“They’ll be in deep shit when they get back to the barracks,” Caius predicted. “I bet you ten Reichmarks they overslept in the arms of a whore or two.”
“No bet,” Herman said.
His lips curved into a smile. Soldiers were allowed to slack off for a few weeks after Victory Day – it was why Kurt was still at home, rather than in the barracks with his unit – but there were limits. He suspected that some Oberfeldwebel would make them regret they’d ever been born after they staggered back through the barracks, if they were lucky. Being officially charged with desertion would probably get them sent to a punishment battalion somewhere in the east.
“Approaching the camp,” the driver said. “You want to get out first and check the prisoners?”
Herman nodded as they passed through two sets of gates and came to a halt beside the entry building. A handful of SS stormtroopers were already waiting, one of them eying the police vehicles with barely-concealed contempt. Herman shook his head – there was little room for elegance in police transports – and clambered out of the cab, jumping down neatly to the hard concrete ground. The SS stormtrooper threw a sharp salute and nodded to the rear of the transport.
“These the Untermenschen?”
“Yes,” Herman said. As if regular prisoners were ever brought to the SS camps. “They’re cuffed and naked.”
The driver flicked a switch in the cab, unlocking the rear of the van. The SS troops threw open the doors, then recoiled at the stench. Several of the prisoners had fouled themselves, clearly convinced they were going to die. Others were lying on the floor, seemingly unconscious or dead. Herman sighed inwardly – dead prisoners would mean more paperwork when he got back to the station – and watched as the stormtroopers ordered the living prisoners to climb out of the van, one by one. Naked, bound; they were prodded through the gates by rifle barrels and into the building, where they would be processed and then made to wait until their fates were decided.
Untermenschen, he thought, again. None of the prisoners seemed capable of offering even the slightest resistance – and a handful were crying. There isn’t a real man amongst them.
Caius elbowed him as another van passed through the gates and came to a halt. “You think we can slip back to the station once the prisoners are handed over?”
“We might have to wash out the van first,” Herman muttered, resentfully. Prisoners fouling themselves was not unusual – and no one really cared if a couple died on the way to the jail – but it wasn’t as if they had to clean up the mess. “You just know who’ll inspect the vehicles this evening.”
Caius opened his mouth to answer, then stopped and stared as the second van was opened and the prisoners marched into the camp. They were all women, as naked as the day they were born, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Herman stared, despite himself; they looked to be maids, young women hired to assist German housewives after they turned out their fourth child and earned the Mutterkreuz. Adelinde had flatly refused to allow one in her house, even though she was technically qualified to have one; Herman didn’t know if his wife feared he might fancy the girl or if Adelinde’s father would play games with her…
And what sort of message would it send to the children, he asked himself, if I played around with the maid right in front of their mother?
“Untermenschen,” the SS stormtrooper said. “Such whores can never be good Germans.”
Herman nodded. It wasn’t safe to disagree. Besides, back when he’d been in the military, there had been strict regulations banning relationships with Untermenschen women. He’d regarded them as a killjoy – far too many other soldiers had felt the same way – but the Race Classification Bureau had made it clear that good German genes were not to be introduced to the Slavs. There were so many Slavs that even a small handful of German-Slav hybrids might allow them to fight and win a war against the Reich.
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he scrambled back into the van – once the last of the girls was through the gates and into the processing centre – and they were driven back to the station. He’d hoped for a break, but instead he was ordered to supervise a handful of German prisoners – the corporate officials who owned the Untermenschen – and watch as they were interrogated by the SS. Herman couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for them, even though they were unwilling participants in treason. They might be released, if they weren’t guilty of actually writing the damn leaflets themselves, but it would cast a long shadow over the rest of their lives. They would probably find themselves exiled to the east.
“Get a bite to eat,” the Captain said, when the last of the prisoners was finally escorted down to the cells and locked in. “And then report to my office in thirty minutes.”
Herman and Caius exchanged looks, then hurried down to the canteen and hastily ate a quick snack before heading back up to the Captain’s office. There were hardly any policemen in the corridors as they walked up the stairs. It looked, very much, as though most of the policemen attached to the station were out on the streets or supervising prisoners. Herman shuddered inwardly at the thought of one of them searching his house – he reminded himself, again, to destroy the leaflet as soon as he returned home – and knocked on the Captain’s open door. The Captain was sitting behind his desk, examining a set of folders, while Fritz was sitting in front of him.
“Come in,” the Captain said. “I have a specific job for you.”
Herman nodded and took the proffered seat. Caius sat next to him.
“We have not learned much,” the Captain said, shortly. “The Gastarbeiters were apparently hired to hand out the leaflets by a person who remains unidentified. There are no pictures available of this individual and the descriptions we have are so imprecise that it is impossible to narrow down the field. Most of the fingerprints on the leaflets belong to the Gastarbeiters or the Germans who handed them in. However, we may have had one lucky break. One of the fingerprints matched an individual on file.”
Herman leaned forward, feeling his heart starting to race. Fingerprints were not altogether reliable, but if they’d matched one fingerprint to the files… they might just have caught the ringleader. And that would mean promotion…
“Herr Doctor Professor Claus Murken,” the Captain said. He picked up one of the files and passed it to Herman. “Professor of Computer Studies at Albert Speer University.”
Caius smiled. “And you want this man arrested, Herr Hauptmann?”
“I do,” the Captain confirmed. “Arrest him and bring him to the station, now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Albert Speer University, Berlin
29 July 1985
Gudrun had been relieved when she’d woken up and discovered, as she helped her mother make breakfast, that her father had had to stay at the station overnight. It wasn’t common – her father normally worked from nine till five and then headed straight home – but it was a relief. Kurt might have spoken to their father for her, yet she’d been dreading their next meeting. Walking out of the house, carrying her bag of university books, had left her with the sensation that she was escaping a destiny mapped out by someone else. By the time she reached the university itself, she felt almost as if there was nothing she couldn’t do.