Storm Front (Twilight of the Gods Book 1) (11 page)

“I see,” Gudrun said.  She looked down at the table for a long moment.  “Sven and the computer experts will send messages to everyone, the day we start distributing the leaflets.  Horst and the boys ready themselves to put messages through letterboxes; I and the girls prepare to start handing out leaflets in the streets.”

“Wear wigs,” Horst said.  “Tie your hair up and wear a striking wig, one you can remove in an instant if necessary.”

He looked embarrassed for a second.  “And stuff your bras too,” he added.  “You want to draw their eyes to your chests rather than to your faces.”

Gudrun blushed.  “We don’t want to look
too
old,” she said.  “Passing for a sixteen-year-old isn't going to be easy.”

“Most people won’t notice as long as you look striking,” Horst assured her.  “Just make sure you are striking in ways you can easily remove, if necessary.  If the SS start looking for a red-headed girl, you can walk past them because you’re blonde.”

“Clever,” Sven said.  “How do you know all this?”

“I was in the Hitler Youth,” Horst said.

“So was I,” Sven said.  “And
we
were never shown anything like this.”

“Of course not,” Horst said, crossly.  “You, you see, were in the Hitler Youth
here
.  I was in the Hitler Youth in Germany East.  You went on camping trips,
we
went on partisan hunts; you pretended to build fortresses, we dug trenches and sited mortars; the only danger you faced was a minor injury or a belting from the supervisors for falling asleep on watch,
we
ran the very real risk of being shot.  I have more practical experience than any of you in remaining concealed.”

“I’m glad you’re with us,” Gudrun said.  She'd known that Horst was from Germany East, but she hadn't understood the implications.  “Do you have any other pieces of advice?”

“Getaway vans,” Horst said.  “We hire a handful of vans, fiddle a little with their number plates and use them to get away from the scene.  The distributors can change in the rear while the drivers get them to safety.”

Leopold snorted.  “And when someone makes a note of the number?”

“That’s why we change it,” Horst said.  “Not much, not enough to make it obvious, but just enough to mislead someone watching from a distance.  We return the vans in perfect condition and no one asks any questions.”

Gudrun nodded.  “Good thinking,” she said.

“We won’t have long,” Horst added.  He ran his hand through his hair.  “I’d honestly suggest not sticking around for more than an hour, at the most. 
Someone
will report the leaflets to the police and then they’ll move in and try to catch us.”

“Your father is a policeman,” Leopold said, looking at Gudrun.  His voice was thoughtful.  “Is there no way you can keep track of his movements?”

“He doesn’t take me to work,” Gudrun pointed out, sarcastically.  The very thought was absurd.  Her father would have refused, she was sure, if she’d ever asked.  “And how am I supposed to hand out leaflets with him right next to me?”

“We could monitor the police radios,” Sven said, before Leopold could manage a sharp rejoinder.  “It isn't as if it’s
difficult
to adapt one of the radios to tune into their bands.”

“That’s illegal,” Isla protested.

Horst snorted.  “And handing out illicit leaflets
isn’t
?”

Gudrun smiled.  “Let’s be brutally honest, shall we?  We’ve already crossed the line.”

“That’s true,” Horst agreed.

“If any of you don’t want to help distributing leaflets,” Gudrun said, “say so now.”

She waited.  Her throat was dry. Everything they’d done so far
might
be excused - they
were
among the best and brightest of the
Reich
- but actually handing out leaflets would get them in deep trouble.  They’d be kicked out of the university, at the very least; it was far more likely they’d go to jail or be summarily exiled to Germany East.  Or...

“I think it has to be done,” Hilde said.  She looked down at her hands.  “I’m sick of this!  I’m sick of not knowing what’s happened to my boyfriend!”

“I’m sick of having to watch my words,” Leopold said.  “Of being worried that the next person I talk to will report me to the SS.  And of being told I’m not allowed to ask questions.”

