were other troops in businesslike camouflage smocks. They had

assault rifles, not the ceremonial force’s old-fashionedGewehr 98s, and enough armored fighting vehicles

to blast Berlin to rubble. Visitors from afar were not encouraged to think about them. Neither were most

Berliners. But Heinrich reckoned upGrossdeutschland ’s budget every spring. He knew exactly what the

barracks held.

Neon lights came on in front of theaters and restaurants as darkness deepened. Dark or light, people

swarmed in and out of the huge Roman-style building that held a heated swimming pool the size of a

young lake. It was open twenty-four hours a day for those who wanted to exercise, to relax, or just to

ogle attractive members of the opposite sex. Its Berlin nickname was theHeiratbad, the marriage bath,

sometimes amended by the cynical to theHeiratbett, the marriage bed.

Past the pool, the Soldiers’ Hall and the Air and Space Ministry faced each other across the street. The

Soldiers’ Hall was a monument to the triumph of German arms. Among the exhibits it lovingly preserved

were the railroad car in which Germany had yielded to France in 1918 and France to Germany in 1940;

the first Panzer IV to enter the Kremlin compound; one of the gliders that had landed troops in southern

England; and, behind thick leaded glass, the twisted, radioactive remains of the Liberty Bell, excavated

by expendable prisoners from the ruins of Philadelphia.

Old people still called the Air and Space Ministry theReichsmarschall ’s Office, in memory of Hermann

Göring, the only man ever to hold that exalted rank. Willi Dorsch used its more common name when he

nudged Heinrich and said, “I wonder what’s happening in the Jungle these days.”

“Could be anything,” Heinrich answered. They both laughed. The roof of the ministry had been covered

with four meters of earth, partly as a protection against bombs from the air, and then lavishly planted,

partly to please Göring’s fancy (his private apartment was on the top floor). TheReichsmarschall was

almost fifty years dead, but the orgies he’d put on amidst the greenery remained a Berlin legend.

Willi said, “We aren’t the men our grandfathers were. In those days, they thought big and weren’t

ashamed to be flamboyant.” He sighed the sigh of a man denied great deeds by the time in which he

chanced to live.

“Poor us, doomed to get by on matter-of-fact competence,” Heinrich said. “The skills we need to run

the Empire are different from the ones Hitler’s generation used to conquer it.”

“I suppose so.” Willi clicked his tongue between his teeth. “I envy you your contentment here and now. I

almost joined theWehrmacht when I was just out of theHitler Jugend . Sometimes I still think I should

have. There’s a difference between this uniform”—he ran a hand down the front of his double-breasted

greatcoat—“and the ones real soldiers wear.”

“Is that your heart talking, or did you just remember you’re not eighteen years old any more?” Heinrich

said. His friend winced, acknowledging the hit. He went on, “Me, I’d fight if theVaterland needed me,

but I’m just as glad I don’t have to carry a gun.”

“We’re all probably safer because you don’t,” Willi said.

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“This is also true.” Heinrich took off his thick, gold-framed glasses. The street outside, the interior of the

bus, and even Willi next to him turned blurry and indistinct. He blinked a couple of times, then set the

glasses back on the bridge of his nose. The world regained its sharp edges.

The neon brilliance of the street outside dimmed as the bus went past the shops and theaters and started

picking up passengers from the Ministries of the Interior, Transportation, Economics, and Food.More

uniforms that don’t have soldiers in them, Heinrich thought. The buildings from which the new riders came

were shutting down for the day.

Two ministries, though, like theOberkommando der Wehrmacht, never slept. A new shift went into the

Justice Ministry to replace the workers who left for home. German justice could not close its eyes, and

woe betide the criminal or racial mongrel upon whom its all-seeing gaze settled. Himself a thoroughly

law-abiding man, Heinrich still shivered a little whenever he passed that marble-fronted hall.

