Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “My knees are already shaking. I’m not sure I can pull this off!”

  “Relax, darling. You’re a natural. Just follow my lead and we’ll both be fine, and I’ll owe you a big one.”

  While not fully convinced, Doro had to admit the get-up was passable. Toni gave her professional seal of approval as she saw them to the door. “I’ll put in a good word with my manager.” She stifled her laughter. “She’s always got an eye out for new talent. Now get the devil out of here, and remember—walk like men!” They hugged all around. “And get those duds back to me by tomorrow afternoon so I can return them to my uncle’s shop.”

  Gasthaus Schmidt evoked the Bavarian origins of the National Socialist Party. Isabel knew the choice of locale was intentional. Every weathered tabletop spoke of spilled beer and greasy food. Massive posts supported oaken beams traversing the hall, and the wood-paneled walls bore faux medieval shields. Years of smoke masked their originally bold colors. In stark contrast, a swastika flag hung from the speaker’s dais in black and white on crimson. Horst Wessel, the newly-minted martyr to the Nazi cause, stared into the distance from a large framed photograph flanking the speaker’s rostrum. Isabel and Doro sat against the rear wall of the basement meeting hall. Two Brownshirts boxed them in.

  The local cell leader welcomed the gathering, drawing the audience’s attention to propaganda pamphlets and books for sale at a side table. Each attendee had already coughed up a full mark just to gain entrance. Normally a fifty Pfennig contribution to Party operations would have sufficed, so this was certain to be a noteworthy occasion. While awaiting the arrival of his guest speaker, the master of ceremonies encouraged a rousing chorus of Die Fahne hoch in honor of Wessel, the song’s creator and fallen hero. Some twenty local Nazi leaders had already gathered up front, with lesser minions packing the remaining tables.

  Isabel sat in the rear but didn’t feel like singing. She worked against the shoelaces binding her hands at her back. The attempt only further abraded her wrists. Doro slumped forwards in surrender, making no attempt to weaken her ties as she scanned the crowded hall and threw Isabel terrified glances. Who could blame her? They were in deep trouble, and Isabel fiercely cursed herself for putting them at such risk.

  They should have turned tail while they still had the chance, having first held back to observe the goings-on from across the street. The tavern had appeared benign from the exterior, its signage limited to a carved wooden plaque above a stone arch. A solitary lantern over the entry illuminated the sidewalk. Isabel had anticipated finding a couple of Brownshirts guarding the entrance. Stormtroopers went everywhere in pairs, as if fearful of being out alone. But for this gathering, six men hovered outside with wooden staves at the ready.

  A few guests pulled up in automobiles. The guards stood at attention as their leader waved the important men inside. The drivers left the curb in a hurry, clearing the impostors’ view of the proceedings. The SA gatekeepers referred to a list as they screened new-comers. Most arrivals produced some sort of identity card, likely Party ID’s. Others, clearly recognized by their comrades, exchanged a few words at the door before bounding up the steps. Many came in crisp brown uniforms with leather belting, others in business suits. Very few wore workers’ garb, and none wore clothing as grubby as the women’s disguises. Something special was certainly about to happen here, given the security precautions and dress.

  “We’ll go for it anyway,” Isabel had insisted to Doro’s dismay, “we’ll bluff ourselves in.” The name of one local Nazi bigwig was fresh in her mind. She intended to use the knowledge to their advantage. Before Doro could protest, Isabel strode out into the street and Doro hurried to catch up. They approached the entrance as boldly as they could muster, remembering Toni’s advice and mimicking the confident gait of the two Nazis they saw approaching to their right. Isabel softly reminded Doro to deepen her voice.

  The first guard gave them a quick once-over and sneered: “So what do you gents want?” Taking a closer look in the light from the doorway, he raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Did our little boys lose their way home?”

  Isabel held her voice firm and husky: “Herr Hallinger invited us.” In her head she heard only the voice of a pre-pubescent boy trying to emulate a man.

  The guard appeared unimpressed. “Herr Hallinger, eh? You boys got your Party cards?”

  “The Führer is Germany’s future, and we’re here to enroll tonight.” Perhaps they wouldn’t catch the growing edge of fear in her voice. Doro’s jaw remained tight, an uncertain smile on her lips. Isabel sensed she was tempted to cut and run. The gatekeeper continued to scrutinize them with a patronizing grin.

