“That could take a while,” Kurt observed.
Horst nodded. There were just over a thousand miles between Berlin and Germanica. Even if they took the autobahns, even if nothing got in their way, it would take at least five or six days to reach Germanica. And he knew there would be problems. There were plenty of checkpoints on the autobahns.
And even if there weren’t, he thought, they’ll be using them to rush supplies and men to the front.
“So we reach Germanica,” Kurt added. “What then?”
“We play it by ear,” Horst said. In truth, there was no way to come up with a proper plan until they knew the situation on the ground. “I have some… contacts… I might be able to convince to help us. If they refuse — or if we can’t meet them — we will have to think of something else.”
He scowled. He’d seen the Reichstag in Germanica before, back when he’d gone to the city for a Victory Day parade. It was a towering nightmare of stone and steel, protected by some of the finest stormtroopers in the Reich. And now, it was playing host to the self-promoted Führer of the Greater German Reich. He would be surprised if the building wasn’t ringed with defences, from antiaircraft guns to antitank weapons. It wouldn’t be strange for Germany East.
Kurt cocked his head. “You think we can do it?”
“I think we have to try,” Horst said.
He cursed under his breath. Gudrun had trusted him to protect her… and he’d failed. He’d been so wrapped up in his scheming — their scheming — that he’d missed the spy right under his nose. And now Gudrun was a captive. She’d be on her way to Germany East, if she wasn’t there already. There was no way he could just let her go. She was his wife, his lover, his friend. He couldn’t abandon her.
But he knew what would happen if he was caught. The SS might have some difficulty comprehending that Gudrun was more than just a puppet, but they would have no such difficulty with him. Horst was a traitor in their eyes, a young man who had betrayed everything he’d been taught to respect; he could expect no mercy if his former masters got their hands on him. He’d be lucky if he was merely tortured to death.
He looked back at Kurt. There was a resemblance between him and his sister, Horst admitted, although it was more physical than mental. Kurt’s face was a masculine version of Gudrun’s face, his blond hair cropped short to fit a helmet. And he’d fought well in the war, no one doubted his courage. But it took a different kind of courage to stand up against the entire Reich…
“This is your last chance to stay here,” he said, slowly. “Do you want to remain?”
“No,” Kurt said. “I’m coming with you.”
Horst nodded as he picked up the papers. “Where were you born?”
Kurt blinked, then realised what he meant. “Berlin, Braun Hospital,” he said. “My parents were Herman and…”
“Don’t volunteer information,” Horst said. It was something he’d been taught during basic training. Nervous people, people with something to hide, volunteered information. “They’ll think they’re being manipulated.”
He bounced question after question off Kurt, silently relieved that Kurt managed to keep his story relatively straight. It helped that much of the background information was actually true, but there were still risks. Whoever they encountered might know enough to poke holes in the narrative, then rip it apart. There was no way to be sure.
Kurt held up his hand. “Will they ask all of these questions?”
“I don’t know,” Horst said. “There’s a war on. They might not have time for a full interrogation. It depends…”
He shook his head. “If they wanted to give you a security clearance, they’d send officers to your home, your school, your training camp… they’d go through your life in minute detail before deciding if they could trust you or not. Some very good people have been denied clearances for reasons beyond their control. But here… if they have reason to be suspicious, they might just toss questions at you to see if you slip up.”
Kurt snorted. “What are the odds of us encountering someone who went to the same school as me?”
“Poor,” Horst said. “But don’t dismiss them entirely.”
He picked up the next set of papers. “We’re leaving this evening,” he added. “Getting through the lines is not going to be fun.”
“No,” Kurt agreed. “Getting shot by our own side would be embarrassing.”
Horst nodded. The Waffen-SS’s lines had been shattered, but they were already being pulled back together. It was plausible — quite plausible — that a couple of officers would get lost now, yet that wouldn’t last. The longer they waited, the greater the chance of being asked awkward questions that would lead to certain death. Horst would have liked to go earlier, but without the papers getting through the lines would be impossible. He could only hope the SS hadn’t shot Gudrun out of hand.
They won’t, he told himself, firmly. It was something to cling to. They’ll want to break her first.
He gritted his teeth at the thought. Gudrun wasn’t a common soldier. She certainly wasn’t a common politician. She was an inspiration to hundreds of thousands of people who had been denied the chance to breathe free, denied the chance to speak their minds to their lords and masters. The SS wouldn’t want to kill her; they’d want to turn her against her supporters…
And she might wind up wishing she was dead, he thought. He knew what they’d do to her, just to wear down her resistance before the real pain began. She might even try to kill herself.
He looked at Kurt. Kurt was an infantryman in the Berlin Guard. He hadn’t even seen fighting until the civil war, let alone the true horrors of an insurgency. Kurt had no conception of just what his sister might be going through, no real understanding of what the SS did to those it considered irredeemable enemies…
And if Gudrun is dead when we arrive, Horst promised himself, Karl Holliston will join her shortly afterwards.
“Father,” Kurt said, as the door opened. “Have you come to see us off?”
Horst winced. Herman Wieland looked to have aged twenty years in the last few days, although it was clear that he was holding himself under tight control. He had to be worried, Horst knew; he’d been a policeman, a man of power, yet he hadn’t been able to protect his daughter. His world had shifted on its axis even before Gudrun had been taken prisoner; now, he was clearly unstable, unsure of his place in the world. Horst didn’t really blame him for his doubts. Old certainties were fading everywhere.
“I’m going to the front,” Herman said, quietly. “I just came to say goodbye.”
Kurt stared. “Father!”
“I’m not as old as Grandpa Frank,” Herman said. “I can pull my weight.”
Horst frowned. “Berlin still needs policemen…”
“Berlin needs better policemen,” Herman said, softly. “And I need to do something.”
“You are a good policeman,” Kurt said. “Father, I…”
Horst looked at Herman and felt a sudden wave of sympathy. Herman had been a good policeman, in the eyes of his family, but much of the city would probably disagree. The Ordnungspolizei had been the face of the regime, the iron fist in the iron glove… in many ways, they were more detested than the SS. Herman might not have taken advantage of his position, but far too many other policemen had milked it for all they could get. And now that the regime had fallen, the police were coming under attack.