The Colonial Ministry stayed busy, too. Much of the world fell under its purview: the farming villages in

the Ukraine, the mining colonies in central Africa, the Indian tea plantations, the cattle herders on the

plains of North America. As if picking that last thought from Heinrich’s mind, Willi Dorsch said, “How

many Americans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

“The Americans have always been in the dark.” Heinrich clucked sadly. “Your father was telling that

one, Willi.”

“If he was, he sounded more relieved than I do. The Yankees might have been tough.”

“Might-have-beens don’t count, fortunately.” Isolation and neutrality had kept the United States from

paying heed as potential allies in Europe went down one after another. It faced the Germanic Empire and

Japan alone a generation later—and the oceans weren’t wide enough to shield it from robot bombs.

Now it was trying to get back on its feet, but theReich didn’t intend to let it.

Just ahead lay another monument to German victory: Hitler’s Arch of Triumph. Heinrich had been to

Paris on holiday and seen the Arc d’Triomphe at the end of the Champs-Elysées. It served as a model

for Berlin’s arch, and was a model in scale as well. The Arc d’Triomphe was only—only!—about fifty

meters tall, less than half the height of its titanic successor. The Berlin arch was almost a hundred seventy

meters wide and also a hundred seventeen meters deep, so that the bus spent a good long while under it,

as if traversing a tunnel through a hillside.

When at last it emerged, South Station lay not far ahead. The station building made an interesting

contrast to the monumental stone piles that filled the rest of the avenue. Its exterior was copper sheeting

and glass, giving the traveler a glimpse of the steel ribs that formed its skeleton.

The bus stopped at the edge of the station plaza. Along with everyone else, Heinrich and Willi filed off

and hurried across the square toward the waiting banks of elevators and escalators. They walked

between more displays of weapons from Germany’s fallen foes: the wreckage of a British fighter shown

inside a lucite cube, a formidable-looking Russian panzer, the conning tower of an American U-boat.

“Into the bowels of the earth,” Willi murmured as he reached out to grab the escalator handrail. The train

to Stahnsdorf boarded on the lowest of the station’s four levels.

Signs and arrows and endless announcements over the loudspeaker system should have made getting

lost inside the railway station impossible. Heinrich and Willi found their way to the commuter train without

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conscious thought. So did most Berliners. But the swarms of tourists were grit in the smooth machine.

Uniformed boys from theHitler Jugend and girls from theBund deutscher Mädel helped those for whom

even the clearest instructions were not clear enough.

All the same, the natives grumbled when foreigners got in the way. Dodging around an excited Italian

who’d dropped his cheap suitcase so he could use both hands to gesture at a Hitler Youth in brown shirt,

swastika armband, andLederhosen, Willi growled, “People like that deserve to be sent to the showers.”

“Oh, come on, Willi, let him live,” Heinrich answered mildly.

“You’re too soft,” his friend said. But they rounded the last corner and came to their waiting area. Willi

looked at the schedule display on the wall, then at his watch. “Five minutes till the next one. Not bad.”

“No,” Heinrich said. The train pulled into the station within thirty seconds of the appointed time. Heinrich

thought nothing of it as he followed Willi into a car. He noticed only the very rare instances when the train

was late. As the two men had done on the bus, they put their account cards into the fare slot and sat

down. As soon as the computer’s count of fares matched the car’s capacity, the doors hissed shut. Three

more cars filled behind them. Then the train began to move. Acceleration pressed Heinrich back against

the synthetic fabric of his seat.

Twenty minutes later, an electronic voice rang tinnily from the roof-mounted speakers: “Stahnsdorf! This

stop is Stahnsdorf! All out for Stahnsdorf!”

Heinrich and Willi were standing in front of the doors when they hissed open again. The two commuters

hopped off and hurried through the little suburban station to the bus stop outside. Another five minutes

and Willi got up from the local bus. “See you tomorrow, Heinrich.”

“Say hello to Erika for me.”

“I’m not sure I ought to,” Willi said. Both men laughed. Dorsch got off the bus and trotted toward his

house, which stood three doors down from the corner.

