Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) (21 page)

His intercom buzzed.  “
Herr Reichsführer
, the Territories Minister requests an interview at your earliest convenience,” Maria said.  “What would you like me to tell him?”

Karl frowned.  “Tell him I’ll see him in twenty minutes,” he said.  He had no idea what the Territories Minister would want with him, but it would distract him from his thoughts about the future.  “And have a pot of coffee sent in when he arrives.”

“Yes,
Herr Reichsführer
,” Maria said.

And so another lead is gone
, Karl thought, as he skimmed through the reports from the earlier interrogations.  The
Gastarbeiters
had known nothing, of course, and they were now on their way to the great slave labour camps in the east.  Their masters had taken the commission without checking it carefully - let alone reading the leaflets - and had very little to offer to mitigate their crimes.  They’d probably wind up in the camps themselves once the Reich Council met to confirm their fate. 
And so we are left blind
.

He was still mulling it over when Marie showed Philipp Kuhnert, the Territories Minister, into his office.  Kuhnert was an odd duck, caught permanently between the Finance Minister, the Foreign Minister and the SS; Karl respected Kuhnert, even though he didn't particularly like the man.  It was his job to keep Germany’s satellites in line, obedient to the will of the
Reich
, without provoking them into futile rebellion.

We should just take over
, Karl thought, as he rose to his feet.  The Ministry of Territory was no match for the SS, but its master was not to be despised. 
Just make the French do as we tell them
.

“
Herr Reichsführer
,” Kuhnert said, as Marie poured coffee for them both.  “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

“It was my pleasure,” Karl said.  Marie retreated through the door, which she closed firmly behind her.  “What can I do for you?”

“The leaflets have spread to France and Norway,” Kuhnert said, flatly.  “I don’t expect trouble from the Norwegians, but the French may become a problem.”

Karl swore under his breath.  “The computer network?”

“Someone printed them off at the far end, then started to pass them around in a dozen cities,” Kuhnert said.  “Vichy caught a couple of distributors, but they escaped before they could be taken for interrogation.”

“They escaped?”  Karl asked.  Losing prisoners was rare.  It almost always spoke of gross incompetence - or a deliberate decision to allow the prisoners to flee.  “How?”

“The French aren’t saying,” Kuhnert said.  “But from what I picked up from my sources, they were simply allowed to escape by the security forces.  Deliberately.”

He leaned forward before Karl could say a word.  “That’s not the only problem,” he added, grimly.  “There’s a rumour going around France that we’re planning to send French troops to South Africa.”

Karl let out a harsh bark of laughter.  “Do they really expect us to send cowards to fight in a war?”

“The French lost - and lost badly - in 1940,” Kuhnert said, calmly.  “But they were betrayed by their leaders, not their fighting men.  And now there are many Frenchmen wondering if the chance of freedom is worth the risk of death.”

“Every time we have fought the French,” Karl countered, “we have beaten them.  We would have crushed France in 1914 if the British hadn't intervened and the Jews hadn't stabbed us in the back.  They are not fool enough to lift a hand against us now.”

“I’m not worried about them fighting us,” Kuhnert said.  “Vichy knows what will happen if they challenge us and yes, they will do whatever it takes to root out their own rebels so we won’t do it for them.  I’m more worried about the economic effects such rumours will have on our industry.”

“You sound like Krueger,” Karl said.

“The French supply us with various raw materials, foodstuffs and a considerable amount of manpower,” Kuhnert said, ignoring the jibe.  “Their production level has been poor ever since the sixties, when they realised they weren't going to get out from under our thumb.  Why should they produce anything when nine-tenths of what they produce goes straight to the
Reich
?  They’re still on pretty low rations and they resent it.  Far too many of the best Frenchmen are immigrating to North Africa or fleeing to Britain.”

Karl frowned.  “So?”

“Their government is, if anything, more repressive than ours,” Kuhnert continued.  “The workers in France haven't been allowed a proper trade union for years, ever since we defeated them in 1940, and the worker associations they do have are more concerned with pleasing the government than assisting the workers.  There have long been rumours of plans to set up secret unions and demand change...”

