THE FÜHRER'S DAUGHTER (Episode 1)

  THE FÜHRER’S DAUGHTER

  Episode I

  JOSHUA GRAHAM

  New York Times bestselling author

  with

  JACK PATTERSON

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  THE FÜHRER’S DAUGHTER (Episode 1)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE STORY CONTINUES

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE.

  I’m not the world’s most patient person. I don’t like waiting in long lines, waiting a year for a favorite author’s next book to release, and I really can’t stand it when my favorite TV show ends for an entire season, forcing me to wait months before it starts up again (if it gets renewed.)

  Can you relate?

  If you’re anything like me, you’ll probably appreciate the reading experience into which you’re about to enter: The first installment of a serialized novel called THE FÜHRER’S DAUGHTER. Just like your favorite TV shows with heart-pounding thrills and cliff-hanger endings that leave you shouting at the screen as the closing credits roll, you’ll get to experience a novel an episode at a time.

  How it works: THE FÜHRER’S DAUGHTER is a novel told in five parts or “episodes”, averaging about 80-100 pages long. There are two ways you can immerse yourself in the experience:

  Read the novel in episodes, one at a time in sequence as each releases, like a weekly television show, starting with this ebook—Episode 1. (To get insider information about episode release dates and other members only perks, including a monthly $100 gift card giveaway, be sure to sign up for my free newsletter.)

  OR

  Read the entire novel as a complete book which includes all five episodes of THE FÜHRER’S DAUGHTER, kind of like adding an entire season of 24 or to your Netflix or Amazon Prime Video queue.

  As modern people we’re all impatient, but we also love fast paced thrills. That’s why I wanted to share the unfolding experience of this novel with you in a way I know you’ll enjoy.

  However you choose to read this novel, I pledge to draw you into a unique adventure in a world where all is not as it appears. And the disturbing “what if?” questions that arise which only you can answer.

  All right, hold on tight to your eReader, because you won’t want to miss a single word or detail of what awaits in the coming pages.

  Joshua Graham

  www.joshgraham.net

  THE FÜHRER’S DAUGHTER is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2014 Joshua Graham

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Redhaven Books.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First Edition

  Cover Design by Dan Pitts

  Dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust (in total approximately 11 million, including over 1 million children).

  May their light never be extinguished.

  “Who controls the past controls the future.”

  —George Orwell, 1984

  “History is written by the victors.”

  —Winston Churchill

  In 1944, Adolf Hitler dispatched a pair of Horten H.XVIIIs to drop atomic bombs on Manhattan and Chicago.

  The unconditional surrender of the majority of the United States followed, essentially bringing the war to an abrupt end.

  PROLOGUE

  Himmlerstadt 1997

  ANNE SCUFFLED FORWARD, engulfed by the mass of humanity around her and the knowledge that soon she would be dead. Imposing gun turrets framed the gray sky above, casting an iron gaze down into the camp, as she tried to vanish behind the others. For hours, she’d marched around the grounds with her fellow prisoners through the frigid morning mist, praying to live another day.

  Without turning her head, she whispered to Prisoner 225, a woman next to her whom she’d never before seen. “How long?”

  “Seventeen days.”

  “Me, too.”

  No one she’d met here in Himmlerstadt had been around longer than that.

  Don’t think about it. Just keep moving.

  Holding her infant daughter tight against her bosom, she said another prayer, her heart clenched and eyes alert. The crowd stopped but she kept her head down, barely recognizing her reflection in a puddle. Her once silky brown hair had been replaced by a matted mess.

  Her second night here, one of the other prisoners had lent her a brush.

  Neither she nor the brush had been seen since.

  A guard grabbed Prisoner 225. “You! Come with me!”

  Anne kept her head down and shut her eyes.

  Have mercy on my baby, Lord.

  Eyes squeezed shut, she stumbled as another guard yanked her to the side by her arm.

  “Let’s go, Infekt!”

  Anne stiffened. “What? No!”

  He pointed the muzzle of his gun at her forehead. “Move!”

  She cried out, unable to keep from collapsing to her knees. Clinging to her daughter, she started to weep.

  The guard swore in German, chambered a round and pointed his gun at her face. “Get up, NOW!”

  But she could not move. Knowing what was to come, she gazed upon her daughter’s innocent face. With a tremulous voice, she sang a Hebrew lullaby: “Numi, numi yaldati, Numi, numi, nim. Numi, numi k'tanati, Numi, numi, nim.”

  Her tears fell onto the infant’s cheeks.

  With an indignant huff, the guard seized Anne by the collar, then dragged her through the mud to a cinderblock wall where a few others, including Prisoner 225 stood.