Heinrich Gimpel rode on for another few stops. Then he got off, too. His own house lay at the end of a

cul-de-sac, so he had to walk for a whole block.It’s healthy for me, he told himself, a consolation easier

to enjoy in spring and summer than in winter.

Thesnick of his key going into the lock brought shouts of, “Daddy!” from inside the house. He smiled,

opened the door, and picked up each of his three girls in turn for a hug and a kiss. They ranged down in

age from ten by two-year steps.

Then he lifted his wife as well. Lise Gimpel squawked; that wasn’t part of the evening ritual. The girls

giggled. “Put me down!” Lise said indignantly.

“Not till I get my kiss.”

She made as if to bite his nose instead, but then let him kiss her. He set her feet back on the carpet and

held her a little longer before letting her go. She made a pleasant armful: a green-eyed brunette several

years younger than he who’d kept her figure very well. When he released her, she hurried back toward

the kitchen. “I want to finish cooking before everyone gets here.”

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“All right.” He smiled as he watched her retreat. While he hung up his greatcoat and took off his tie, his

daughters regaled him with tales out of school. He listened to three simultaneous stories as best he could.

Lise came out again long enough to hand him a goblet of liebfraumilch, then started away.

The chimes rang before she got out of the front room. She whirled and stared at the door. “I am going to

boot Susanna right into the net,” she declared.

Heinrich looked at his watch. “She’s only ten minutes early tonight. And you know she’s always early,

so you should have been ready.”

“Hmp,” Lise said while he went in to let in their friend. Meanwhile, the girls started chorusing, “Susanna

is a football! Aunt Susanna is a football!”

“Heinrich, why are they calling me a football?” Susanna Weiss demanded. She craned her neck to look

up at him. “I’m short, yes, and I’m not emaciated like you, but I’m not round, either.” She shrugged out

of a mink jacket and thrust it into his hands. “Here, see to this.”

Chuckling, he clicked his heels. “Jawohl, meine Dame.”

She accepted the deference as no less than her due. “Fräulein DoktorProfessor will suffice, thank you.”

She taught medieval English literature at Friedrich Wilhelm University. Suddenly abandoning her imperial

manner, she started to laugh, too. “Now that you’ve hung that up, how about a hug?”

“Lise’s not watching. I suppose I can get away with it.” Heinrich put his arms around her. She barely

came up to his shoulder, but her vitality more than made up for lack of size. When he let go, he said,

“Why don’t you go into the kitchen? You can pretend to help Lise while you soak up our Glenfiddich.”

“Scotch almost justifies the existence of Scotland,” Susanna said. “It’s a cold, gloomy, rocky place, so

they had to make something nice to keep themselves warm.”

“If that’s why people drink it, your boyfriend is lucky he didn’t set himself on fire here a couple of years

ago.”

“Myformer boyfriend,danken Gott dafür .” All the same, Susanna blushed to the roots of her hair. Her

skin was very fine and fair, which let Heinrich watch the flush advance from her throat. “I hadn’t found

out he was a drunk yet, Heinrich.”

“I know,” he said gently. If he teased her too hard, she’d lose her temper, and nothing and nobody was

safe if that happened. “Go on. Lise’s trying that recipe you sent her.”

The girls waylaid Susanna before she got to the kitchen. Though she’d never been married, she made an

excellent ersatz aunt. She took children seriously, listened to what they had to say, and treated them like

small adults. Heinrich smiled. Come to that, she was a small adult herself. He knew better than to say so

out loud.

Walther and Esther Stutzman arrived a few minutes later, along with their son, Gottlieb, and daughter,

Anna. Anna promptly went off with the Gimpel girls; she was a year older than Alicia, the eldest of the

three. Heinrich Gimpel stared at Gottlieb. “Good heavens, is that a mustache?”

The younger male Stutzman touched a finger to the space between his nose and upper lip. “It’s going to

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Harry Turtledove - In the Presence of Mine Enemies

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