Konrad continued with his work, letting the long hours pass by until the klaxon to end the working day would sound. It appeared to be going to plan until Brutus, the Chief Kapo, made his entrance. He towered over his entourage of fellow Kapos as he prowled the factory gallery. While his underlings simply carried rubber truncheons, Brutus was afforded the luxury of a unique cat o’ nine tails whip. Its lashes were made not of leather, but from a set of motor-chains which jangled horribly as he brushed the brutal weapon against the machines. This savage sign of authority reflected its owner perfectly. Brutus, like all the other Kapos, was a simple criminal. He had been a pimp back in Germany, his territory being the vibrant docklands of Hamburg. The name was, of course, not his real one, it was probably something common and insignificant like Hans or Heinz, but the blunt, uncompromising title he had acquired at Neu Magdeburg suited his personality perfectly. Many a prostitute in the port had felt the power of Brutus’ fists. But Brutus’ cruel and mean nature had also manifested itself physically upon him. His face was dominated by a large bulbous scar that the Kapo had obtained at the hands of some vengeful prostitutes years before. Most men would have cringed and tried to hide the injury, but Brutus wore it like a badge of honour.
As was customary when ever Konrad spotted Brutus, he hoped to melt into the other blank faces. As the Kapos wandered closer and closer, they stopped occasionally to grab a prisoner by the scruff of the neck and frog-march him away – the selected prisoner’s fate, for the moment, unknown. After a few moments Brutus and his acolytes had collected twelve men and this number appeared to be enough to satisfy them, but Brutus, almost inevitably, lingered close to Konrad’s own work-station like a ravenous hyena loitering around a stricken animal. Konrad increased his concentration levels to keep his focus on his job. Working was the best way to avoid being selected by the Kapos, but the presence of any Kapo, but especially that of Brutus, was totally unnerving. The longer Brutus waited, the greater the tension weighed down upon Konrad. It was such that he started to feel an uncomfortable urge to turn around and see exactly what Brutus was doing. He turned his head and instantly met the glare of the bull-like Kapo whose face was twisted with a sinister smile. Brutus had found another volunteer. Whether this was the Kapo’s ultimate plan was unknown, but with devilish relish his square fingers dug painfully into Konrad’s bony shoulders.
‘I just knew you wanted to help me,’ Brutus said with that sly grin on his face. ‘All you had to do was ask. I’m not wrong, am I?’
Konrad sensibly said nothing.
‘I want to hear you say it,’ Brutus said.
Again Konrad said nothing.
‘Say it,’ Brutus said as he slapped Konrad heavily across face, bursting his lip and rocking him back on his heels.
The Chief Kapo then grabbed one of Konrad’s arms and pressed it against the sheet metal that rested on the work-station.
‘It appears that the cat’s got your tongue.’ Brutus lifted his savage weapon under Konrad’s chin. ‘Shall we ask the help of my cat o’ tails?’
Brutus then let his own eyes wander from the weapon and up above Konrad. They lingered upon the welding equipment which hung impotently awaiting Konrad’s commands. ‘I’ve a better idea!’
Brutus cackled as he ignited the welder’s blinding white-hot flame. He then slowly drew the hot flame towards Konrad’s helpless hand.
‘Are you going to ask to help me?’ Brutus hissed. ‘Are you going to beg?’
Even through the thick gauntlet that protected his hand Konrad could feel the flame’s approach, and yet, he said nothing. Stoicism held his tongue for the time being. He didn’t want to give in to the bully.
‘Just imagine the mess this welder will make of that precious hand of yours. It’ll just be a fucking lump of meat once I’ve finished with it. You’ll be no use to anyone! It’ll be the gas chamber for you with all the other fucking cripples and mongrels.’
The welder edged closer. The flame started to singe the gauntlet.
‘Please can I help you,’ Konrad finally announced much to Brutus’ pleasure.
The welder was switched off and his hand was released. As his goggles and apron were yanked off him and he was corralled with the other unfortunate volunteers selected by Brutus, Konrad cast his eyes back up towards the ceiling and the corpses that swung there. Was his fate now to replace them? Only Brutus and his acolytes knew for sure as they dragged him from the gallery and out into the darkness of the corridor outside.
CHAPTER FOUR
Stahl made his way towards the shuttle’s observation-suite. In the labyrinth of passageways that snaked through the bowels of the shuttle he passed its crew hurrying here and there as they prepared the craft for its rendezvous. The shuttle’s unseen engines vibrated and hummed under his feet, their pitch changing tone as the deck angled and banked. Orders from the shuttle’s crew echoed down the cramped corridors, but their voices were relaxed and the orders were interspersed with banter and laughter. The crew knew this stage of their journey was nearly complete and as soon as the shuttle had deposited its human cargo they would turn tail and return to Pennemünde. In contrast for Stahl, this was the end of his first stage of a long journey. For him, it was the deep breath before the plunge into the unknown.
His journey had first started on a winter morning six months previously. Stahl remembered every detail of that morning that changed his life. He had risen at around six and taken his usual simple breakfast of coffee and fruit in the dining room of his lodge. Alone, he ate and looked over a number of official papers which detailed mundane issues such as the building of a new road and the payments for various supplies and sundries at the nearby army fort. After breakfast he headed to his stables, passing the traditional morning line-up of his native servants who all bowed their heads in reverence as he passed by, collecting his hat, overcoat and riding-whip along the way. In the snow-lined courtyard Stahl mounted his favourite stallion, Dragonfire, and passed out through the covered portcullis and out onto his vast estate. The estate, a gift from the local Gauleiter, stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see. One could have been fooled into thinking that Stahl owned the entire world.
Snow smothered the landscape which during the spring and summer would have been covered with undulating fields of wheat; now the barren fields only hosted Stahl and Dragonfire as they galloped towards the river Volga which bordered one end of Stahl’s estate. As he neared the wide river, which glittered in the harsh winter sunshine, Stahl could see the distant outline of the Reich’s great Eastern Wall. He knew that beyond the impassive bulwark, chaos and barbarism reigned. The remnants of the Bolshevik empire that Stahl’s forefathers had destroyed over a century before stretched further into the East. As far as Stahl was concerned the wall marked the end of civilisation, a fence, both figuratively and in reality, that highlighted the boundary of Nazism.