“Which we will crush,” Karl interrupted.

“They may no longer care,” Kuhnert said.  “The Spanish and Italians have the same problem,
Herr Reichsführer
.  Their populations have long resented slaving for us.  Now... they are starting to wonder what would happen if they simply refuse to work.”

Karl scowled.  “And what
will
happen?”

“We’ll start having supply problems of our own,” Kuhnert said.  He nodded towards the map hanging on the wall.  “These issues aren't going to fade away in a hurry,
Herr Reichsführer
.”

“I see,” Karl said. 

He gritted his teeth in frustration.  The only French department he’d thought the
Reich
could rely on was the Vichy government itself.  Massively unpopular, caught between the
Reich
and its own people, it was hellishly effective at sniffing out trouble.  But if the French security forces were starting to rot, if the French military thought it would be sent to fight in South Africa, Vichy might lose control.  And who knew what would happen then?

We have contingency plans
, he reminded himself. 
We could get the Panzers rolling into France within hours of trouble breaking out in Vichy... except those forces are earmarked for South Africa...

His blood ran cold. 
And if the Americans start to meddle in France itself...

“Thank you for letting me know,” he said.  Something would have to be done, but what?  “I will consider your concerns.”

“Thank you,
Herr Reichsführer
,” Kuhnert said.  “I appreciate it.”

Chapter Twenty

Schulze Residence

31 July 1985

“Gudrun,” Liana said, as she opened the door.  “How are you?”

“Well enough,” Gudrun said.  It was hard to disguise her nervousness, but she had to try.  “Are your parents in?”

“Father is in the living room, talking to mother,” Liana said.  She gave Gudrun a wink.  “I think they’re discussing my marriage.”

Gudrun blinked in surprise.  Liana was sixteen, barely old enough to marry; hell, Konrad had been twenty and
he
hadn't been married before he’d gone to the war.  But Konrad’s father was a traditionalist, far more of a traditionalist than Gudrun’s own father.  He’d want his daughter married off as soon as possible, after he presented her with a list of possible candidates.  She winced in bitter sympathy.  Liana could only hope that the list included someone she might like and grow to love, in time.

“They might have something else to discuss,” she said.  “Can you tell them I’m here?”

“They’re always pleased to see you,” Liana said, catching Gudrun’s arm and hauling her into the small house.  “Come on.”

Gudrun nodded and followed Liana into the living room.  Konrad’s father was sitting in an armchair, holding court, while Konrad’s mother was seated on a sofa, her arms crossed under her breasts.  She didn't
look
very happy, Gudrun noted; she had a feeling that Konrad’s mother might never contradict her husband in public, but it would be a different story in private.  God knew the BDM had told her, time and time again, that she should never argue with her husband publicly.  Male pride didn't like it.

“Gudrun,” Gerde Schulze said, rising to her feet.  “How lovely to see you again.”

“Thank you,” Gudrun said, flushing in embarrassment as the older woman gave her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek.  She’d always liked Konrad’s mother, but Gerde was a little too tactile for her tastes.  “Can we talk privately?”

“Of course we can,” Volker Schulze said, gruffly.  “Liana, go to your room.”

Liana gave Gudrun a betrayed look, then turned a pleading gaze on her father.  “Father, I...”

“Go,” her father ordered.  “I’ll speak to you later.”

Gudrun winced inwardly as Liana turned and stalked out of the room, holding her back ramrod straight.  She hoped the girl didn't try to argue with her father later, but she knew Konrad’s sister had always been impetuous.  Volker Schulze sighed out loud as Liana’s footsteps echoed through the house as she stamped up the stairs, then waved Gudrun to a seat facing him.  Clearly, he didn’t think Gudrun had come to see Gerde alone.

He always was perceptive
, Gudrun reminded herself. 
And if his loyalties haven’t changed, I may be putting my head in the noose
.