  “Any problem with our joining up?” Isabel tried to break his silence. “Somebody has to put the damn Yids and Bolshies in their place, right?”

  The man eyed the brown-shirted comrades now gathering directly behind the impostors and gave them a wink. Their laughter burned. In for a penny, in for a pound, so Isabel added emphasis to their commitment to the cause: “Give us a chance to bust heads for Germany—we’ll give those mongrels what they deserve!”

  “Well then, head on in, Jungs.” He grinned as he stepped aside. “I’m sure Herr Hallinger will be delighted to have you at his table.” He made a broad gesture of welcome and his Stormtrooper pals closed ranks behind them, pressing up against the women and forcing them up the steps.

  “Oh my God!” Doro whispered, making no attempt to deepen her voice.

  In the shadows of the foyer lurked a heavy-set man in a broad-brimmed fedora and dark overcoat. He crushed a smoldering butt beneath his heel and stepped forward to face them. Beneath the wide hat brim glared a boxer’s mug and Isabel stopped short, grabbing Doro by the elbow. It was a brute she and Ryan had seen on the street on their way to the bloody brawl. Less than an hour later his brass-knuckles had pounded Ryan mercilessly until a club-wielding Reichsbanner trooper dropped this thug to his knees.

  Now that battered tough towered over them, his bad teeth showing in a supercilious smile. He addressed Isabel in gutter slang, his voice ripe with sarcasm. “What a pleasure to see you again, Liebling. Two quick questions for you: where’s your pretty boy tonight? We’ve unfinished business, me and him. And second,” his eyes raked first her body and then Doro’s, “I see you’ve traded cock for cunt?”

  Doro was visibly shaken. Isabel remained silent. The man motioned to the nearby Brownshirts. “You two, wrap them up good and tight and stick them in back for now!”

  The taller of the men remained motionless. “We’ve nothing to tie them with, Herr Storm Leader.”

  “Use your belts if you have to! Now get the fuck in there and on the double! I’ve plans for these two. They owe me from last time and tonight I collect what’s due.” The guards reacted to the raw power of the man and followed orders. They led the women into the dimly-lit back row of the hall and forced them to remove their shoelaces. “Nice and tight at those delicate wrists,” the tough said, examining the bonds. “We can’t have these boys leaving before they share their beauty secrets, right?” He ran a finger down Isabel’s cheekbone, “Ah, smooth as silk,” then abruptly grabbed her by the crotch and squeezed hard. Isabel winced but bit her tongue. “Why, just imagine, comrades—this one’s so scared his cock’s gone missing!”

  The troopers laughed a bit too enthusiastically. The older guard, broad-headed and of smaller stature, shared the thuggish appearance of the Storm Leader. The second was a decent-looking type in his early twenties, handsome if not for the ridiculous SA cap with narrow chin strap giving him the look of a bellhop or elevator operator. Perhaps she could win him over once the bastard-in-charge moved on. Then she remembered her masculine look with bound breasts and dropped that idea. She missed her curves, the long hair and red lipstick, feminine tools to turn any man’s head.

  The brute gave Doro’s jaw a light slap. “One word from either of you—” he pulled brass knuckles from his pocket, “and your lips are sealed with this, verstanden?” He
held his armored fist beneath her nose. “Don’t worry—you can open your mouths for me later,” he jerked a thumb toward the well-dressed Nazis gathered before the rostrum, “but the fun must wait till our guests have left. So sit down and enjoy the evening. You might learn something useful, but don’t count on any good coming from it.”

  He headed toward the rostrum to whisper something in the ear of a VIP at the front table. That well-dressed man turned, smiled directly at them, and said something in reply. The brute grinned broadly and nodded in agreement. Rising from the table, the man came to the back of the room accompanied by the big thug.

  “I am Johann Hallinger,” he said, bowing slightly. “Word is we are already acquainted.”

  Isabel’s voice quivered despite efforts to keep it calm. “There must be some mistake.”

  He turned to the brute. “Can that possibly be, Sturmführer Veidtner? Do we ever make mistakes?”

