Storm Front

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.

She flinched as someone spoke into the darkness. “What are they going to do to us?”

“Kill us,” someone else said. “Or put us in the camps.”

Gudrun shuddered. There had always been dark rumours, even before she’d started the Valkyries; there had always been suggestions of what happened to those who failed to fit into the Reich. And, after what Grandpa Frank had said… they might be driven to a camp, forced into a gas shower and exterminated. She thought – she still thought – that the Reich wouldn’t dare harm so many Berliners, in plain view of the entire city, but it was hard not to fear the worst. Her family might never know what had happened to her.

Tears welled at the corner of her eyes as the vehicle lurched one final time, then came to a halt. She would have given anything to see her parents one last time, to make her apologies in person, to ask them if they were proud of her… hell, she would have given up her university career. And yet, Konrad and the hundreds of others like him had never had that option. Surrendering now would mean that they’d died – and been wounded – for nothing, that the government had got away with its crimes. She flicked her head, forcing the tears away as she heard the door slowly being unlocked. There would be a chance to escape, she told herself, and if she saw it, she would take it.

“Climb out of the vehicle and walk straight through the door in front of you unless you are drawn aside,” a voice ordered. Gudrun flinched away from the light pouring in through the open door. “Sit down on the floor, then wait. Do not speak to your fellows.”

Gudrun looked around as she was helped out of the van, then pushed towards the door. They were in a garage, she thought; a chamber large enough to house several giant prisoner transports. A policeman was standing by the door, eying her with cold blue eyes; she forced herself to keep her head up straight as he held up a hand to stop her, then frisked her with brutal efficiency. She was tempted to point out that she’d already been frisked once, but she suspected there was no point. Inside, there was another large chamber, totally bare save for a large portrait of the Fuhrer, looking unrealistically stern. The painter had done something to the image, she realised as she sat down on the hard floor; the eyes looked as though they were following her around the room. It should have been funny, but it was actually alarmingly intimidating.

No men, she realised, as she looked around carefully. The only prisoners in the room were female. They must have been sent to a different room.

She forced herself to try to remember what her father had said, back when he’d been trying to interest Johan in joining the police force rather than volunteering for the military. The policemen on the streets handed prisoners over to the policemen in the station, who processed them and determined their fate. It all seemed rather slapdash to her, but if her father was to be believed, prisoners were rarely innocent. The only real question was if they would be sent to jail or transported east to help make Germany East safe for German citizens. She shuddered bitterly, remembering what Horst had said, then forced herself to relax as best as she could. The long wait, in handcuffs and freezing cold clothes, was probably just another attempt to wear her down before the interrogation began.

The door opened. A grim-faced policeman entered the room, picked a girl at random and marched her back through the door, which closed behind them with a loud thud. Gudrun wondered briefly what the girl had done to deserve being picked first, then decided it didn’t matter. She had a feeling she’d go through the whole process herself soon enough. The door opened again, revealing a different policeman who took a different girl. Gudrun almost giggled as her dazed mind wondered if the girls were being taken for a dance.

Her blood ran cold. There were horror stories – darker horror stories – about girls who went to semi-legal dances and raves. Her father had never let her go, even with Konrad; she’d never dared to defy him, not when many of her friends were also forbidden to attend. And the policemen were taking the girls… she suddenly felt very vulnerable and helpless. They wanted her to feel that way, she was sure, and yet… it was working.

Patience, she told herself firmly, as the door opened again and a policeman walked towards her. Konrad went through worse. You can get through this.

The policeman helped her to her feet with surprising gentleness, then escorted her into a corridor and down towards a large metal door set within the stone wall. It opened with a series of clicks – Gudrun couldn’t help wondering just how many locks had been worked into the door – revealing another cold chamber. It was bare, save for a single metal table; two stern-faced men sat behind it. The table – and their chairs – were firmly fixed to the floor.

“You are under arrest,” one of the men said. The policeman who’d escorted her to the room stepped backwards until he was standing in front of the door. The only door. There was no hope of escape. “If you cooperate, it will be noted. Do you understand me?”

Gudrun nodded, feeling her heartbeat starting to race. Any hope she’d had of escaping, of vanishing into the streets, was gone. She fought to keep her breathing under control, knowing it was a losing battle. This was worse, far worse, than being forced to write lines, or having her hand swatted with a ruler…

“Good,” the man said. “Name?”

“Gudrun Wieland,” Gudrun said.

It was hard to speak. Her thoughts ran in all directions. She hoped her parents wouldn’t get into trouble. She’d known some parents who had got into trouble because their children were little brats, but the kids had been much younger than eighteen. Gudrun was old enough to be accountable for herself, yet she was also a girl – an unmarried girl. Her father could be punished if she stepped too far out of line.

