The door opened as he approached, allowing him to step into the office. He’d had dealings with slave labour commissions before, in Germany East, but dealing with a purely-civilian commission was new. On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly unknown for pureblood Germans to take a contract for something, pass the work on to the Gastarbeiters and keep most of the money for themselves And this particular commission had a reputation for not asking many questions. Reading between the lines, Horst rather suspected they supplied women for the brothels on the outskirts of Germany.
And they’re probably tied to criminal gangs, he thought, as he stepped up to the desk. A grim-faced woman was sitting there, a riding crop resting on the desk beside her; her face was ugly enough to suggest she’d been deemed too sadistic to work for the BDM. Horst had seen her type before; male or female, they took their anger at the world out on the unfortunate Gastarbeiters under their command. She won’t hesitate to use her riding crop on any of the poor bastards who disobey orders.
She looked up at him, reluctantly. “Yes?”
Horst gave her his most charming smile. “I wish to hire some workers for a task,” he said, reaching into his pocket and dropping two hundred Reichmarks onto her desk. “It needs to be done today.”
The woman took the money and counted it with practiced ease, then looked up at him and smiled. “What needs to be done?”
“I need these leaflets posted through as many letterboxes in the city as possible,” Horst said. It was a shame he couldn’t spread the word to other cities, but he hadn’t been able to think of a way to do that which would also allow him to be with Gudrun in Victory Square. “They’re advertisements for my services.”
“That will be an additional three hundred Reichmarks,” the woman said, picking up the bag and wincing at the weight. She probably thought he was a criminal, rather than a small businessman trying to advertise his services, but it hardly mattered. Horst and the others had spent hours folding the leaflets so that they couldn’t be unfolded without making it obvious that someone had looked at them. “I will have them handed out this afternoon.”
“That will be quite sufficient,” Horst said. He counted out the rest of the money and dropped it on the desk. His superiors would be less than amused if they found out what he was doing with his discretionary funds, although that was the least of his worries. They’d have problems deciding which one of his crimes to put on the execution warrant before they stuck him in front of a firing squad. “If this works as well as I expect, there will be more advertisements in the future.”
He concealed his amusement as he walked out to the van, waving a cheerful goodbye to the guard at the gate. The woman hadn’t bothered to ask for ID, even though it was a legal requirement; she’d definitely assumed he was a criminal. She certainly hadn’t realised what he was doing, let alone the prospect of getting in deep trouble when the SS tracked her down. And the description she’d give of him, under threat of torture, would be quite misleading. There was an art to disguise, after all, and he was a practiced master. If there had been a camera in the office, and it was a possibility, it wouldn’t help them.
Starting the engine, he drove back onto the road and headed into the city. The streets were starting to fill up with traffic, forcing him to slow down. There were hundreds of similar vans on the road, hiding him as neatly as a piece of straw in a haystack. He’d been told, years ago, that only two corporations were allowed to manufacture civilian vehicles – and both of them produced only a handful of models, none of which were totally reliable. It might keep the mechanics gainfully occupied, but it was also immensely frustrating.
I just need to find a place to change, then meet up with Gudrun and start handing out leaflets, he thought. It had crossed his mind that it would be better to let the Gastarbeiters distribute the first set, but Gudrun would have asked too many questions. He wasn’t the only student with an expense account, yet hiring the vans alone had been quite costly. And then wait and see what happens.
He smiled to himself as a small Volkswagen overtook him, heading towards the centre of Berlin. Sunday wasn’t just a day for Church; it was a day for taking one’s children around the city, visiting parks, admiring the buildings and bathing in the glories of the Reich. There would be so many people around them that the tiny band of rebels would pass largely unnoticed, at least until the police set up barricades. And that would do more to give credence to the leaflets than anything else.
As long as we don’t get caught, he reminded himself. He’d done his best to prepare the group for what would happen if – when – one or more of them were caught, but he knew that his preparations were lacking. The Hitler Youth didn’t offer lessons in how to comport one’s self after being taken prisoner. If someone is caught, they may talk…
… and if they talk, we’re dead.
Gudrun let out a sigh of relief as Horst parked next to her van, then tapped on the door and stepped inside when she opened it for him. He was wearing civilian clothes, looking rather like an engineer, the type of man who would drive a van to his next port of call. Horst nodded to her politely, then looked her up and down. Gudrun felt her face heat under his scrutiny before he pronounced himself satisfied.
“You don’t look anything like yourself,” he said. “And you don’t look profoundly unnatural – or suspicious. That’s the important thing.”
“I had a look before we started to change,” Gudrun said. “There’s a lot of BDM girls out there, as always.”
“Good,” Horst said. “Where are the others?”
“Hilde and Isla are in the next van,” Gudrun said. “Hedy and Genovefa are on the other side of the road. I’m going to wave to them as I walk past and then start distributing leaflets.”
“Don’t go too close to any of the matrons,” Horst reminded her, sternly. “They’re the ones who are most likely to recognise that something isn’t right about you. And don’t go too close to the policemen, when they show up. Hand out leaflets for twenty minutes, then come back to the van and we’ll head off. There’s no point in pushing our luck too far.”
“We did discuss this,” Gudrun reminded him, tartly.
“This is not the time to forget,” Horst snapped. “If one of us gets caught, we’re in deep trouble.”
Gudrun nodded, grimly. Horst had told them all, in great detail, precisely what they could expect if they were scooped up by the SS. The only hope for escape was to keep their mouths firmly shut, but if they were caught with the leaflets there would be no point in trying to pretend they were innocent bystanders. Even being caught in their BDM uniforms would be bad enough, although they had devised a cover story about a student prank. Somehow, Gudrun doubted the SS would believe a word of it. All of a sudden, she wanted to run home and forget everything she’d planned.
But I can’t forget Konrad, she thought. And every other wounded soldier who has been packed off to hospital while their families are left in the dark.
She gritted her teeth, pulled on the white gloves and picked up the leaflets. Most of them would probably be dumped as soon as the bearer was out of sight, but a few of the leaflets would be read. And then all hell would break loose.