“Our forces are still massing here and here,” Voss said, tapping points on the map. “They should be ready to advance within five days.”
Volker scowled. “Will they be in time?”
“It depends on just what they have in mind,” Voss said, honestly. “We’re putting together contingency plans to advance earlier, if only to open up a corridor to Berlin, but that would run the risk of allowing them to extract most of their own forces before it was too late.”
“Which would prolong the war,” Volker mused.
“Or shorten it,” Voss countered. “An engagement in open terrain would give them some advantages.”
Volker rubbed his eyes. He might have a bedroom in the bunker, where there was no constant shellfire to keep him awake, but he’d barely been able to sleep properly since the siege had begun. The war had to be fought, he knew; the war had to be won… but the Berliners were suffering in a way that would have been unimaginable, a scant few months ago. He’d certainly never dreamed of being their leader, let alone forced to watch helplessly as his city was slowly reduced to rubble. The war could end tomorrow – and that was another piece of wishful thinking – and it would still take years to rebuild.
And the city will be savaged if the Waffen-SS break through the defences, he thought. It will be the end of days.
He shuddered, wondering just how many men and women were secreting weapons or poison around their person to ensure that they didn’t fall into enemy hands. The reports flowing in from occupied territory were an endless liturgy of horror. Men killed or rounded up and forced to serve the SS; women raped or marched east to be married to SS stormtroopers and raise the next generation of easterners; children taken from their parents and transported to an unknown destination. It was hard to be sure just how many of the reports were actually true – the pre-war intelligence network had been shot to hell – but one thing was clear. The hatred between west and east was growing – and so was the fear.
There’s no way we can live together, he thought, grimly. All we can do is try to slay the monstrous beast in its lair.
He turned to look at the map, shaking his head slowly. Even if they won the battle, even if they smashed the forces laying siege to Berlin, getting to Germanica would take months. The winter was already starting to take hold in the east, making it harder and harder for the easterners to move troops and supplies westward… his forces would have the same problem, if they wanted to launch an eastern offensive. No, any counterattack would have to wait until the spring… assuming, of course, that they survived the coming offensive. And that would give the easterners ample time to prepare.
“We may have only a handful of days,” he said. If there was a spy on the council – and young Albrecht had proved it – the SS would know the situation as well as he did. He would have cut his losses and withdrawn from Berlin, but the SS clearly disagreed. “Can we withstand their offensive?”
“I hope so,” Voss said.
Volker shot him a sharp look. That was hardly a ringing endorsement.
Voss sighed. “Our forces have considerable experience in using the terrain to their advantage,” he said, heavily. He didn’t mention that troops – mainly untrained volunteers – who hadn’t learned had died. “But we are short on ammunition as well as everything from rations to hospital beds. A single push forward might be enough to bleed us dry.”
“And production isn’t keeping up with demand,” Volker muttered.
The irony chilled him to the bone. He’d created the very first union, he’d ensured that the workers had the power to resist the government’s demands… and now he had to force the workers to produce guns and ammunition in record quantities. And the threatened strikes weren’t the worst of it, he knew all too well. The machinery was slowly breaking down, threatening to render the factories useless. His men had no time to fix the damage or even produce more ammunition.
We could ask the Americans for ammunition, he thought, sourly. But their ammunition wouldn’t be suitable for our weapons.
Voss met his eyes. “We could try to discuss a truce,” he offered. “They can have the east and we can have the west.”
“They won’t go for it,” Volker said. “Not after… not after all the bloodshed.”
“The alternative is this war lasting much longer,” Voss said. “Even if Berlin falls… we do have more troops and panzers at our disposal.”
“True,” Volker said. He smiled, rather tiredly. “But will the government hold together if we lose Berlin?”
“So,” her father said. “How are you enjoying married life?”
Gudrun blushed. There had been no hope of a real honeymoon – that would have to wait until the war ended, if it ever did – but they had managed a handful of days away from the maddening crowd. It had been odd, sleeping together without fear of discovery, lying together and talking about their hopes and dreams for the future… the war nothing, but a grim awareness at the back of their minds. But there had been no hope of prolonging the holiday any longer. The fighting was about to get a great deal worse.
“It has its moments,” she said, finally.
“Glad to hear it,” her father said.
He nodded to Horst, then tapped the table, motioning for them both to sit down. “The good news is that I think we’ve isolated the spy within the Reichstag itself,” he said. “By noting the timing of the messages left for Horst” – he nodded to Gudrun’s husband – “and comparing them with the servants who actually left the building, we believe that Elfie Fruehauf is the most likely candidate.”
Gudrun took a moment to place the name. Elfie Fruehauf was a senior cleaner, if she recalled correctly; a thirty-year-old woman who lived and worked in the Reichstag. She’d practically passed unnoticed, even when Gudrun had been trying to get to know the staff. Being unnoticed had to be a desirable skill for a spy, she figured. No one had suspected Horst until after he’d confessed to her personally.
Horst leaned forward. “What’s her excuse for leaving the building?”
“Apparently, she has a husband who runs a bar,” her father said. “They’re both from Bavaria, according to the files; they have no friends or family within the city. They certainly don’t live together, but they see each other as often as they can.”
“Apparently,” Gudrun repeated.
“Reichstag staff are expected to be on call at all times,” Horst reminded her. “I’m surprised they kept her on if she was married.”
Gudrun’s father shrugged. “Her record is very good,” he said. “I imagine – officially – they didn’t want to lose her.”
He leaned forward. “She has clearance to go everywhere, save for the secure rooms,” he added, slowly. “No one would question her if she supervised the maids cleaning the various bedrooms or wonder why she took a room or two to clean herself. She would be completely unnoticed as she placed a note in your room, Horst, and took your reply. And her fingerprints would be everywhere anyway.”
“And she takes the notes to her husband,” Horst mused. “He must be an SS officer too.”
“Probably,” her father said. “They were both born in Munich, according to the files, but I doubt we’ll find any traces of them.”