“And if there are hundreds of others who feel the same way,” Gudrun said, “all we have to do is get them working together.”

“No,” Horst said.  “All we have to do is make them realise that there are others who feel the same way.”

He leaned forward.  “The state works hard to ensure that no one asks questions,” he said, flatly.  “We are taught not to ask questions from birth until death - and, because none of us ask the questions we want to ask, we never realise that there are others who feel the same way.  It may be too dangerous to add more recruits to our little band, but if we can prime the rest of the population to feel the same way... others will start their own groups.  The SS will be unable to keep track of us all.”

“I’ve heard about what happens to people the SS take away,” Isla said, nervously.

“It isn’t pleasant,” Horst agreed.  “For the moment, we say nothing if we are taken into custody, nothing at all.  And we don’t write anything down.”

“Save for the leaflets,” Sven said.

“We can also pay children to take the leaflets and hand them out,” Horst said.

“Too risky,” Gudrun said.

“The SS wouldn't brutalise children,” Leopold protested.  “Their parents would never stand for it.”

“They’ll do whatever it takes to root us out,” Horst said.  His voice was very firm.  “
Whatever
it takes.  Once we start the ball rolling, we have to be committed to the very end.”

“And, if that’s true,” Sven asked, “what do we want?”

“The truth,” Gudrun said.

“Freedom,” Hilde added.

“Free elections to the
Reichstag
,” Leopold said.  “Let the Nazi Party fight to win elections.”

“They won’t like the challenge,” Horst said.  He gave Leopold a long considering look.  “And that is why we have to brace ourselves for the moment they push back.  Because they will.”

Gudrun nodded.  “I think we’re committed now,” she said.  She smiled grimly at their expressions.  “I think it’s time to become traitors.”

Chapter Ten

Berlin

26 July 1985

He was committed now, of course.

Horst had no illusions.  Like the rest of the little group, he'd crossed a line.  In his case, he'd crossed it when he'd refrained from reporting the group’s existence to his superiors.  He should have reported Gudrun and her friends at once, then let his seniors decide how best to handle the matter.  Instead, he’d not only kept it to himself, he’d offered Gudrun some practical advice on how best to conceal her identity when the shit finally hit the fan.  If he were caught, now, he’d be sent to one of the camps, if he wasn't executed out of hand.  His execution would probably be used to set an example to everyone else...

If the Reichsführer didn't want to hush the whole affair up
, Horst thought.  A quiet execution was the most likely outcome, even though Horst had betrayed the SS.  The
Reichsführer
wouldn't want anyone else seduced into apostasy. 
My family would probably be told I died in a training accident somewhere and that would be that
.

“Horst,” Sven hissed.  “Take these, quickly.”

Horst shook himself and hastily dropped the leaflets into his bag.  Sven had done a good job, he had to admit; the leaflets
looked
authentic until the reader opened them up, whereupon they would be confronted with Gudrun’s message.  Horst rather suspected a number of them would be covertly dropped into trash cans, unopened and unread, but enough
would
be read to allow the message to spread.  And who knew what would happen then?  People would talk, of course, despite the omnipresent aura of fear.  And then?

I wish I knew
, he thought. 
And I wish I could talk to her openly
.

Gudrun, for all her intelligence, lacked practical knowledge and experience.  The BDM hadn't taught her anything beyond being a good housewife; she’d certainly never applied for one of the rare female positions within the SS.  Horst knew, without false modesty, that his experience was far more useful, but how was he to slip it to her without being exposed?  If he told her the truth, she’d be horrified.  And then...?

She either runs or tries to arrange an accident for me
, Horst said. 
And that will leave her without any qualified help at all
.

“Leopold is still keeping the old man busy,” Sven said, as he printed out the last set of leaflets.  “We spent all night devising a particularly buggy program.”

Horst had to smile.  Sven might be a wimp - he’d quit the Hitler Youth as soon as he could and worked hard to get into the university - but he did have a devious mind.  The tutor - who wasn't as capable a programmer as some of his students - could be held up indefinitely, if someone came to him with a problem.  Horst had half-expected to need to grab everything and run for his life, but so far everything had gone according to plan.

