Slaves of the Swastika (9 page)

“Of course you're right. There!—and there! and perhaps this one, too. Gracious, I've never seen a bottom waggle so quickly! She makes me feel as if she were trying to coax me to bed,
wirklich!”

The portly Gestapo head had applied three whistling, crackling strokes of the leather riding crop over the base of Helga Nordheim's naked, piteously welted behind. Each had drawn a wild shriek from her, and her hips had twisted uncontrollably, offering up in the lewd distension of her posterior the lascivious sight of her hairless cunt, whose lips were still wet and stickied from the gismic tributes which the two Nazi privates had paid her. It was this involuntary but lascivious proffering which had made the
Oberst
allude to Helga Nordheim's “enticement.”

At last the demeaning ordeal was completed, and the two privates lifted Helga Nordheim by the armpits, their fingernails digging into those tender, sweaty niches, and made her stand before their superior. He took a monocle out of the lapel pocket of his gray uniform, adjusted it to his right eye, squinted at her, and smirked with satisfaction: “Well, I'll say this,
Frau
Nordheim, you don't exactly look like a housewife who's had a bath recently, and you do smell bad. Are you ready to talk yet?”

Slowly, as if there were weights tied to the lids, her beautiful eyes opened, haggard and bloodshot, filling with new tears, and her lips began to tremble so convulsively she could hardly speak. Faintly, falteringly, there came this almost incoherent petition: “Oh God, have me shot... anything... but no more! In the name of God the Father, I beg you as a decent human being... kill me... I don't know any more... before God Himself I couldn't say any more than I have to you. Oh please... please...”

“Do you suppose she's telling the truth;
Herr Oberst?”
Willi Murtens hazarded.

“Of course it's possible. She keeps clinging to this story in spite of everything. Now you see, Willi boy, you're a little more clever than in the days of the Inquisition, do you see? Now there, they'd torture a bitch like this until she'd confess she had slept with the devil himself just to have the torturers stop their work. Well, that sort of confession isn't any good. It can always be repudiated. I'm sure that if I took that pair of pliers and tore off
Frau
Nordheim's fingernails and toenails, and then lit a good cigar and sprinkled the hot ash over the raw wounds, she would probably tell us she had planned to assassinate
Der Fuhrer
himself. But you see, Willi, if you're going to be an officer, you have to learn to differentiate and to discriminate. That comes with experience, my boy. Not that you haven't done well—I'm very pleased with you, and with Manfred too. But at this point, what we're going to do is leave
Frau
Nordheim on the table as she was just before you tried to give her a drink, Manfred. And then we're going to walk out and leave her, and let her think about what can happen to her. A naughty girl like this doesn't deserve a clean swift death at the headsman's axe. Not at all. Nor hanging from a meathook with piano wire around that soft white neck of hers. No, that's too quick. Myself, I'd like to put a wooden stake up her dainty
Arsch-hole,
tie her hair to ropes from the ceiling and her thumbs up in the air to the ceiling too, so she'd balance herself. And when she got too tired, she'd let herself down to the stake and naturally it would penetrate into her bowels, which would hurt her a good deal but wouldn't kill her right away. We wouldn't make the stake long enough to reach the heart, naturally. Maybe that's what we'll do when we come back. I think we've earned a little beer and schnapps, boys, and maybe a bit of roast chicken. Let's go see what
Frau
Schneider, our good cook, has prepared for the evening meal.”

And the three Nazis walked out of the interrogation room and slammed the door behind them. They ignored Helga Nordheim's despairing shrieks of “Oh God—oh no, don't leave me, I swear I can't tell you anything more, but don't do that to me! Shoot me, behead me, kill me quickly, in the name of heavenly mercy! Oh Kurt, Kurt, why don't you come and save me—it hurts me so—I'm so afraid!”

When the police limousine arrived in front of the Gestapo headquarters, the sergeant who had shot Max Dornburg and arrested his lovely companion and sweetheart Trudy Heinzelman turned to the plainclothes men who were guarding Eva Jung and Erich Luvrow and remarked, “I've got a hunch that our fish belonged to the net that
Oberst
Mueller is putting out. Before you take them in for questioning, let me go on ahead and get in touch with him.”

The two men who were undercover agents for the Gestapo were quite familiar with the citywide search for those malefactors behind the publication of
Till Eulenspiegel.
One of them said, “You're quite right, Sergeant Katzmire. Good thinking. You do that, and we'll watch over your prisoners.”