  “Never, sir.” A malicious grin emphasized his battered teeth.

  Hallinger’s civilized demeanor suddenly hardened, his smile gone as quickly as it had come. “On your feet when you address me!” Isabel and Doro stood. “Now show us your asses.” They turned to face the wall and he lifted the flap on Isabel’s jacket. “Comrades, I believe we do make an occasional mistake after all. These are certainly neither men nor boys. I do believe these are misguided women badly in need of a good fucking.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Veidtner said.

  “So here’s what you do, Storm Leader, and with my blessing: once tonight’s gathering comes to a close, take these ‘ladies’ out to the shed for a little rest and relaxation. Get them out of those ridiculous clothes, ride them till they scream for a break, then ride them some more.” Doro lost control, sobbing as Hallinger continued. “Were I not having a nightcap this evening with our guest speaker, I’d gladly join you immediately to assure their pleasure goes on and on.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I know plenty of tricks they’ll never forget.”

  “I bet you do, Veidtner. Just make sure this is the last gathering they ever attend. Can’t have party-crashers spoiling our fun, can we?” He gave Isabel a mirthless smile as he and the brute strode away, rejoining their compatriots up front.

  Isabel heard the younger guard release his breath. She and Doro collapsed on the chairs. The two Brownshirts took seats to either side, bookending the bound women. Isabel missed the slender switchblade she normally carried in her garter when she thought she might encounter a personal threat. She’d shown it twice in tight situations, and each time the would-be assailant had backed off. In the dim lighting of the basement hall she might have reached the knife had she worn skirt and stockings, but she’d left the blade at Toni’s when she’d donned male clothing. Another stupid mistake.

  The younger guard watched the staircase, awaiting the appearance of the guest speaker. From time to time he cast a sidelong glance at her. Bending forward, she caught his eye. “These laces are cutting into my wrists,” she whispered. The guard looked to the front. The brute who had ordered their silence was bent over the front table, speaking again with Hallinger. She gave the guard an imploring smile. “Any chance of loosening them? If only a fraction?” He turned slowly, a first hint of weakness. Perhaps something to work with after all?

  He motioned for her to twist to the side and he freed her hands. She rubbed her wrists and found friction burns but no broken skin. The man retied the laces, leaving a bit more play. Her fingers brushed gently over his as he tested the first knot, and she caught a flicker of a smile before he returned his attention to the rostrum. Neither Doro nor the thuggish guard on her far side appeared to have noticed the help.

  Loud cheers and riotous applause rose in the hall. Through the dense smoke Isabel spotted the guest speaker descending the stairs. She recognized him immediately: Dr. Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s propagandist. He stepped to the rostrum. She mentally kicked herself, for here was a Nazi meeting certain to demand full security if ever there was one, and she had been ill-prepared. It might as well have been their Führer himself. What a great story here should they get out alive! And if she ever saw that Inspector Brandt again, what an earful he would get for passing along this particular lead!

  Goebbels’ sharp features and obvious limp belied a brilliant and manipulative mind. She’d heard rumors he was a ladies man, though she found nothing about him attractive. His weasel-like face displayed an obvious cunning. The room quickly quieted for him to speak. She had already witnessed his public act with Ryan. At the big nighttime rallies the torchlight played off his bold gestures as he ranted and wheedled, gesticulating with a finger held high to wield a threat against the Party’s enemies or throwing back his shoulders, arms at his sides, to emphasize through stance the power of his words. The theatrics also helped overcome his diminutive physical stature. Here tonight his words might foretell some important revelation only for the ears of the Party’s most committed followers in Berlin.

  Isabel could foresee their fate. She knew that unwanted guests usually landed in the gutter after a thorough pasting, often with a broken bone or two. But any spy or known enemy was rumored to end up as one more unidentified body in the city morgue. So were she and Doro still there simply on a whim of the Storm Leader Ryan had pissed off the other night? Or did Hallinger himself intend to interrogate them more thoroughly once they’d been sexually violated by his brutal henchman?

  Surviving this night would be a miracle.