“Good thinking,” Horst said.  Thankfully, the computer labs were almost always deserted at this time of night, save for the tutor.  He took the final set of leaflets and dropped them into his bag.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here,” Sven reminded him.  He took a breath.  “Why did you want additional leaflets?”

“Just to make sure we had plenty,” Horst said.  “I’ll stick them with a friend - better you don’t know who - and distribute them later.”

He sighed, inwardly.  Gudrun didn't realise just how ruthless they needed to be, but
Horst
did.  He had no illusions about how quickly the police would react.  It wouldn't take them long to realise who was spreading the leaflets, then start rounding up all the BDM girls on the streets.  Perhaps a few of the matrons
would
be in deep trouble - it couldn't happen to a more deserving bunch, if half of what Gudrun and Hilde had said was true - but the police wouldn’t take long to realise that they were dealing with imposters.  Something else would have to be done to distribute more leaflets.

And I will have to do it
, he thought.  He didn't dare trust Sven or any of the others.  The only proof he had that none of them were spies was that he hadn’t been arrested yet. 
There’s no other way to spread the word before the police catch on
.

“I meant to ask,” Sven said, as they wiped the computer’s memory and shut it down for the night.  “Were you serious about what it’s like in the east?”

“Yes,” Horst grunted.  “There are some parts of the region that are relatively safe, but most places can be quite dangerous.  I learned to shoot when I was five years old.”

Sven swallowed.  “And your auntie... is she still living there?”

“Yeah,” Horst said.  He’d lied; he’d dug up the details of a genuine case and presented them as something that had happened to his relatives.  But it was real.  If he’d had doubts about helping Gudrun, they’d died when he’d looked at the files.  “She used to be quite a loyalist.”

“I heard that most people in the east are loyalists,” Sven said.  “Is
that
true?”

“Mostly,” Horst said.

“Then tell me,” Sven said.  “How can we trust
you
?”

“I could have betrayed you by now,” Horst pointed out.  Thankfully, he’d had time to think about what he would say, if anyone chose to raise the issue.  “As it happens, my brother left me with a great deal to think about even before I came to Berlin to study.  We’ve been lied to constantly.”

“You could be lying to me now,” Sven said.

Horst kept his expression blank, thinking hard. 
And why didn't you show this sort of talent in the Hitler Youth?

He suspected he knew the answer to
that
, although he could never ask.  Sven and the boys like him resented being forced into the Hitler Youth, resented being sent to camps where they learned how to march in unison.  And, because they resented it, they were never very
good
at it.  And, because they were never very good at it, everyone else picked on them.  Horst knew the score at the camps, even though it had been minimised in Germany East.  The strong bullied the weak, those who couldn’t keep up.

Maybe it would have been better if Sven had been allowed to carry weapons
, he thought, ruefully. 
He might have dealt with a bully or two by shooting the asshole in the head.

He gathered himself.  “If I wanted to betray you, Sven,” he said, “I would have done it by now.  None of you are particularly important.  You know how it works.  A single report is quite enough to get you all in hot water.  Instead, I’m doing my best to help keep you all alive long enough to do something effective, just as
you
are using
your
skills to help us.  Is that not good enough for you?”

Sven looked rebellious, but subsided under Horst’s stare.  Horst wondered, absently, if
Sven
was another spy, trying to divert suspicion, yet he knew it was unlikely.  The logic that kept
him
from being declared a spy worked for Sven too.  Spy-Sven should have reported the group at once, incidentally landing Horst in trouble too.  Unless Sven had decided to switch sides as well...

And that way lies madness
, Horst thought. 
The entire group cannot be made up of agents who decided to switch sides
.