Trudy Heinzelman wasn't thinking about escape, not after she'd seen her own lover shot down in the street before her very eyes. She wept helplessly, covering her face with her hands, while Erich and Eva in the back seat between the two agents, held hands and stared helplessly at each other as they looked out through the window of the limousine to see the grim gray building which all Berlin knew housed the implacable organization known as the Gestapo. It was the most terrifying secret weapon in the Third Reich. At any time of the day or night anyone within its range of operation knew when there might be a sudden hammering on the door and a command to open... then soldiers with rifles and Lugers would enter, headed by some mild-looking little man who you'd think didn't look anymore important than a mailman. But before he finished, someone in that dwelling was led out and maybe never seen again. And in the occupied countries, the Gestapo worked just as vengefully and swiftly, with a murderous silence and a far-flung organization which even the Allies grudgingly admitted was just about foolproof. Nowhere in Germany was it safe to say freely what one thought. A harmless remark to one's neighbor while standing on the corner waiting for the bus might mean, even a few minutes later, someone's tapping you on the shoulder and arresting you in the name of the Gestapo.

It was no wonder that Erich and Eva quailed before the sight of that building, though they could only guess what they would find there....

Oberst
Mueller was feeling quite pleased with himself. He'd spent about two hours with this blonde bitch, and she was getting nicely pliable without being too spoiled. It would really be a shame to have to shoot her or behead her. What a fine plump Arsch she had, and such good firm solid
Butzen!
And how soft and feminine and helpless she was, especially when she felt the good
Peitsche
cracking down on her bare white flesh! He was very fond of bitches who sang out lustily when the whip was at work, and who let him observe every detail of their suffering by even crying out in advance and babbling the most stupid and abject promises. Why, it was like punishing a little child who had been naughty. The allusion made him chuckle with salacious irony. Yes, very much like that indeed. Here was this charming Helga, whose living room you'd love to visit for an afternoon tea and exchange a few polite words with her and stare politely at her titties as they thrust out against a nice expensive dress. The Professor earned a good salary and of course he lavished a good deal of attention on the dear lady, which was natural. If he wanted to chase around for a pretty piece of
koot-zele
like that Kathy Flichtsen, he'd have to lull his wife's suspicions and so he'd probably give her lots of little gifts. Well now, sitting with a saucer balanced neatly on one's knee and a napkin on the other knee with a little plate of cake or maybe a sweet roll on it and smiling and paying attention to the conversation so as to put in an intelligent word every now and then, that was what you'd expect to find in Helga's living room.

But here in their little
Reitschen-Zimmer,
things were vastly different, oh yes indeed they were! And the minute she had got in there and been obliged to undress for them in her ladylike and shy way, she'd become just like a naughty little girl who had been told she was going to get a good sound thrashing. All the signs were there, from the first trembling of the lips, to the widening of the eyes, the sudden quickening of the pulse and heartbeats, the clamminess of the skin, the dryness of the lips and the throat, the nervous stammer, the gradual lack of assurance in those sweetly-pitched words of hers. It was really a science; no, it was better than that, it was like the unfolding of a great symphony by Beethoven or Schumann, from the first few notes into the development of the major theme and then finally the triumphant finale.

And he,
Oberst
Friedrich Mueller, was the conductor of that symphony, and he could call for
forte
or
pianissimo
just as he pleased. No, she wasn't really too badly spoiled, and with a little schnapps and some coddling, she'd be ready for another little session.

He and his two men had gone upstairs to the main floor of the building and down the hall to the right to a little room marked “Private.” Willi Murtens had gone all the way back to the kitchen to ask fat gray-haired
Frau
Schneider for something good to eat for the
Herr Oberst
and for himself and his companion Manfred. The Gestapo officer opened the door and disclosed a pleasantly furnished little lounge. A couch, some deep low, thickly upholstered armchairs, a pretty rug on the floor, even pictures on the wall, photographs blown up and framed showing the beloved Leader addressing a rally at Nuremberg, or there walking among the troops and personally decorating soldiers for their valor with the Iron Cross. There was even a little wind-up phonograph on the table near the window, with some records of Wagner, music to which the Leader was especially partial. It was a place, in a word, where a hardworking man could relax after an exhausting piece of business. He sat down in one of the armchairs, exhaling a sigh of deep content, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes for a moment.

Helga had just taken the edge off his rut by sucking him off, the amusing little sow! It had been the first time she'd ever done that, and she'd said as much. Well, perhaps she had other virginities to offer. There was still the little matter of that dainty pink hole between the cheeks of her big sweet
Arsch.
And he was sure that the Professor had never tried to put his prick between the valley of those juicy big titties. To hold them in his hands and squeeze them together against his own ramrod and to rub it back and forth would be almost as good as having it inside her
kootzele.

