He might win the battle, Volker thought, but he might lose the war.
“I’ve relieved Gath and dispatched him to take command of the counteroffensive forces,” Voss said, into the silence. “I’m not going to abandon Berlin as long as you’re here.”
Volker gave him a brief smile. He’d never liked Voss – the Field Marshal was too much of a Junker for his tastes, heir to a tradition that had endured fifty years of Nazi rule – but he had to admit the man had nerve. He could have taken command of one of the counteroffensive forces – either in person or from the field HQ – and no one would have said a word against him. Staying in Berlin as the noose tightened was the mark of a good man.
“Thank you,” he said, quietly.
“You’re not leaving either,” Voss pointed out. “Have you made preparations for the future if… if the worst happens?”
Volker nodded, although he hoped none of them would be necessary. The provisional government couldn’t hope to survive for long if it lost Berlin. Germany, already starting to fragment, would shatter. The bonds holding the Reich together would come apart. Towns and cities would start operating independently, while each and every military officer with substantial firepower under his command would become a warlord. Holliston couldn’t hope to hold the Reich together through anything, but force. After what he’d done…
No one trusts the SS any longer, Volker thought. But then, no one in the west trusted them anyway.
He sighed. He’d made no attempt to conceal what the SS had done, either the handful of significant atrocities or the hundreds of tiny crimes, each one representing a blow at the German people. The refugees shot down for being in the way, the men dragged out and executed for not being in the military, the women and young girls who had been brutally raped… And yet, making them public might have been a mistake. It had fired up anger and hatred, true, but it had also made people fearful. It was impossible to tell just how many of them would remain willing to fight, after Berlin fell.
“We will have to do our best to stop them here,” he said, sternly. “I hope – I pray – that the soldiers are catching their breath.”
“They are,” Voss said. “Do you wish to address them?”
Volker concealed his amusement with an effort. He’d been a Waffen-SS paratrooper, after all, and he’d always hated it when a headquarters officer, someone who wore a clean uniform that had clearly never seen war, took time out to address the tired and grimy soldiers as they returned from their last operation. They’d all wanted nothing more than a bite to eat and a place to rest, but the uniformed politicians had never seemed to realise it. Volker was damned if he was making the same mistake.
“I’ll press the flesh once they’ve had a chance to recuperate,” he said, firmly. “I trust you made sufficient preparations for their accommodations?”
“Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said. He paused. “There’s also the issue of medals and awards for the soldiers. And a handful of battlefield promotions that need to be confirmed.”
Volker sighed. Medals came with financial rewards – or they had, before the economic crisis started to bite. Give a man the Knight’s Cross and he’d expect a boosted pension, if he didn’t take the money and spend it on drink and whores. It had been one of the many – many – problems facing the Reich.
“Confirm the promotions, unless you feel there’s something that should be looked at more carefully,” he ordered. “But don’t grant any medals. We’re going to have to make sure that there aren’t any additional costs involved.”
Voss looked disappointed. “The men try to earn medals for the rewards,” he said. “They need them.”
“And we don’t have the money,” Volker reminded him. “Paying the troops is going to be a nightmare.”
“Kurt,” a voice called. “Herr Hauptman!”
“I haven’t had the promotion confirmed yet,” Kurt said, as he turned to face his old friend. “And I see you’ve been promoted too.”
Hauptman Bernhard Schrupp puffed out his chest. “They finally had to give me a promotion,” he said, catching Kurt by the arm. “My natural beauty eventually overcame them.”
“I think it was the scraping noise as you tried to get your head through the door,” Kurt said, deadpan. “Who did you have to kill to get promoted?”
“They were asking for volunteers to block a couple of roads and I didn’t jump backwards in time,” Schrupp said. “And we did the job, so we were rewarded.”
He elbowed Kurt, non-too-gently. “Did you get a day of leave?”
“Technically,” Kurt said. He’d been given strict orders to stay within a kilometre of the makeshift barracks, which meant that going home to see his parents or siblings was out of the question. “But only technically.”
“You mean you are tied to the barracks with a piece of string,” Schrupp said. “Honestly! You’d think we were dogs!”
“Of course not,” Kurt said. “Dogs are fed better.”
“You got that right,” Schrupp said. He caught Kurt’s arm and pulled him forward. “Come with me.”
Kurt pulled back. “Where are we going?”
“To a place we can now go,” Schrupp said, with a wink. “You’ll love it.”
Kurt frowned, torn between curiosity and the urge to disagree. Schrupp might have found something interesting – a bar perhaps – or it might be something he’d be forced to disapprove of on principle. But he was technically on leave… he glanced up at the dark sky, then followed Schrupp down the road and past a pair of armed guards, standing outside a mid-sized building that was completely blacked out. The guards glanced at the rank insignias and let them through without comment. Inside, a middle-aged woman wearing a long sleeveless dress smiled cheerfully at the two young men.
“Hah,” Schrupp said. “Who’s available tonight?”
Kurt stopped, dead. “Is this a brothel?”
“Better than that, Kurt,” Schrupp said. “This is an officers brothel. None of your two-mark tarts here! The girls actually know how to do interesting things with their mouths.”
He elbowed Kurt, then tugged him towards the peepholes. “We can’t eat or drink, but at least we can be merry,” he added. “For tomorrow we may die.”
Kurt felt his cheeks reddening as he peered through the peepholes. A dozen girls were on the far side, wearing nothing more than their underwear. The youngest looked to be a year or two younger than him, although it was hard to be sure. They had covered themselves with cosmetics to hide any imperfections. He found himself staring at them, despite his embarrassment. He’d known the brothels existed, but he’d never dared go. The stories he’d heard had put him off.
“Choose a number,” the woman said, cheerfully. “Or two numbers, if you wish.”
“Two in bed,” Schrupp hissed. “Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Kurt found himself unable to speak. He’d always assumed that he wouldn’t lose his virginity until he got serious with a girl, although his father had promised to beat him black and blue if he got someone pregnant before he married her. Kurt had wondered, despite himself, if his parents had had to marry in a hurry, even though it was hardly unusual in the Reich. But that wouldn’t be a risk in a brothel. The girls would have been treated to make it impossible.