Horst bit down a curse as he was hauled to his feet — he hadn’t even realised he’d fallen to the ground — and half-carried out of the building. It was hard, so hard, to think clearly, but he had no choice. The guards pushed them into another building — a small prison — and chained them to the wall, then strode off, slamming the iron door behind them. Horst wasn’t fool enough to assume that they were unwatched. There would be cameras hidden somewhere in the chamber.
He glanced at Kurt. There was a nasty scar on his face and blood was dripping from his nose, but most of the damage looked superficial. He hadn’t broken either. Horst had always been taught that the SS’s training was far more intensive than anyone else’s — but Kurt had handled himself well. And yet, they were still prisoners. He tested the cuffs carefully, hoping — desperately — that their captors had made a mistake. But he found nothing.
Of course not, he thought, angrily. The one thing they’re good at is taking prisoners.
He met Kurt’s eyes, silently willing him to stay quiet. There would be microphones in the cell as well as cameras. Kurt looked worried, but said nothing. Horst was silently relieved, even though he doubted they could get in worse trouble. They’d already been pegged as infiltrators from Germany Prime. He supposed they should be grateful that they hadn’t simply been marched outside and shot.
But they’ll want to know who we are and what we want, he told himself. We might wind up wishing that we’d been shot out of hand.
He sighed, looking down at the stone floor. They’d failed. There was no way they could find Gudrun now, let alone try something in Germanica. All of his plans had come to naught… he knew, as he tasted utter despair, that he would never see Gudrun again, that she’d be broken by the SS and then, eventually, executed. And with nuclear weapons being used, it was possible that her dreams of a better world would also come to nothing.
Would it have been different, he asked himself, if I’d done my duty?
It was a bitter thought. He’d known, right from the start, that he was risking a truly awful death by siding with Gudrun and her group. He could have betrayed them, easily; Gudrun and the girls would have been exiled east, the boys would have been shipped to labour camps and worked to death. And he would have been feted as a hero, the brave little SS operator who’d revealed a plot against the entire Reich.
But he had never been able to hide from himself. Gudrun had been right. The SS had cruelly betrayed its own people. Horst had no doubt, now or ever, that if Konrad and he had swapped places, it would have been him who would have been crippled for life, if he’d survived at all. And it would have been his uncle who’d been lied to by the SS…
And besides, he thought. I would never have known Gudrun.
He couldn’t have turned away, he told himself. He’d accepted the risks when, in truth, they were far greater. He wouldn’t have been caught — now — if he hadn’t driven into Germany East with forged papers. And he was damned if he was giving up now, even though it looked hopeless. Who knew what the future would bring?
It felt like hours before the guards returned, released them from the chains and unceremoniously marched them out of the cell. Darkness was falling over the autobahn, but there was still a long line of vehicles waiting to pass through the checkpoint. Horst wondered, absently, just how many delays the checkpoint had caused, although he knew they were unlikely to be fatal. The guards said nothing as they were pushed towards a large truck and carried up into the rear. Inside, it was decked out to carry prisoners.
“Remain silent,” the guard ordered, as they were cuffed to the railings. “And enjoy the ride.”
Horst glared at him. He’d ridden in prisoner transports before, although as a guard rather than a passenger. They seemed designed to give their riders as uncomfortable a journey as possible. He still shuddered at the memory of supervising a trio of slave girls as they washed out the transport after a bunch of prisoners were transported to the mines. The vehicle had been littered with vomit and piss. He took a breath and regretted it instantly. Their vehicle was surprisingly clean, but the smell still lingered.
The door slammed closed. Moments later, the engine started. Horst caught a sniff of the engine fumes and felt sick. He’d seen transports that had begun the journey with live prisoners and ended with a bunch of twitching corpses. He didn’t think anyone wanted to kill them immediately — they could have been shot or had their throats cut if someone thought it was necessary — but accidents happened. It was unlikely that anyone would give much of a damn if they expired on the way to Germanica.
They’ll want to interrogate us, he told himself. Surely.
He shuddered as the vehicle lurched violently, then started to move. The smell grew worse, but the air still seemed breathable. Even so… He’d calculated that it would take at least four more days to reach Germanica in a car, assuming everything went as planned; logically, it would take at least a week for the truck to reach the city. The thought of spending so long in the cramped confines was appalling. But he doubted they had a choice.
“Try to get some sleep,” he advised. Kurt was bearing up well, but he would have to be watched. His basic training was nowhere near intense enough to prepare him for what was coming. “We don’t know what will happen when we get there.”
Kurt nodded, soberly.
Horst shook his head, rattling his chains mournfully. He did have a good idea what awaited them. If he’d been able to commit suicide, he might have considered it. There was nothing he could tell the SS, certainly nothing useful, but he doubted they would believe it. They’d assume he had a head full of secrets they could force him to spill.
And when they finish trying to get secrets out of us, he thought soberly, we’ll be killed.
And, try as he might, he couldn’t think of a way to escape.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Germanica, Germany East
7 November 1985
Gudrun honestly wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or worried.
Doctor Müller had beaten her — and come very close to raping her — only to be stopped by Katherine, who had apparently taken over responsibility for Gudrun’s safety. Gudrun was grateful beyond words to the older woman, yet she was also all too aware that the whole scene might have been staged to make her grateful to Katherine. The possibility of being raped had lingered over her ever since she’d been captured, yet it hadn’t happened…
She rubbed her aching jaw as she sat on the bed, cursing under her breath. It had been easier when she’d known everyone was against her, even though it had also meant she didn’t have a hope in hell of escaping. But if Katherine genuinely was on her side, what did it mean? Did she want Gudrun to escape… or did she merely want Gudrun to be broken properly? And if she asked, would she be putting Katherine’s life in danger?
Of course, she thought, looking up at the cameras. Everything I say in here is probably recorded and studied.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Part of her was tempted to start singing — very few people had told her she was a good singer — just to force her unseen watchers to listen to her; part of her felt that singing would be a risk, even with Katherine watching over her. The beating had left her shaking for hours afterwards. Who knew what would happen if Doctor Müller — or someone else — decided to have another go? She was grimly determined to keep from breaking as long as possible, but she was terrifyingly aware that she had come far too close to snapping…