He scowled as he picked up the bag and led the way to the door.  He’d tried looking up the names of other SS agents within the computer files, but they had been classed as well above his security clearance. 
Sven
could probably hack into the files, given the access codes, yet that would be far too revealing.  All he could do was keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour, particularly when the computer messages started making their way through the network. Sven claimed to have rigged the system to keep the messages going, even when the first set were wiped from the nodes.  Horst believed him.  Sven was an odd duck, someone who would probably be happier in America, but he knew computers.

Maybe I should give him my access codes after all
, he thought. 
I could always threaten him into silence... or try to steal someone else’s codes
.

“I got the van parked outside,” he said, as they left the building.  “We’ll be ready to get into place on Sunday morning.”

“I’ll have the radio ready by then,” Sven said.  “Just make sure no one sees the leaflets.”

“Of course not,” Horst said.  “No one will see them until Sunday.”

***

It had taken months of arguing before Gudrun’s parents had agreed to let her put a lock on her door.  Gudrun had pointed out that she was a growing girl, that she didn't want her brothers walking in on her while she was changing and that she deserved some privacy.  Her parents had finally agreed, then imposed so many rules - most notably, that she couldn't close or lock the door when Konrad was visiting - that she sometimes wondered if there had been any point in trying to get the lock in the first place.  Her mother, after all, had one of the spare keys.  But, right now, her mother was shopping and her brothers were out of the house.  She had time to prepare for Sunday.

She opened the bag Isla had given her and carefully placed the BDM uniform on the bed.  No one had to
pay
for their uniforms, which was a relief; it was hard enough scrabbling with her mother over what clothes she was allowed to buy for herself without having to endure her mother’s outrage over buying the uniforms too.  A white shirt, loose enough to conceal the shape of her body, a long black skirt that stopped barely a centimetre above the ground, a long brown coat and a pair of ugly black shoes that made it impossible to run.  It was, she had to admit, an improvement on the BDM sports uniform, but not much of one.  And to think she’d hoped to throw the whole thing out when she’d finally been allowed to quit the BDM.

Gritting her teeth, listening carefully for signs of life from Grandpa Frank, she stripped down to her underwear, donned a pair of jeans and a tight American t-shirt, then pulled the uniform over it.  Thankfully, Isla had loosened the skirt so it was no longer so tight around her rear end; she studied herself in the mirror and decided, after a little adjustment, that no one could tell she was wearing a whole additional layer of clothing underneath the uniform.  Bracing herself, she tore the uniform off as quickly as she could without tearing it and checked, again, in the mirror.  She might just get told off by a policeman for wearing revealing clothes in public - her mother’s reaction would be downright murderous - but she certainly didn't
look
like a BDM girl.  And that was all that mattered.

She dressed again, then tried on the wig.  She’d never worn a wig before; it took her several tries at fiddling with it before it looked convincing, the long dark hair tied into two ponytails that made her look several years younger.  If nothing else, she reflected ruefully, it was one thing to thank the BDM matrons for; they’d been so insistent that the young girls in their care had to have their hair in ponytails that it would be easy enough to hide, just by tearing them down or removing the wig.  Finally, she opened her shirt and stuffed her bra, trying hard to make it look convincing.  She honestly didn't know where Horst had found the nerve to suggest that she and the other girls use padding to make their breasts look bigger, although she had to admit it was a good idea.  The policemen wouldn't know where to look if they caught her.

And let’s hope father doesn't catch me,
Gudrun thought, as she slowly undressed and packed the uniform away in her bag.  She doubted her mother would want to see it in the next couple of days. 
He’d kill me if he caught me dressed like a common tart
.

She sighed, inwardly, as a slip of paper fell out of the skirt and landed on the floor.  One of the matrons had made her write the lines out, time and time again, until her hands were aching, a punishment for some offense she no longer remembered.  The lines of the poem urged her to forget about being anything other than a housewife and mother... she shuddered in bitter memory.  How often had she been told she wouldn't ever be anything else?  And if Konrad had remained unwounded, would she have been allowed to be a computer engineer or would she be expected to be his housewife?