She braced herself and looked up, meeting Volker Schulze’s eyes.  “On Sunday, someone handed out thousands of leaflets in Victory Square,” she said.  She had no idea if Volker Schulze had received a copy of his own through the letterbox.  “Have you seen them?”

Volker Schulze’s eyes narrowed.  “I have seen the leaflets,” he said, neutrally.

Gudrun swallowed.  Volker Schulze
was
a former SS officer, after all.  If he decided his loyalties still lay with the SS...

“The leaflets claim that wounded or dead soldiers have been concealed by the government,” she said.  She tried to put a pleading tone into her voice.  “Is there any way you can check up on Konrad?  Ask what happened to him?  You must have contacts...”

“Most of the people I knew have retired or moved on to other posts,” Volker Schulze said, carefully.  His face was completely expressionless, denying her any chance to glimpse his emotions, but his wife looked worried.  “It wouldn't be easy to get any information on Konrad’s current location...”

Gerde leaned forward.  “But you are going to try,” she said, sharply.  Gudrun had never heard her speak in such a tone before, even when she’d been asking questions about Gudrun’s family and future prospects.  “Just for our peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Volker Schulze gave his wife a sharp look.  “There’s no proof that Konrad is wounded or dead,” he said.  “And I...”

“We should have been told if he was dead or wounded,” Gerde insisted.  “My father was visited by two officials when my brother was killed in the Middle East.  If Konrad has been wounded, or killed, we should have been told.”

“But we haven’t been told anything,” Volker Schulze said, irritated.  He couldn't be pleased with Gerde arguing with him, not in front of a visitor.  “Konrad is fine.”

“Konrad used to write to us every third day,” Gerde said.  “Even if it was just a short note saying he was fine, he’d write to us.  We haven’t heard anything from him for months.”

“Nor have I,” Gudrun said, quietly.

“Konrad would hardly have stopped writing to his girlfriend,” Gerde snapped.  “He wouldn't have wanted to lose her through neglect.”

“Asking questions could also get us in trouble,” Volker Schulze reminded his wife.  “Do you really want to risk our family...?”

“Konrad
is
our family,” Gerde snapped.  “And Gudrun is going to marry him.  She’s practically part of the family already!”

Gudrun winced, inwardly.  Volker Schulze wasn't looking happy at all.  She understood his refusal to ask questions - he had a wife and daughter at risk - but she
needed
him to ask questions.  And he wouldn't be very pleased with his wife afterwards.  Gudrun hoped - prayed - that they wouldn't have a colossal fight after she left.  She wasn't sure she could bear the guilt of splitting up Konrad’s family as well as concealing the truth from them.

“I just want to know what’s happened to him,” she said, lowering her eyes and trying to sound plaintive.  “I
miss
him.”

“We do understand, my dear,” Gerde said.  “We miss him too.”

“Konrad knew he would be parted from his friends and family for months, if not years,” Volker Schulze reminded her, sternly.  “We knew there would be a long separation when he graduated.”

“But we also knew he’d be writing to us,” Gerde reminded him.  “He was raised to stay in touch, was he not?  So where are his letters?  The censors might have covered the pieces of paper in black ink, Volker, but they wouldn't destroy them altogether.”

Volker Schulze rose to his feet.  “I shall contact an old comrade,” he said, stiffly.  He gave Gudrun a sharp look that made her cringe.  “And if Konrad is fine, young lady, your conduct will be reported to your parents.”

“Her worries are understandable,” Gerde said.  “Volker...”

“There are limits,” her husband snapped.  “And I think she’s crossed them.”

He stalked out of the room before his wife could reply.  Gudrun watched him go, feeling a yawning despair opening within her heart.  Her father would be angry, if Volker Schulze carried out his threat, but her mother would be
furious
.  Gudrun knew she’d probably spend the rest of the week in the kitchen, barred from leaving the house, if her mother found out what she’d said to Konrad’s parents.  And yet, she knew she’d had no choice.  The only way to ensure that Konrad’s parents knew what had happened to him was to make his father use his contacts to check up on his son.

