The silence was broken only by the sounds of the SD men stuffing their faces with sausage and bread, gurgling it down with white wine. The prisoner was given nothing and he was nothing but dead meat anyway. If nothing else, he did give them a reason to put some distance between them and the advancing Russian hordes.
Langer's face was drawn and thin from days of little rest, which had worn him down to a ragged, thin-faced wretch who didn't look to be particularly dangerous, especially in chains. That is, until you looked close at the eyes and the steel-set jaw; then you knew the man was a chained animal, capable of tearing your arms off with his bare hands. Yes, the animal definitely needed to be properly restrained.
Spring was close, and green shoots stuck their heads up through patches of melting snow. Life in its endless cycle of birth and death was not to be denied; it went on. Langer rode for the most part with his eyes closed, getting what rest he could. He knew when they reached Germany there would be little of that for him. One town after another fell behind them and the waves of panic-stricken civilians thinned to a trickle. They felt safe here, but the soldiers knew different; the war was finished and the Russians were going to bleed Germany until there was nothing left. The Russian soldiers had been promised as their reward the women of Germany and everything they could carry off. It was to be the greatest rape in history.
The bumping of the car jogged his memory. They were all gone now, Teacher, Manny, Yuri and Stefan, all gone except for Gus, that rambling bear of a man. A tick at the corner of Langer's face tried to turn into a smile but failed. The last time he had seen Gus alive was outside of Osterode when the headhunters were taking him back; he was strolling down the road heading back to Germany with a pig following him on a leash, the pig blissfully ignorant of its destiny. Yes, Gus was heading back home singing off key as loud as he could, the familiar strains of "Ich hat eine Kamaraden," keeping time with a bayonet. How he had gotten past the head-hunters, Langer could only guess. But if anyone could get back it would be Gus. Langer wished him well; at least there would be one left.
They reached the border of Germany the next morning. The immaculate border guards checked their papers and waved them through. At Landsberg they handed their cargo over to an Obersturmnführer with the insignia of the Totenkopf Deathshead Unit on his collar and made their exit. Even they did not want to hang around any longer than necessary. This place had the antiseptic odor of a clinic, a place dealing with death and pain.
The Obersturmnführer adjusted steel-rimmed glasses and peered at the documents stating the prisoner's case. Taking his time and pursing his lips and clicking his tongue over several times, while Langer stood at rigid attention (old habits die hard), Obersturmnführer Meyer removed his glasses and rose from his desk. Shaking his head from side to side, he walked around the object of his attention, keeping a slight distance, not from fear but because the prisoner hadn't bathed in some time and still wore the mud of the eastern front on him. "You are really in a lot of trouble." The words were spoken gently and quietly, "You really are.
you know. I don't know why they had you brought back here anyway, you should have just been shot where they found you, but orders are orders." He chuckled. "Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die, nicht war? and my orders read that you are to be sent on from here." He rapped on the door and two SS men entered. Pointing to Langer, he said, "Take him, have him cleaned up and give him a fresh uniform with no insignia. Army not SS! and keep him chained at all times. You may remove the manacles only when he is dressing; he's dangerous according to his files. However, he is not to be harmed in any way except by a higher authority, though God knows why. Remove him!"
Langer had to endure the humiliation of a complete body search, which meant every hole and orifice of his body was checked by rubber-gloved guards who poked and prodded, feeling for anything such as a tube of money concealed in the rectum or a poison capsule hidden in a tooth, but there was nothing, and half reluctantly they gave up their efforts and permitted the prisoner to dress after being deloused and scrubbed. He was fed white bread from the SS kitchen and given chicken in a cream sauce with vegetables. He ate with a spoon, as he was not permitted to use any sharp instruments. It was the first solid food he had eaten in four days and he had had nothing as exotic as white bread or stewed chicken for months. He almost threw it back up.
He was transported by truck to a nearby field and loaded along with his escort into a HE-111 converted for troops or passengers from its regular use as a bomber. Staying out of the corridors that the allies used for bombing runs on Germany, they winged high over the Fatherland, peaceful now from this distance; but below a nation was dying. After a flight of several hours, they touched down, the wheels screeching as the brakes gripped and dug in to stop the Heinkel. A Mercedes was waiting at the door when they stopped. Two more SS men with machine pistols in readiness stood by on motorcycles to escort the car and its passengers into the mountains. Langer noted carefully concealed bunkers that housed antitank guns and heavy machine guns all along the route leading to their destination. All the crews wore the camouflage patterns peculiar to the SS.
Stahlberg Castle rose out of the morning mist, a remnant left over from the feudal days of Germany. It looked more like a picture postcard than a real building. Strong, massively built from the native mountain stones, it had lasted centuries with little change, probably much less change than humanity had achieved since the bloody days of its construction. The Stahlberg. Even the name sounded ominous.
The terrain immediately adjacent to the castle was well guarded by the elite fanatics of the SS regiment Adolf Hitler. Young faces that had known defeat watched him through serious eyes. Their commanders were battle-tested veterans of Russia and Europe that had somehow managed to retain their fanaticism for the New Order even in the face of disaster. They had no god but Adolf Hitler and as with religious fanatics, to die in the service of your god was the greatest accomplishment one could hope for. They had the look of martyrs about them, men seeking their own perverse form of paradise and ready to kill or be killed for it.
Once inside the Stahlberg, the atmosphere changed to one of a time long past. Arms and armor lined the halls. Flags and pennants of battles long forgotten added bits of faded color to the gray stone. Interspersed were badly done paintings of the castle's former masters, with stern, righteous faces that glowered down on all who passed beneath as if sitting in judgment.
The floors were polished by a couple of Polish slaves who kept their eyes averted from those of their overlords. Slaves were not permitted to look directly at a member of the master race without permission. They too waited with a resignation to their own coming finality. They knew that they would never live to return home even if the Germans lost the war. They were dead men, they merely hadn't been buried yet, but knew that time was drawing close.
The escorting officer rapped once sharply on a single door, waited a moment and ushered his charge inside to stand in front of a plain, businesslike desk devoid of ornamentation except for a single telephone. The walls were bare save for the black and silver flag of the SS standing in the right corner.
More impressive was the man behind the desk, Brigadeführer Erich Zeitsler wearing the uniform of the Waffen SS, the only uniform in the castle that wasn't black. Around the neck he wore the Knight's Cross with oak leaves and swords. The only other decoration to break the plainness of the uniform was a gold party badge. The man's face had none of the look of the fanatic common to the rest of the staff he had seen. The face was strong, square jawed under close-cropped, graying, ash-blond hair. Pale-blue eyes looked him over with obvious curiosity. Intelligent, cold eyes. With a flick of his hand he dismissed the escort, leaving them alone.