“Noted,” the man said. His voice was flat, utterly atonal, but there was a hint of something unpleasant in it. “There are checks we have to perform. If you cooperate, everything will go smoothly and swiftly; if you refuse to cooperate, we will carry them out by force and you will find them thoroughly unpleasant. Are you going to cooperate?”

“Yes, sir,” Gudrun said.

“Remove the cuffs,” the man ordered.

Gudrun let out a sigh of relief as her hands were released. She brought them around and stared at her wrists. The skin was badly bruised; she rubbed them frantically, trying to get some sensation back into her hands, but she felt nothing. She couldn’t help wondering if she’d lost all feeling in them for good. The policeman let her have a moment to work her hands, then tapped the table impatiently. Gudrun couldn’t help feeling a flicker of amusement as she realised there were three men guarding her, as if they considered her a deadly threat. She knew, without false modesty, that she couldn’t hope to beat even one of them in a fight.

One of the policemen produced an ink pad and a pad of paper. Gudrun had had her fingerprints taken before, the day she’d entered school; she recalled, with a hint of bitter shame, that she’d considered it fun. Now, it was terrifying. Her anonymity was being stripped from her, piece by piece. If there was a single fingerprint of hers anywhere on the leaflets, they’d know who she was. And then it would be over.

“Very good,” the policeman said, once the whole process was complete. His companion removed the fingerprint paperwork, then produced a small metal box from under the table and put it on the top. “Now, I want you to remove your clothing, piece by piece, and pass each item to me.”

“I can’t,” Gudrun objected. She hadn’t taken off her clothes in front of a stranger since her last medical examination – and the doctor had been female. Even Konrad had never seen her naked. “I…”

“You can either undress on your own, in which case the clothing will eventually be returned to you, or you will be cuffed and your clothing will be cut away,” the policeman said. He didn’t show any hint of anticipation, but his companion was clearly looking forward to the display. Gudrun shivered as his eyes crawled over her body. “There will be no second chance to cooperate.”

“They’ll want to degrade you,” Horst had warned, back when he’d talked about how prisoners were treated. “They’ll want to make it clear that you are no longer in control of your own life.”

Gudrun shuddered. She’d never been allowed to wear something revealing, not even when she’d been at home. Tight jeans had shown off her curves, but not her bare skin… her cheeks burned with shame at the thought of being so exposed. And yet, she knew they weren’t joking. If they stripped her themselves, it would be far worse. Gritting her teeth, she undid her shirt slowly, trying to pretend that she was undressing for bed. She was damned if she was going to give them a strip show.

She was grimly aware of their gazes – one lustful, one cold and dispassionate – as she removed her trousers and stood in front of them, wearing only her bra and panties. Bracing herself, she slowly removed her last protections and stood naked in front of them. The policeman by the door was breathing heavily; she wanted to curse him, even as the policeman inspected her last few articles of clothing and dropped them into the box, covering her breasts with one hand and the crack between her legs with the other. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go; she wanted to cry, but she didn’t dare admit weakness. It would be disastrous.

“Hands on your head,” the policeman ordered.

Gudrun hated him in that moment, hated him with a helpless fury she hadn’t felt for anyone else, not even the worst of the BDM matrons. But she did as she was told, trying not to look at them studying her. She had never been so exposed in her entire life. Their eyes were trailing over her breasts, drinking in every detail. They had to know she was completely clean. Where could she hide anything now she’d been stripped naked?

“Turn around,” the policeman ordered, coldly. He rose to his feet and walked around the table. “Bend over and grab your ankles.”

Gudrun stared at him in disbelief, but there was no point in trying to argue. All she wanted was to get it over with as quickly as possible. She turned and bent over, grimly aware that they were seeing far too much of her. Cold hands gripped her buttocks and pulled them apart… she cringed, half-expecting to feel a finger poking up inside her most private parts, before she was released.

“Stand,” the policeman ordered. He was already walking back around the table, as if violating Gudrun’s most intimate parts was nothing. “Cuff her, then take her to the holding cell.”

It had been nothing, Gudrun realised, as the policeman snapped the cuffs back on, trapping her hands behind her back. They didn’t know who she was, or what she’d done; they were just showing off their power. It was crude, it was effective…

…And yet it had failed. They hadn’t broken her.

You don’t know who I am, she thought, as she was pushed into a small holding cell. She might be naked, she might be cuffed, but she felt as though she had won. You don’t know who I am and that means I still have a chance.