“Don't worry,” Gerde said, reaching out to squeeze Gudrun’s hand.  “Volker may try to put a brave face on it, but he’s worried too.”

“You got one of the leaflets,” Gudrun said.  She hadn't had one sent specifically to Konrad’s house, but whoever had been distributing them had clearly stuffed one through their letterbox.  “I... I worry about him.”

“That’s the curse of being a grown woman, my dear,” Gerde said.  She patted Gudrun’s hand gently.  “We bring the men into the world, we marry them, we bear their children... and then we have to stay at home when they march off to war, knowing that they may never come home - or, when they do come home, that a demon might come back with them.”

Like Grandpa Frank
, Gudrun thought. 
He was so horrified by what he’d done that he tried to drown himself in drink
.

She shuddered.  Grandpa Frank wasn't the only one who’d gone off to war and come back a changed man.  She’d heard horror stories, filtered through the grapevine at school and then at university, about men who woke up screaming, fathers who beat their children bloody, husbands who bragged to their wives about how they’d slept with whores while at the front... she’d wondered, at the time, why
anyone
would want to get married to a soldier.  And yet,
her
father was strict, but he wasn't a drunken monster - and nor was Volker Schulze. 

Mother must have had a hard time of it
, she thought.  She wasn't quite sure how the dates added up, but she suspected that Grandpa Frank had come back from the wars shortly before he’d married, long before his daughter had married Gudrun’s father. 
How did Grandpa Frank treat his wife and daughter
?

Gerde cleared her throat.  Gudrun realised, suddenly, that Konrad’s mother had been speaking... and she hadn’t heard a single word.

“I’m sorry,” she said, softly.  “I was miles away.”

“I understand,” Gerde said.  “I was wondering if your brother is still unmarried.”

“None of my brothers are married,” Gudrun said.  Gerde couldn't be planning to marry her daughter to Kurt, could she?  Johan would be a better fit, if only because they were the same age.  “I don’t think Kurt plans to marry in a hurry.”

“Handsome young man like him?”  Gerde asked.  “Doesn't he have a girlfriend?”

“If he does, I don’t know about it,” Gudrun said.  She didn't really want to
think
about Kurt having a girlfriend, let alone a wife.  “Why do you want to know?”

“Liana needs a man,” Gerde said.  “And your brother is already an established soldier...”

Gudrun shook her head, sadly.  “I don’t know what he’d want,” she said.  The thought of
her
brother marrying
Konrad’s
sister was... icky, even though it wouldn't be technically illegal or immoral.  But she knew now she wasn't going to marry Konrad.  He’d be lucky if they didn't turn the life support off in a few weeks, if he showed no signs of recovery.  “You’d have to talk to my parents.”

She felt a sudden flicker of envy. 
Kurt
could refuse, if pressed;
he
didn't have an obligation to listen to his parents when it came to choosing a wife.  He had a career, he had a life... he could marry a whore from the brothels if he wanted and no one could say no.  But Gudrun herself? 
She
had to listen to her parents when it came to getting married.

“I will,” Gerde said, briskly.  “And...”

She looked up as her husband returned, his face very pale.  Gudrun took one look and knew what he’d been told.  Volker Schulze looked like a man who had been punched in the belly, repeatedly.

“Konrad is in hospital,” he said, numbly.  “He’s not expected to survive.”

Gerde gasped.  “How?  Why?”

“There was an ambush, apparently,” Volker Schulze said.  He sounded shaken; Gudrun watched with growing concern as he walked over to the cabinet, produced a bottle of expensive imported whiskey from Scotland and poured himself a glass.  “Konrad was badly wounded.  They did what they could to keep him alive, but... but there was apparently some brain damage.  He’s not expected to survive.”

He swallowed the whiskey in one gulp and poured himself another glass.  “Gerde, I...”

“My son,” Gerde said.  “Where
is
he?”

“I couldn't find out,” Volker Schulze said.  He downed the second glass of whiskey and refilled it once again.  “My contact couldn't open the entire file.  It seems that certain parts of Konrad’s dossier have been sealed.  They don’t want anyone to know where he is.”