He unbuttoned his military tunic, patted his belly. Then he frowned. He was going to have to do something about that. A little too much weight in the gut. That was surprising, considering how much activity he had down in that basement interrogation room. You would think that a good workout such as he'd just had with
Frau
Nordheim would have taken at least a couple of pounds off his middle. But these days there wasn't time to consider one's personal vanities. The war was critical now. Traitors and saboteurs, all people who weren't loyal to the Leader, must be found out and punished and eliminated. That was the only way to victory.

There was a respectful knock at the door, and he called out,
“Herein!”
And the door opened and it was his two “boys.” He felt most paternal towards them, though there really wasn't that much difference in age. He himself was in his early forties, and if he could find out who was responsible for that accursed paper, he could very easily become a general. “Now that's very thoughtful, boys,” he beamed. Willi and Manfred each carried a tray, and his eyes lighted up when he perceived what they had coaxed out of
Frau
Schneider. Some ham hocks, big mugs of scalding-hot coffee, a good-sized chunk of liverwurst, and several pieces of
Apfel-strudel.

His two subordinates fawningly served him, let him take his choice, but he was in a generous mood and left them enough tidbits. They'd been very useful just now, and they were going to be still more useful in getting the truth out of that timid, shy bitch downstairs in a little while.

“Do you think she might be pissing again, Willi?” he chuckled as he daintily forked a bit of ham hock, put it into his mouth and luxuriously savored it.

“I wouldn't be surprised at all,
Mein Oberst.
I'd say she was ready to give out with just about everything,” the beetle-browed private grinned. He looked back at his companion with a smile. No two ways about it, if every officer in the Third Reich was as understanding and as man to man with you as the
Herr Oberst,
those
verdammte
Allies would have been wiped out long before this!

He glanced at his wrist watch. “We'll give our little friend another quarter of an hour. It's good to get one's second wind when one is dealing with a difficult and obstinate patient,” he explained. They grinned and nodded. Then suddenly there was a knock at the door. He frowned, set his plate down on a little tabouret beside his chair, and rose to his feet with a grimace of annoyance. He jerked his thumb at the door, and Willie Murtens sprang to his feet and hurried to open it.

It was the sergeant who had shot Max Dornburg. “Respectfully begging your pardon,
Herr Oberst,”
the Sergeant said as the portly figure of the Gestapo chief confronted him, “But
Herrn
Lukas and Witte and myself have just brought in three students, all from that Professor Nordheim's class. We thought you might want to have a go at them, sir. We think it might have something to do with the
Till Eulenspiegel
business.”

“Excellent, Sergeant Katzmire! Tell you what. You said three?”

“Jawohl, mein Oberst.”

“Male or female?”

“Two girls,
mein Herr,
and a fellow. There was another fellow too, but I had to shoot him because he was trying to get away. I think his girl's pretty broken up, sir, and she might just be willing to talk, now that she's seen what happens to traitors.”

The Gestapo chief's fat face darkened with annoyance. This sergeant was getting a bit too big for his boots. “For your information, Sergeant Katzmire, I am in command here of interrogation. It's for me to decide who is going to be questioned and how soon they are going to talk, you understand?”

“Of course, of course, sir,” the sergeant gave him a deferential and swift salute which he languidly returned.

“That's better. Just so we know the order of things. Germany is great because it maintains order, never forget that, Katzmire. Very well then. Find out from
Lieutenant
Klaus Mann where the Nordheim bitch is being questioned. Then have the two girls taken into the adjacent chamber. We'll get to them directly. As for the fellow, just lock him up in a solitary cell, he'll keep. One more thing—is the other girl his sweetheart, do you think?”

“I'm sure of it,
Herr Oberst.”

“So much the better. If he's left to cool his heels a while, he'll start worrying about what we might do to his girlfriend. And if he's slept with her at all, he'll be jealous if he thinks that we might just have a go at her
kootzele.
So when you go back to his cell in a little bit, Sergeant, strike up a conversation with the fellow.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Yes, be sympathetic and confidential. Tell him it's a terrible thing to have his girlfriend taken by herself to be questioned without his being there to comfort her. Tell him that sometimes some of the non-commissioned officers and the privates get a little too enthusiastic in the name of our beloved
Fuhrer.
Tell her that sometimes they use the whip rather vigorously on a girl's bare ass and titties, and even in between her straddled legs. Now he wouldn't want his little sweetheart marked up there, I'm sure, not if he wants to fuck her from now on. You understand the tone, Katzmire. That'll start him thinking and worrying, and maybe he'll want to chatter like a parrot. Be off with you now!”

“At once,
Excellenz!
Thank you,
Excellenz!”
The sergeant saluted, wheeled, and left the lounge room, closing the door behind him.