…And what? It would only bring her heartbreak.
Herman winced, inwardly. There were few jobs for women in the Reich, particularly young and fertile women who could have married and had children instead of trying to compete with the men. Gudrun’s only real hope lay in computers – the strange devices imported from the United States – and, even then, the big companies would be reluctant to hire a young girl who wasn’t married. The only fields completely open to women were nursing and the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned BDM. He tried to imagine Gudrun as a BDM matron and shuddered at the thought. His daughter was too sweet, too caring, too compassionate to develop the sadism required of a matron. Gudrun would never bully young girls, he was sure; she’d never force overweight girls to stand in the centre of the room and hold back tears as they were mocked by their fellows. The very thought was absurd.
And if she graduated, he asked himself, who would want to marry her?
It was an odd thought, but true. What sort of man would want to marry a woman who had more qualifications than himself? Gudrun might be doomed to permanent spinsterhood merely by having a useless scrap of paper, a qualification she couldn’t use because she was a woman. Herman had approved of Konrad – he didn’t have the arrogance that typified SS stormtroopers – but would he still want Gudrun after she graduated? And what would she have done if Konrad had refused to allow her to work? It was his right, as her husband, to decide if his wife could work. What would Gudrun have done if he’d told her to stay at home and have his babies?
I shouldn’t have let her go to the university, he thought, as the vehicle lurched again. She will only think she can be more than a housewife…
Caius tapped his shoulder. “We’re going to be there in two minutes,” he said. “Wake up!”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Herman muttered, as he sat upright. The other policemen looked as tired and wary as he felt. “Are you ready?”
“They should have sent in the stormtroopers,” Caius said. “God knows what we might encounter.”
“Politics,” Fritz said. He had relatives in high places, Herman had heard, although they clearly couldn’t be bothered to boost Fritz’s career. “They don’t want to put the SS in complete control of the investigation.”
Herman fought down the urge to roll his eyes like a child. It was flatly illegal for a Gastarbeiter to own a gun – and gun control within the Reich was strict – but there had been a thriving trade in weapons shipped in from France and Russia for decades. They might just run into a terrorist cell with rifles and machine guns… and, as the terrorists would have nothing to lose, they’d sell their lives dearly. Putting the thought aside, he checked his pistol as the vehicle came to a halt, then followed Fritz and Caius though the metal doors and into the cold morning air. The Gastarbeiter barracks were right in front of them, a pair of armed guards at the gatehouse staring at the policemen in surprise.
“Arrest them too,” the Captain ordered. “And then get the Gastarbeiters under control.”
“Here we go,” Caius commented.
Herman gave him a sharp look as the armed policemen hurried through the gates and down towards the barracks. It was a solid building, reminding him of his military service; indeed, the only real difference between the army barracks and the Gastarbeiter barracks was that there was only one set of doors, right at the front of the concrete building. The Gastarbeiters would have problems getting out, if there was a fire, but no one really gave a damn about their safety. They were hired for grunt labour, nothing more; there was an infinite supply of Frenchmen and women who would come to work in the Reich, even though the pay was poor and the conditions were dreadful. Herman wouldn’t have given two rusty Reichmarks for their future. Vichy France wasn’t about to complain if a few hundred Gastarbeiters were unceremoniously shipped east so they could be worked to death.
They passed through a small office – the corporation that controlled the Gastarbeiters had a habit of hiring them out for private commissions – and opened the metal door that led into the barracks itself. Herman wrinkled his nose at the smell of too many men in close proximity – the Gastarbeiters didn’t have regular showers, unlike the men in his former unit – and then cocked his pistol as the Gastarbeiters jumped up, some of them cracking their heads on the upper bunks. Their eyes were wide with fear.
Untermenschen, Herman thought. He couldn’t help noticing that some of the men were so poor they had to sleep in their work clothes – or in the nude, despite the cold. Many of them were scarred, suggesting they’d been whipped at some point in the non-too-distant past. He relaxed, slightly, as he realised there wouldn’t be a fight. Men without the spirit to try to resist.
“GET UP,” the Captain bellowed, as the policemen spread out. “HANDS IN THE AIR; HANDS IN THE AIR!”
Herman watched, feeling his hands grow sweaty around his pistol. If there was going to be any resistance, it was going to be now… but the Frenchmen showed no signs of being willing to fight. He smirked, remembering his father’s stories of how the Wehrmacht had marched through France, sowing their oats in the wombs of French maidens as they passed. His father had told him that Frenchmen were always cowards and Herman hadn’t seen much, in his military and police career, to suggest differently.
The Captain barked more orders. Herman, Caius and Fritz got the job of stripping, handcuffing and searching the Gastarbeiters one by one, while other policemen searched the barracks or headed off to find the corporate officials responsible for supervising the Gastarbeiters. There was no resistance, even when Herman used a knife to remove clothes and pushed the prisoners out into the cold morning air, where they squatted on the ground and awaited their fate passively. The only moment of excitement came when a policeman found a small packet of German chocolates hidden within a bedroll, probably stolen from a German shop. Herman was almost disappointed with the lack of action by the time the prisoner vans arrived from the station. The Gastarbeiters were herded into the vans, their hands still cuffed, and told to sit down. No one would care if they suffocated inside the vehicles before they reached the station.
“You’ll be escorting them to the processing camp,” the Captain said. “The SS will take them from there.”
“Understood,” Herman said.
He nodded to Caius and led the way to the nearest van, where they clambered up beside the driver. The stench of unwashed bodies was strong, despite the air conditioning; he forced himself to breathe through his mouth as the driver started the engine and drove back onto the streets. So early in the morning, there was almost no traffic in the suburbs. He smiled to himself as they drove past another set of barracks – they’d be having their own visits from the police soon enough – and then past one of the brothels. A handful of bleary-looking soldiers were staggering out of the door, clearly somewhat the worse for wear. The sight brought back happy memories of his own premarital days.