The policemen stopped, still banging their shields. She stared, just for a moment, then blinked in surprise as she saw an armoured vehicle advancing slowly behind the policemen, who opened ranks to allow it to crawl forward. Gudrun wondered, in shock, if they were about to be mown down with machine guns, just before the water cannons started to spew water towards the crowd. She had no time to duck before ice cold water slammed into her, sending her falling to the ground. Her clothes were so drenched that it was hard to move; she found herself shivering helplessly as the policemen resumed their advance. She tried to crawl backwards, although she was sure the police were advancing from all directions, but it was too late. Strong hands grabbed her, shoved her down to the tarmac and yanked her hands behind her back. There was no time to object before she was cuffed and helpless.
“Stay there,” a voice growled. She felt a hand hastily frisking her, then giving her bottom a hard squeeze. “Don’t move a muscle.”
Gudrun tensed, expecting to feel hands slipping into her bra or panties – or worse – but instead her captor just walked away. The cuffs were tight, so tight her wrists were rapidly beginning to ache; she strained against them for a long moment before realising that it was hopeless, that there was no way human muscle could break free. Instead, she turned and saw hundreds of people – strikers, students – lying on the ground, being steadily rounded up and cuffed. The factory gates were still shut, but it was no consolation. It wouldn’t be long before the policemen smashed them down and arrested the rest of the strikers.
She shivered as a cold wind blew over Berlin. They’d talked about what would happen if they were caught, but she’d never really believed they would be caught. And now she had been caught, as a protester rather than one of the Valkyries…
…And her luck had finally run out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Berlin, Germany
12 August 1985
“They’re clearing the streets,” Joachim said.
“Looks that way,” Volker agreed.
He cursed under his breath. The policemen – they looked like military policemen to him, although it was hard to be sure – had handled everyone trapped on the wrong side of the gates with brutal efficiency. Now that the gas was fading away, they were rounding up the protesters and marching them towards a line of black prisoner transports. God alone knew what would happen to them, but he doubted it would be anything pleasant. And, once the impromptu street party had been smashed, the policemen would turn their attention to the strikers.
“The generator is up and running,” Joachim offered. “But they’ve definitely cut the telephone and computer landlines.”
“And now we’re isolated,” Volker said. Twelve factories had joined the strike, but now, with the policemen blocking the roads, each factory was on its own. “This could get messy.”
“Yeah,” Joachim agreed. “But I don’t regret anything. Do you?”
Volker shrugged. The policemen hadn’t yet tried to batter down the gates or come over the walls. They had to know the strikers had very few weapons; giving Volker’s people time to improvise a few nasty surprises would be a dangerous mistake. Very few people realised just how easy it was to produce weapons, given the right tools and materials… and the strikers had plenty of both. But they wouldn’t be enough to keep the policemen out forever.
“Make sure we keep the food strictly rationed,” he ordered. If the policemen didn’t intend to storm the gates, it could only be because they thought starvation would do the job. And they were probably right. There was a vast stockpile of food in the building, but it wouldn’t last for more than a few days, even if the cooks stretched it as much as possible. “We’ll see if they’re more willing to talk after a few days of no production.”
He smiled, rather wanly. Losing even a day’s work would cause knock-on effects further down the line. The longer the strike lasted, even if it was broken and the workers put back to work once it came to an end, the more damage it would cause the Reich. And if half the workers were killed or arrested, it would be impossible to restore the production lines. In their place, he would have tried to negotiate some sort of compromise.
But the SS isn’t known for compromise, he thought. He ought to know. He’d been an SS officer. They may be plotting to strike without realising that they’re striking at the heart of the Reich.
“Get on your feet,” a policeman snapped. “Now!”
Gudrun could barely move. She was almost grateful when a policeman caught hold of her arm and half-dragged her to her feet. Her wrists ached; her face hurt where she’d hit the roadside when she’d been knocked down by the water cannons; her drenched clothes clung to her skin, revealing every one of her curves. Gritting her teeth, reminding herself that it was likely to get a good deal worse, she looked around in horror as the policemen pushed her into a long line of prisoners. The street looked like a nightmare. A handful of dead bodies – including four children – lay on the ground, while hundreds of men and women were being pushed towards the transport vans.
“Keep your mouth shut,” one of the policemen snapped, when a young man tried to ask a question. The speaker recoiled, too late to avoid a punishing blow from a truncheon. “Say nothing unless you are spoken to.”
The policemen seemed to be organised, Gudrun admitted ruefully, as she was finally prodded into a prisoner transport van. It smelled bad, worse than Grandpa Frank’s room after a particularly bad night; she heard a number of her fellow prisoners gagging as they were shoved roughly into the van and told to sit on the hard metal floor. Gudrun was almost relieved it was dark inside, save for a handful of air slits too high to reach even if she hadn’t been cuffed by the police. The doors were banged shut once the van was full – there were so many people in the vehicle that she couldn’t help feeling claustrophobic – and the engines roared to life. She tried to guess where they were going, but rapidly found it impossible. The RSHA itself? A camp outside the city? A makeshift detention centre? Or would they simply be dumped on the far side of Berlin and told to make their own way home? She clung to the final thought, even though she knew it was unlikely. The government would hardly be content with drenching her and the others…
But they don’t know anything, she thought. As far as she knew, she was the only one of the Valkyries who had gone to the factories. Horst knew she’d gone, of course, but no one else did. They might never know what had happened to her… and yet they’d worry that she’d tell her captors everything. She knew the names and faces of everyone who’d joined the original Valkyries. What happens if they make me talk?
The thought chilled her to the bone as the vehicle lurched. Someone was crying softly – it sounded like a young girl – but what did she have to worry about? She was innocent of everything apart from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gudrun, on the other hand… if someone connected her to Konrad – and perhaps Konrad’s father – they might start wondering just what else she was connected to. They’d check her records, identify her as a student and then wonder if she was involved with the Valkyries. It wouldn’t take them long, if Horst was right, to break her. Unless, of course, they didn’t believe their luck.