  Again, he pointed his gun at her. “I said get up!”

  Still kneeling, Anne held the baby tight, sobbing quietly. “Mama loves you, always remember.”

  The soldier grunted, reached down, and pried her daughter from her arms. A frantic wave tore through Anne’s exhausted stupor.

  “No! Not my baby! Not my baby!”

  Standing nearby, a tall female official came and took the child from the soldier.

  Anne got up and lunged for her daughter, only to be stopped by the butt of the guard’s rifle slamming into her stomach.

  “Up by the wall!”

  Tears blurred her vision.

  Her baby started to wail.

  Anne turned away, hot tears streaming down her face. She wiped them with the back of her h
and, drew a deep breath. Once more she turned to look at her daughter.

  “She will be all right,” the female official said.

  “Please,” Anne sobbed. “Don’t let her see this.”

  The woman turned the baby away from the scene.

  Anne glanced around at her fellow prisoners, most of them uttering prayers of some sort.

  The woman on her left shook uncontrollably, her words seeping through clenched teeth. “Allahu Akbar…Allahu Akbar.”

  A guard pulled her hijab away revealing a shaved head, “How did you manage to keep this?”

  “Allahu Akbar….”

  “Dog! You should pray to me!” He pressed his gun into the side of her head.

  With a single shot, her prayers stopped dead.

  The blast jolted Anne, but her gaze remained affixed to her baby who was screaming in fear.

  Prisoner 429, a black woman at Anne’s right drew a shaky breath. “Jesus, save me…”

  “Praying to a Jew!” The other guard spat on the woman, then shot her in the back of her head.

  “Enough of this!” the lead guard shouted. “Kill them all!”

  Anne turned around and called out to her daughter. “Miriam!”

  The female official tried, but couldn’t prevent the baby from turning around. Eyes wide, her tiny fingers reached out for her mother.

  A single shot resounded through the camp.

  The stench of gunpowder and blood wafted through the air.

  The baby winced, then became still.

  “There, there, Schatzi. Everything will be all right,” the woman holding her said, as she wiped away drops of Anne's blood from the baby’s face.

  CHAPTER ONE

  New Berlin 2015

  A THUNDERCLAP RATTLED the windows and jolted Grace awake. Heart racing, she sat straight up in her bed, blinked a couple of times, and strained to see through the bleary gloom. Raindrops thrummed against the windows as lightning flashes lit the room. Catching her breath, she struggled to gain her bearings. Her recurring nightmare had been mercifully interrupted by an act of nature.

  The clock’s red LED stung her eyes.

  9:30 PM.

  Father will be upset.

  She switched on the lamp by her bed, rubbed her eyes, then examined herself in the mirror hanging on the wall facing her. Even in the dimness of night, her silky brown hair shimmered. But it was a mess—certainly not appropriate for the state dinner taking place two floors below her room.

  For which she was late.

  Father’s meticulous demands required an attention to detail that Grace learned to embrace over time. If she had her way, her room would be covered with modern photography and abstract art. Instead, a single-framed watercolor of the Rhine River by the light switch served as the only decoration on the wall. “What’s it like to live in the Führer’s Palace?” the media always asked.

  Not as glamorous as you’d think.

  It felt more like a museum than a home. But she’d never say such things. She was the Führer’s daughter, darling of the nation, role model to young people not just here in the Aryan States of America, but throughout the entire German Empire. Though it was at times a burden, she had to admit that nearly eighteen years of age, the life of a beloved public figure had its benefits.

  She brushed her hair and put on a dress Father deemed appropriate for such occasions. “Always look your best,” he would say. “People young and old look up to you. By your appearance, people perceive greatness.”

  He repeated a handful of mantras often—foundational truths, as he was so fond of calling them. Grace applied lipstick, smacked her lips together, and smiled. She had neither Mother nor Father’s blue eyes—hers were brown—but Mother always said she loved how they sparkled with life. Anyway, her beauty was for public perception, for the sake of national pride, and what mattered most to Grace was Father’s pride, whenever he presented her.

  She descended the steps into the main entryway. Father stood near the foot of the stairs with several government officials, including the emissary from the Fatherland and his aid.

  “Grace,” Father said, kissing her on the cheek. “You’ve missed dinner.”

  “I seem to have lost track of the time,” she said, in that perfect balance of charm and poise.

  “You must forgive me,” Father said to the ambassador and the other dignitaries. “I fear that I have not adequately nourished my daughter’s sense of decorum.”

