Himmler was greatly concerned about what was happening to his SS army. Once it had consisted of thirty-nine divisions, but now it had been mauled to less than half its strength by the Russians. It would have to be rebuilt, which should not be a difficulty. Only finding the time to do it would be a problem. He had held back two divisions from being sent to the Eastern Front and they now constituted a personal security force in Berlin.
It occurred to him that the entire regular army, the Heer, should become part of the SS instead of the arrogant and far too independent force it was now. He thought that the same should happen with the Kriegsmarine and the Luftwaffe. Yes, make them all swear allegiance to the Nazi Party and Germany, but in that order.
But first he had to win the damn war. Or at least not lose it.
The intensity and fury of the rioting caught Jessica by surprise. There had been many disturbances in the previous few days as the French communists fought the police and some of the French troops who had been brought into Paris to maintain order, but nothing like this day’s fighting. Other demonstrations had been fairly restrained while this one had quickly turned savage.
Several thousand communists had suddenly emerged from the side streets and taken over the area around the Arc de Triomphe, the sacred monument whose arches rose over the First World War’s tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier. Their banners and shouts proclaimed their goal to make Paris a communist-run soviet, and further said that de Gaulle was a fascist dictator. So far this was nothing new, except for the size of the crowd and the quickness with which they’d shown up. Jessica concluded that they’d been waiting in nearby buildings and alleys for a signal.
Noncommunist demonstrators showed up only a few minutes later, which led Jessica to conclude that much of this had been choreographed. These held signs that said that the communists were Moscow inspired traitors deserving of death. Within seconds, the two groups were at each other’s throats. Clubs and blackjacks cracked heads and men and women fell, screaming or unconscious, or even dead, Jessica thought grimly. She realized that she was getting used to sights like these. What had happened to the sheltered college girl, she wondered.
Whistles and sirens screamed as the police made a belated entry. Again, more brawling and more people were lying injured on the pavement. A horrified Jessica saw knives flashing and tear at flesh. A young man ran past where she’d taken shelter in a store doorway. The skin of his cheek hung down like a piece of bloody meat. He howled in pain as the flesh of his cheek flapped.
Jessica had merely thought to take some time off and see the Arc and the tomb. She’d seen them before, but their quiet dignity always gave her a sense of purpose. But now her goal was to stay out of the fighting. Regular army troops began arriving by truck and forming into battle lines. They had rifles and bayonets. The communist rioters were badly outnumbered and outgunned. It would all end in a few minutes.
The communists fired first. They had pistols or small submachine guns hidden in their coats and they shot into the advancing soldiers and police or the de Gaulle supporters. More scores of people fell to the ground, lifeless or writhing. Blood poured from hundreds of wounds.
Jessica had thrown herself on her belly and was watching the slaughter. It was ghoulishly fascinating, horrifying. She couldn’t turn away. The soldiers, enraged, opened fire and dropped a large number of the communists into bloody heaps. The communists broke and ran in a score of different directions while the police and soldiers chased them. A young French army private ran up to her and pointed his rifle at her. His face was contorted with anger. Some of his friends had just been killed or wounded and he wanted revenge. He saw her Red Cross uniform and nodded grimly, then he laughed and trotted away.
What was so funny, she thought? Then she realized that her skirt was up at her waist and she’d just given the soldier a look at her long legs and her panties. She got up, dusted herself off and looked around. Ambulances were already carting away the injured, while trucks took away the dead, and there were many of both, perhaps hundreds.
Women had come out from the alleys and were screaming at the soldiers, calling them murderers. It didn’t matter that the rioters had opened fire first, the soldiers were the killers. Jessica realized that the whole massacre had indeed been staged. It didn’t matter who’d fired first or who was right or wrong. The dead and injured communists had just become martyrs. France, she decided, was going to hell.
She also decided she would begin wearing slacks.
The sight of long columns of refugees coming east from the Rhineland delighted Victor Mastny and his two fellow slaves. It was good to see the supermen and women from Germany looking so bedraggled and forlorn. Even better, their presence was an opportunity for Victor to advance himself financially and have some measure of revenge on the people who’d caused him so much misery.
The two Latvians were a little slow to agree with him, but he bullied and threatened them into following his orders. He didn’t think they’d protested overlong. The idea of striking back at their tormentors was just too pleasant.
The first couple of raids had been quite simple. Rush in during the middle of the night, take something they’d spotted as valuable, and rush out under the cover of darkness before either resistance or a chase could get organized. They’d gotten some loot, but nothing of real value. Mastny didn’t care that little money, jewelry, or watches had made it into their pockets. As far as he was concerned, these were practice runs. He was convinced that something major would turn up and he wanted to be ready.
Mastny had the feeling that many of the refugees were so confused and bewildered by the turn of events that had destroyed their nice little German lives, that they were psychologically incapable of defending themselves. Also, most of the refugees were women, children, and older men. The army had taken all the young men and even many of the older ones. The long and bedraggled columns of pathetic people were indeed quite helpless.
It was the middle of the night and the three slave laborers were a couple of miles from the Mullers’ farm, and there were several score refugees sleeping alongside the road. Many were huddled together for warmth as the nights got progressively colder. Mastny wondered just where they intended to go and how they would be housed once they got to their destinations. He concluded that he didn’t care. Some of them, he noted, had moved a ways off the road. Perhaps losing your home, your status, and your possessions makes you antisocial, he thought.
One particular little group of neat little Germans had moved well into a stand of trees and had set up blankets for privacy. An older woman had actually dug a trench for a latrine, and a small fire burned. Victor didn’t think burning a fire in a forest was a bright idea and concluded that these Germans must be city dwellers. The group consisted of two older men along with three women. One of the women was also old, but there was a younger one in her mid-twenties and a girl about twelve. Now Mastny thought he would really take revenge as well as initiating his companions into his world.
They reached the sleeping refugees at three in the morning. There would be plenty of time for them to do what they wanted and return to the barn before dawn. The ground was hard and no snow had fallen, which meant they would leave no tracks. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for others to follow them. The three men carried clubs and homemade knives made from scrap metal. They hadn’t yet gotten their hands on any guns. They wore caps and their faces were blackened with soot.