Gudrun shifted slightly, pressing against him. She looked… happy, Horst decided, a faint smile crossing her lips even in her sleep. Her clothes were torn; they’d probably have to be replaced, if they couldn’t be repaired. Gudrun’s mother was probably going to have a few things to say about that, if she was anything like Horst’s mother and auntie. Clothes were not to be wasted, the women had said. They could be handed down to the next generation, if they weren’t passed aside to someone with a greater need for them. The family had a stockpile of baby clothes that were shared amongst the mothers, who would return them to the stockpile once their child had outgrown them…
The thought caused him a pang. His parents were dead. There would be no father, standing next to him, the day he and Gudrun were married. His aunt and uncle would be better served by staying as far from him as possible, although there was little point in trying to hide. He’d sent them a warning, when the uprising had finally begun, but he’d heard nothing from them, no hint that they might have escaped Germany East. And they’d been far enough from the border to need travel permits to head west.
They might be dead, he thought, grimly. Or held somewhere in Germanica.
There was nothing he could do about that, he knew. Certainly not now, not when the civil war was well underway. There was no way he could protect the man and woman who had taken him in, after his parents had been killed. All he could do was work as hard as he could to bring the civil war to a victorious end.
A low rumble echoed through the air, shaking the building. He shuddered, despite the girl curled up next to him. The Reichstag had remained safe, thankfully, but that wouldn’t last forever. Given time, the defences would eventually be worn down and the SS would break into the city. But would they be held off long enough for the relief force to arrive?
A race, he told himself, as Gudrun’s eyes flicked open. And whoever gets there first wins.
“They’re hammering the city,” he said, quietly.
“I know,” Gudrun said. Her moods had always swung erratically after sex, something that perplexed him. His uncle might have been able to offer advice, if he hadn’t punched Horst in the face for daring to run the risk of getting a nice girl in trouble. “When do you want to get married?”
Horst hesitated, considering the question. Gudrun was brave, the bravest woman he’d ever met. And to think she’d been born and raised in Germany Prime! Once she’d committed herself, she didn’t hesitate to move forward. The SS had very good reason to regret letting her go, after she’d been arrested. Her death would have solved all sorts of problems.
“Soon,” he said. “Do you want a church wedding?”
Gudrun shook her head. Horst felt a flicker of relief. He’d never been religious, even though he’d heard rumours of cults within the SS, cults dedicated to Odin, Thor and the other Norse gods. The idea of having the marriage solemnised in a church didn’t sit well with him. But if she’d wanted it, he would have accepted it. He wanted to keep her happy.
He kissed her, gently, then sat upright and climbed off the bed. It would be wonderful to stay in bed with her, but he knew he had work to do. And she had to approach her parents and tell them that she’d accepted his offer, pretending – all the time – that Horst hadn’t asked her father first. The tradition had always puzzled him, until now. It was far too easy for a girl to be pushed into marrying someone her father wanted, rather than someone she would have chosen for herself.
Not that Gudrun would have surrendered so easily, he thought, as he beckoned her to follow him into the shower. She wouldn’t have married someone she didn’t want.
He smiled at the thought, then turned on the water and washed himself quickly as she stepped into the shower. Water ran down her body, drawing his attention to her breasts and the tuff of hair between her legs. Desire rose up within him, but he forced it down savagely. There was no time, not any longer. When he looked back at her, she was smiling. She felt the same way too.
“There will be time later,” he promised, as he hugged her. Her bare breasts felt tantalisingly warm against his skin. It was all he could do not to make love to her again. She wanted it as much as he did. “But for now…”
And when he finally made his way down to his bedroom, he found another note waiting for him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Berlin, Germany Prime
10 October 1985
Stay very quiet, Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk told himself, as he inched forward though the house. Stay very quiet and listen carefully.
The sound of the constant bombardment was growing louder, making it harder for him to hear anything over the racket, save for his own heartbeat. Sweat trickled down his back as he listened, hoping to hear something – anything – that would tell him if the building was occupied. It was a simple house, built for a couple who might be expecting their first child; the possessions and kick-knacks surrounding him suggested that they’d had their first child and were probably expecting a second. There was a faint – a very faint – sound in the distance, but he couldn’t make out what it was…
There might be someone here, he thought. Or it might be empty…
He kept moving forward, peering into what had once been a neat kitchen. It looked to have been stripped of anything edible or useful, then abandoned. The gas cooker had been disconnected, the pipe closed; the water pipes to the entire suburb had been turned off after the population had been evacuated, further into the city. He wondered, absently, as he heard a faint tapping sound, if the owners had made it west or if they were trapped somewhere towards the heart of Berlin. There was no way to know.
His breath caught in his throat as he moved into the next room. His gaze swept the room, taking in the sofa, the comfortable chair, the portraits of Adolf Hitler and Adolf Bormann hanging from the walls… the owner would be a low-level party functionary, then. Too intimately involved with the party to avoid hanging portraits on the walls, too low on the pecking order to be able to afford better decorations or a home nearer the Reichstag. He kept his rifle at the ready as he crept towards the door, wondering if the home could be declared secure and then left empty. There was no love lost between the Waffen-SS and the millions of bureaucrats who kept the Reich running, but he had to admit they were necessary. Maybe the owners would return, with the wife looking after the kid while the husband went back to work…
He turned the corner and practically ran into the enemy soldier. For a second, they stared at each other in mutual shock, then tried to bring up their rifles. Hennecke realised, in a flash of insight, that his enemy had the advantage; he hurled himself forward, trying to draw his knife from his belt as he slammed into the enemy soldier. But the enemy knocked the knife from his hand as they crashed to the floor, both men desperately trying to kill the other before he was killed instead. Hennecke got on top, then was thrown back as the enemy pushed forward, grunting in pain. He was a good fighter, Hennecke had to admit; his training was different, but none the less thorough.
Hennecke glanced around for his knife, but it was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t have the time to draw his pistol without losing it too. His opponent knocked him backwards, drawing back a fist to slam Hennecke in the face; Hennecke punched him as hard as he could in the groin. His fist met something hard – the soldier was wearing protection – but it still hurt, distracting the enemy soldier long enough for Hennecke to punch him in the jaw, snapping his neck back. And then Hennecke slammed him again, as hard as he could. The enemy soldier tottered backwards, his neck broken, and hit the ground with a dull thud.