Chapter Thirteen
Farm #342, Germany East
1 November 1985
“This looks like a small fortress,” Kurt noted, as they drove towards the gates. “I’ve been in military bases that had fewer defences.”
Horst shrugged. “It’s fairly normal for Germany East,” he said. “You never know when you might come under attack.”
He felt a flicker of homesickness as they stopped in front of the gates. The farm itself wasn’t that big, but it was surrounded by a heavy metal fence and a handful of concrete firing positions. It didn’t look as though they were manned — and the barren fields looked deserted, the crops taken in for winter — yet he knew, from his early life, that they could be manned at terrifying speed if there was an attack. Every Easterner knew he might have to fight for his life at any moment.
“Stay polite,” he muttered. “Inspectors or not, we don’t want to anger them.”
He climbed out of the car, breathing in the familiar smell of farmland. A young girl — a year or two younger than Gudrun, if he was any judge — was walking down the drive towards the gates. She wore a checked dress that showed off both her chest and her muscles, her blonde hair plaited and hanging down to brush against the top of her breasts. And she carried a rifle, slung over her shoulder. Horst knew better than to assume she couldn’t use it. Chances were she’d be a very good shot.
And she might be covered by someone else too, he reminded himself. The sky was darkening rapidly. They might suspect our motives.
“Greetings, Fräulein,” he said, once the girl was in earshot. “My comrade and I seek shelter for the night.”
The girl looked him up and down, her eyes wary. Horst held out his papers and allowed her to read them, wondering if she’d be able to tell the difference between real papers and cunning fakes. It would be ironic indeed if they were caught because a young girl insisted on checking with Germanica before allowing them through the gate. But she nodded, glanced behind the car and then opened the gate. Horst ordered Kurt to drive the car up to the farmhouse, then followed him at a more sedate pace. The girl locked and bolted the gate before walking up beside him.
“It’s not been safe out there,” she said, gently. “Did you run into trouble?”
“None,” Horst assured her. They’d passed a dozen plantations, but they hadn’t seen any signs of real trouble. “What have you been hearing?”
The girl didn’t answer as they reached the farmhouse. It looked very much like a blockhouse, despite the desperate attempts to make it a little more homey. A middle-aged man was standing by the door, arms folded across his chest. Horst had no difficulty in recognising him as a military veteran as well as an experienced farmer and stern father, not someone who was likely to put up with any nonsense. He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of sympathy for the girl.
“Heidi, tell the girl to put more food in the stew pot,” the man said gruffly. He looked directly at Horst. “And who are you?”
“Travellers, father,” Heidi said. She held out Horst’s papers. “They’ve come from the front.”
“Go do as you’re told,” the man ordered. He scanned Horst’s papers for a long moment, then motioned for the two visitors to enter the farmhouse. Heidi scurried ahead of them and vanished in the distance. “I’m afraid we only have a hard floor and some blankets for guests.”
“That will be quite sufficient,” Horst said, as he followed the farmer into his house. The interior reminded him of his family’s house, further to the east. “All we really need is something to eat, something to drink and a place to stay.”
“I can do that,” the man said. He led the way into a dining room, of sorts. The walls were solid concrete, but all the furniture was wood. “Are you going all the way back to Germanica?”
“That’s what our orders say,” Horst said.
“Tell them we need more manpower out here,” the old man said. He poured three glasses of schnapps and handed them round. “The serfs are getting restless.”
“And my brothers have gone to the war,” Heidi said, coming back into the room. “Have you seen them?”
“Probably not,” Horst said. He didn’t miss the look Heidi shot at Kurt. “But the war front was very disorganised when we were called back to Germanica.”
He chatted to the farmer, watching — with some private amusement — as Heidi flirted inexpertly with Kurt. She’d probably pegged him as a Westerner from the start, someone who would either take her away from the farm or come to live and work with her, rather than someone who would take her down the road to another farm. He hoped Kurt had enough sense not to do anything stupid, no matter how charming Heidi was. The last thing they needed was a father insisting on an immediate marriage — or worse. There was no way their papers would stand up to inspection at a registry office.
“The girl is late,” Heidi said, twenty minutes later. “I’ll go fetch her.”
She rose and walked out of the room. The farmer motioned for them to rise and take their seats around the wooden table, refilling their glasses as they sat down. A faint slapping sound echoed out of the kitchen; a moment later, Heidi entered, followed by a dark-skinned woman with a nasty bruise on her right cheek. The woman was carrying a large pot, which she placed on the table before bowing and withdrawing from the room. She was so thin, Horst noted, that she looked almost like a walking skeleton.
“I apologise,” Heidi said. “You can’t get good help these days.”
Kurt looked shocked, Horst saw, although thankfully he had the sense to keep his opinion to himself. His family had probably never had a Gastarbeiter maid, even though his father could probably have obtained one if he’d wanted. Horst, who had seen too many servants on his father and uncle’s farms, took it in stride. It was just part of life in the Reich.
“Really, the war is sucking away too many people,” the farmer said. “There’s a whole plantation just down the road with minimal supervision.”
Horst nodded. “It’s the war,” he said. “As soon as the traitors are defeated, things will return to normal.”
He eyed the farmer carefully, wondering just what side the man was on. Talking so freely to a pair of inspectors… did he think himself beyond reproach? Beyond punishment for defeatism? Or was he just too old to care? A man who had served the Reich loyally for decades might be quietly ignored, if he asked too many questions towards the end of his life.
Besides, Horst thought, who’s going to hear him out here?
Kurt leaned forward. “Can the two of you handle the farm on your own?”
“For the moment,” Heidi said. She gave Kurt a charming smile. “But what will happen when spring rolls around and we have to plant more crops?”
“We won’t be leaving,” her father said, gruffly.
Horst felt a spark of pity. They weren’t that far from the front. Heidi and her father would probably have to watch their farmhouse converted into a strongpoint, if they weren’t overwhelmed by western armies or killed by bandits. The slave might be beaten down… or she might be in touch with outsiders, telling them to wait for a chance to storm the farm. It wasn’t as if two people could hold the wire indefinitely.
“I hope your sons make it back,” he said, finally.
“So do I,” the old man said. “So do I.”
Kurt had known, from what he’d learned before he’d met Horst for the first time, that Germany East was different from Germany Prime. But he hadn’t really believed it, despite Horst’s words. The farmhouse and the farmers were… strange, by his standards; the old man seemed to trust his daughter, allowing her to carry a weapon and even talk to strange men without interference. And Heidi had casually slapped her servant…