Horst gave her a concerned look. “I’ll walk you to her apartment,” he said. “And then I’ll wait outside.”
Gudrun opened her mouth to argue, then nodded reluctantly. There was at least one spy in the Reichstag itself, perhaps two. And if there was a spy on the council itself… that spy wouldn’t be connected to any other spies. He’d be too valuable to go sneaking into Horst’s bedroom to leave notes and instructions.
“Very well,” she said.
Her mother had moved into the Reichstag almost as soon as she’d been asked, after a brief show of reluctance. Gudrun had been relieved, even though it meant she’d be living far too close to yet another pair of prying eyes. It ensured her mother’s safety even in such trying times. But, at the same time, her mother couldn’t be protected completely. She’d become far too involved with the various female protest groups.
“Gudrun,” her mother called, when she entered. “How are you?”
Gudrun swallowed as Horst checked the room, then left, closing the door behind him. Her mother had been just as inflexible as her father, although in a very different way. Gudrun had never been the ideal daughter; indeed, they had never really understood one another. And yet, being the only two women in the house had brought them together more than either of them might have wished.
Her mother eyed her for a long moment. “Problems with him?”
“A few,” Gudrun said. Hadn’t her life been so much simpler last year? “Is that normal?”
“Yes,” her mother said. She waved Gudrun to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about it.”
Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler had been to Berlin more times than he cared to recall, although he’d never really liked the city. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on, a sense – perhaps – that there were just too many different attitudes clashing together in close proximity. Germanica was cleaner and simpler, the work of an architect who’d built on the ashes of a dead city. Berlin… was a dark city.
And it would be hell to take, he thought, as he surveyed the growing defences through his binoculars. The last contingency plans to defend Berlin had been drawn up in the 1960s, back when there had been a major disagreement between the Reich and America that could have easily led to war, but that had been before the sprawling had just exploded out into the countryside. Now, Berlin was huge, far larger than any city the Reich had had to take by force… and most of his men would be utterly unprepared for the role.
“They don’t seem to have any panzers,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck pointed out, thoughtfully. “Just… antitank weapons.”
Alfred snorted, rudely. If there was one thing he’d learned during the war, it was that the Panzer XI – the finest tank in the world, according to the designers – had a number of nasty little flaws. Someone had sold the Reich a bill of goods, he’d concluded, after reading the umpteenth report of missiles punching through the panzer’s forward armour plating; someone was going to die, when he got his hands on them. But it was something that would have to wait until the end of the war.
“The panzers will be torn apart if they get into Berlin,” he said. Panzers were rarely useful in close confines, as the Waffen-SS had found out more than once. “It will be primarily an infantry operation.”
He closed his eyes in pain. His stormtroopers did have advantages, they’d discovered, but the Wehrmacht soldiers were hardly weaklings. They’d managed a successful series of engagements, followed by quick retreats, that had bloodied his forces while denying him a shot at a quick victory. He’d hoped to crush one or more of their forces as they attempted to retreat, thrusting armoured spearheads forward, but the enemy had managed to escape the noose before the infantry caught up to finish the job.
And our logistics have been pushed to the limit, he thought. The bastards have stripped everywhere bare.
He turned and walked slowly back towards the new CP, established in what had once been a farm before it had been captured. The farmer and his two teenage sons had put up a brief fight, but hadn’t managed to do more than wound one of the attackers before they were captured, beaten and hung. Thankfully, at least for Alfred’s conscience, the farmer’s wife and three daughters – their existence clearly indicated by the photos on the wall – had made themselves scarce before the stormtroopers arrived. He hoped, as he stepped into the living room, that they’d made it safely to the west. A farmwife would have no trouble finding work on another farm.
“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” an aide said. “The Fuhrer is on Line One.”
Alfred nodded. “I’ll take it in the secure room,” he said, walking towards the door. “Get me a complete report from SS-Volk and remind her CO that I don’t want any more of his games.”
“Jawohl,” the aide said.
The secure room was anything but, certainly when compared to the facilities in Germanica or Berlin itself. His communication staff had moved a pair of telephones into the room and installed guards outside, but there was no way to render it anything like as secure as he wanted. The enemy might well already know where they were and, if they did, they might take advantage of the situation to intercept his calls.
But there was no choice. He picked up the phone and put it to his ear. “Mein Fuhrer.”
“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Karl Holliston said. He sounded pleased, something that worried Alfred more than he cared to admit. He’d dared to make a mild protest about the increasing number of atrocities as his forces advanced, but the Führer had ignored him. “I trust that all is in readiness to attack Berlin?”
“Not as yet,” Alfred said. “I need to bring up more supplies and get the men rested before launching an invasion of the city itself.”
“Time is not on our side,” Holliston said. The Fuhrer’s voice hardened. “You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. “I understand the problem facing us.”
He scowled. He’d stared at the map so much it was burned into his brain. The traitors were playing it smart, shipping panzers eastwards from Occupied France – despite dropped bridges and ruined railway lines – and massing them somewhere to the west of Berlin. It was hard to be sure where because the remainder of the Luftwaffe – and those never-to-be-sufficiently-damned American-made missiles were defending the area with savage intensity. The last four recon aircraft that had been sent in that direction had never come back, which told him things he didn’t want to know about its defences. And no one would expend so much effort on defending areas of no tactical or strategic value.
No, he told himself. The traitors were massing their forces, preparing a counterattack. He had every faith in his men, but they were already tired, their faith in their panzers shaken and their logistics operating on a shoestring. The traitors, if they could throw an offensive into the field at the right time, would smash his men and send them reeling all the way back to Germany East. It would be disastrous.
This is what the Russians wanted to do to us at Stalingrad, he thought. The records had been quite clear, although the Russian ambitions had far outstripped their capabilities. Even the emergency aid the Americans had sent after it became clear that Moscow was at risk of falling hadn’t been enough to save them from the consequences of their own stupidity. I wonder if Field Marshal Voss read the same reports.