  The black Ford raced through the streets, the women rocking from side to side in the rear seat and unable to steady themselves with their hands bound. Their blindfolds were filthy rags taken from the trunk, the sharp odor nauseating Isabel. Her swollen wrists ached from the tension of the ties, and she knew her skin was chafing raw. Doro was also clearly suffering, but the orders were to keep their mouths shut and they were obeying. They were headed for “the shed,” and Veidtner had promised to come along later for a “personal interrogation.”

  A siren warbled in the distance, growing steadily louder. Had someone discovered their plight? No chance. They were in it up to their necks. Isabel wished their headlong rush through the city might lead to a collision, anything to draw the attention of the authorities. But the emergency vehicle passed them by. Moments later they sped beneath tolling bells; anyone’s guess which church with so many in the city. Completely disoriented, she knew things had taken a likely fatal turn and had no idea what to do about it.

  Goebbels’ speech had been incendiary enough, his audience enraptured by every word. The establishment of a National Socialist dictatorship and brutal suppression of dissent across Germany was to be but the first step in an aggressive political and economic conquest of all Europe. The ultimate goal was control of natural resources and transportation hubs necessary to make Germany the most powerful nation on earth. The Nazi leadership was not yet ready to threaten the Versailles powers by revealing Hitler’s grand aspiration, but for that select group of Party devotees the speech was designed to inspire even greater commitment to the first stages of demolishing the Weimar Republic.

  But there was no great scoop there. She’d heard it all before. A wasted evening likely to be the end of her. Of Doro.

  “The shed” was a looming, disused factory somewhere on the outskirts, likely one of the many commercial and industrial enterprises doomed by the worldwide economic collapse of the previous year. Grossmanufaktur Eisenstein GmbH stood in faded lettering above the entrance, but any remaining signage was either missing or lost to the car headlamps. To the left of the structure lurked the remains of a long-abandoned outbuilding, its roof canted away from the warehouse, its surviving walls now nothing but ragged piles of brick rubble barely a meter high. No lights burned anywhere. A glow on the horizon suggested a commercial district not far beyond a pine woods.

  The younger guard removed their blindfolds while the other approached a side entrance to the main structure. “What about our hands?” Isabel asked quietly, hoping to take advant
age of the amenable one. “Mine hurt like hell and I’ve lost all feeling.”

  She looked expectantly at Doro, who nodded agreement. Her friend’s voice came as a whisper: “I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”

  The guard shrugged, almost embarrassed. “Sorry, orders are you stay like that until the Storm Leader gets here.”

  Isabel gave her most winning smile. “Look, what can we possibly do with free hands? Attack two big men? Don’t be silly. And we sure can’t run in shoes with no laces.” She lifted her foot to emphasize the disability. “Plus, we’ve no idea where we are, much less how to get back into the city, and, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s cold as the devil out here. I for one want to get inside now.”

  The younger man looked over at his frustrated companion. The oafish one was working a stubborn lock in the glare of the headlamps. His shadow played above the doorway like some monstrous marionette. The guard, surrendering to Isabel’s persistent pleas, used a pocketknife to slit the laces. She smiled in thanks and gently rubbed her wrists as he turned to release Doro’s hands.

  In that second of inattention Isabel abandoned her flopping shoes and ran into the darkness toward the collapsed outbuilding. The frozen ground stabbed at her feet, her woolen socks providing scant protection. One false step could break an ankle, one broken bottle tear open a foot and bring a quick end to her escape. Nothing mattered but reaching the ruins and the blackness beyond. The startled guard shouted as he saw her bolt: “Hey, you! Get the hell back here!” His companion forgot the lock as he realized what had happened. Reaching for his flashlight, he cursed the younger man: “You asshole, what’ve you done now? We’ll be in for a shitload!”

  The young man, ignoring the insult, grabbed a flashlight from the car and headed out after Isabel. He shouted over his shoulder to the brutish colleague: “Watch the other! The runner’s mine!”

  Isabel glanced back long enough to see his light piercing the darkness. She barreled past rotting crates and disappeared amongst them, but quickly enough her pursuer spotted her again. Now the beam held her fast, its light spreading beyond her shadow and helpfully illuminating the pitfalls ahead. Close to the threshold of the ruined building she dodged a pile of bricks and fell headlong into the debris. “My ankle, I think I broke it!” Her voice shaky, edged with pain.