  “Nonsense,” the silver-haired German Emissary said. He bowed slightly, took Grace’s gloved hand and kissed it. “Fraulein, The Kaiser and his son send their personal greetings to you from das Vaterland. They look forward to seeing you at your upcoming confirmation ceremony.”

  “I am honored,” she said and inclined her head graciously. The ceremony was to take place in just a matter of days. Upon her eighteenth birthday, by Imperial decision, she would be confirmed as regent over the Third District, which included certain jurisdictions of the nation’s capital. She would still report directly to her father, the Führer, and until she was about twenty-five and well-married, her authority would be primarily symbolic, but this moment of glory—her confirmation, with all its pomp and circumstance, televised before the entire empire, was the day she’d prepared for all her life. And it would be simply marvelous, if not for the fact that she’d have to make an historic speech.

  “Grace,” Mother said quietly, snapping her out of her stupor, “the kitchen staff has saved a plate for you.”

  Grace turned to Father.

  He offered a gracious smile and nodded. “Run along, Schatzi.”

  “Yes, Father.” She kissed him, then Mother, and inclined her head to the Emissary. “Guten abend.”

  Impressed, he raised his eyebrows and regarded Father. “Spoken without a trace of an accent.”

  As Father proceeded to embarrass her by boasting of all her accolades and achievements, Grace quietly slipped away into the hallway.

  Liebestodt from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde filled the air. Though she’d heard Birgit Nilsson’s passionate rendition a thousand times, it always instilled a sense of majesty whenever it resounded through the palace walls. It had been the favorite opera of the Kaiser’s grandfather, Adolf Hitler. Rumor had it that he’d kept a copy of its score in his rucksack, as a young man.

  These were the moments that made Grace feel like a princess.

  She glided down an endless corridor until she came upon a pair of French doors leading to the veranda. She opened them, and drew a long breath. The storm had passed and the moon was pushing through the fissures in the clouds. Through them, a star bright enough to be seen over the capital city of New Berlin’s skyline flickered in the firmament.

  “Cherry blossoms are starting to bloom, Miss Grace,” a kindly voice said.

  She turned around to find Miles Beaty, the Negro chief servant, standing a few paces away. Hair greying, Miles was well into his fifties, though fit as a man half his age. He had deservedly risen well above others of his kind in the Belegschaft, the workforce.

  “Truly? Doesn’t it seems a bit early?”

  “I’d never lie to you, Miss Grace.”

  “In that case, tell me, isn’t this music just magical?”

  “Lady Ella singing Every Time We Say Goodbye–now that’s magical.”

  “Palace life has taught you much about diplomacy,” she said, recalling those moments when she would steal away and listen to his secret playlist in the digital archives. “Though you’ve become proficient in evading my questions.”

  “Like I said, Miss Grace. I’d never lie to you.”

  She laughed and strolled around, admiring the blooming garden just beyond the pool that abutted the veranda.

  Miles fell in step just behind her. “Nice night for a walk.”

  “You read my mind.” She sauntered about, inspecting the fragrant flora. Years ago, Father had abdicated control of the garden, allowing her and Mother to cultivate a palate of exquisite colors. He�
�d declared the garden a requisite work of art on the property.

  A work he cared nothing for.

  Grace glanced around the garden area once more, then looked back toward the palace. A few meters off, Miles stood at the ready while a young soldier paced the outskirts of the veranda, keeping watch.

  Now seated on the edge of the pool, Grace pulled the hem of her skirt just above her knees, and slipped her feet in. It was far too early in spring for swimming, but she afforded herself the pleasure of dipping her toes and splashing the water.

  “You’re not going for a swim, are you?” the soldier said.

  She peered over her shoulder to get a better look.

  It was Freidrich von Becker. Though she would never let him know, she found the fair-headed young soldier quite handsome, if not a bit shy. “Well, Herr Becker, would you join me if I did?” she said, and returned her gaze to the illuminated pool.

  “I’m not supposed to speak with you, much less…” he craned his neck and glanced at the water, or perhaps her bare knees “…go swimming.”

  “I see.” She swirled the water with her legs, then paused for a moment before regarding him severely. “So, you’re a rebel?”

  “No, ma’am, I most certainly am not.” He stiffened. “Forgive me, I was out of line.”

  Relaxing into a playful grin, she laughed. “Well, you’d make a poor excuse for one, anyway. A rebel wouldn’t apologize.”

  “Yes—I mean, no.” He looked away. “Sorry, ma’am. I should not have spoken.”

  “Still apologizing?” She stood and walked over to him. His back looked rigid as a flagpole. “And don’t freeze up like that,” she said, gently patting his cheek, imitating Father’s basso profundo. “A dour countenance is no way to win friends.”