“A woman doesn’t have to be nothing more than a mother,” Gudrun said. “She could be a mother and something else…”
“Be silent,” Holliston snarled.
“You know nothing. You have been safe for so long that you are not even aware of the depths of your own ignorance. The nightmare you have unleashed on the Volk will consume hundreds of millions of lives… just because you were feeling instead of thinking. Your boyfriend’s death was necessary…”
“You lied,” Gudrun said. “He was crippled, yet you lied to his family.”
Holliston ignored her. “The Provisional Government is doomed,” he said. “Too many problems, too many people with their own agendas… they’re doomed. We are strong, we are united, we will triumph.”
He turned to face her, his eyes shining with an unholy glee. “I shall return to Berlin and take control, once again,” he said. “By the time I arrive, the battered population will greet me as a saviour. But you… you will never see it.”
Gudrun closed her eyes. This was it.
“You’ll be sent east,” Holliston said. “There are settlements there in desperate need of young women, desperate enough to overlook a few… irregularities in their pasts. I’m sure you’ll fit in quite nicely.”
He laughed. “And if you cause trouble,” he added, “I’m sure they won’t hesitate to hobble you. Or something.”
Gudrun felt her heart sink. “But…”
“But nothing,” Holliston said. “I’m sure this punishment will be worse than being executed.”
And the hell of it, Gudrun realised as a silent Katherine marched her back to her cell, was that he was right.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Near Germanica, Germany East
9 November 1985
Horst started awake when he heard the truck grind to a halt.
It hadn’t been a pleasant trip. He’d hoped, despite himself, that their captors might have been concerned that they’d made a mistake, but the hope had faded as their treatment worsened over two days of captivity. They’d been half-starved, washed by hoses and generally kicked or beaten for even the most minor — or imagined — offences. It wasn’t quite as bad as the dreaded SS counter-interrogation course — Horst had privately resolved to thank his instructors if he ever saw them again — but it was definitely taking a toll. They might be too weak to escape when the time came.
If it ever does, he thought, as he heard voices shouting outside. We’re still chained up all the time.
He stretched, as best as he could. His wrists and ankles hurt badly, reminding him that being cuffed up for several days might inflict permanent damage. One of his aunties had made a habit of chaining her Slavic maid up overnight, as if she were a dog who couldn’t be trusted while her masters slept; the poor girl had wound up with permanent bruises on her neck and a broken voice. He couldn’t recall what had happened to her, but he doubted it had been anything good. There was no such thing as a happy retirement for a slave girl in Germany East.
The voices outside were getting louder. It sounded as though one of them was demanding that the driver open the rear compartment, while the driver was trying hard to argue that the compartment should be left unopened. Horst didn’t blame him. Two days — perhaps more — had left the compartment smelly as hell. But if they’d run into another checkpoint… he smiled, rather dryly at the thought, then tensed as he heard gunshots. Someone was shooting out there.
Kurt looked up. “What?”
Horst shrugged. They were chained to the rails. There was nothing they could do, but wait and see what happened. He heard a final gunshot, then someone rattling at the rear door and trying to get it open. Kurt started to say something, but stopped as the door crashed open, revealing two men in green uniforms. Horst stared in disbelief. Local Volkssturm?
“Get them out,” a voice barked. “Hurry!”
The men hurried forward, found the keys to release Horst and Kurt from the railings and then carried them out of the truck. It was cold outside, bitterly cold; Horst stared up at the grey sky, knowing that another snowstorm was on the way. Their new captors marched them towards an unmarked van; he glanced back, just in time to see the bodies of their previous set of captors hurled into the truck. And then a grenade was tossed into the vehicle, which went up in a colossal fireball.
They’ll think we died in the fire, Horst thought, as they were shoved into the van. But is that actually a good thing?
He shrugged. The van was clearly not designed to take prisoners. They were parked against the wall and told to stay still, rather than cuffed to railings or anything else that might have left them completely immobile. Horst exchanged a glance with Kurt, then shrugged. He had no idea who’d grabbed them — or why — but it had to be better than being shipped all the way to Germanica. He forced himself to relax as the van lurched to life. They’d find out where they were going soon enough.
He’d always had a good sense of time and direction, but he found himself losing track of both as the vehicle turned time and time again, seemingly at random. The driver was clearly worried about pursuit, unsurprisingly. Whoever they were, whoever had issued the orders, they’d just attacked an SS convoy and recovered two prisoners. Karl Holliston was unlikely to be in a forgiving mood when he found out.
They can’t be bandits, he thought. Bandits would have killed us with the others.
The vehicle came to a halt, hours later. Horst allowed himself a moment of relief as the doors opened, revealing that they’d parked in an underground garage. A pair of guards searched them gently, then pointed them through an armoured door. Inside, there was a small welcoming room… and a man, standing at the far end, waiting for them.
“Horst,” he said. His voice was rather amused. “I was most offended when you failed to invite me to your wedding.”
Horst stared. “Uncle Emil?”
“Ah, so you do remember me,” his uncle said. “I was starting to think I’d been forgotten.”
“Never,” Horst said. Uncle Emil — Gauleiter Emil Forster — had been on the list of people he’d intended to contact, but he’d intended to do it on his own terms. A Gauleiter, even the one who had practically raised him after his father died, would always have his own agenda. “I would have contacted you once we arrived at Germanica.”
Kurt coughed. “Horst… who is this person?”
“This is my uncle, Gauleiter Forster,” Horst said. He rattled his cuffs. “Are we still prisoners, uncle?”
“No,” Forster said. He wrinkled his nose. “I’ll have the men free you, then you can have a shower and change into something clean. And then we can talk.”
Forster was as good as his word. Horst had always liked being clean, yet after spending two days in the truck it felt utterly marvellous to just stand underneath the spigot and allow the water to flow down his body. Their uniforms had been taken away — probably for burning — but his uncle’s staff had provided replacements, albeit one without rank badges or any other sort of markings. And, most importantly of all, they’d been offered pistols and ammunition, a sign they were genuinely trusted. Horst checked the weapon and bullets, just in case, but found nothing wrong. His uncle was making a very definite statement.