Slaves of the Swastika (10 page)

Sergeant Ludwin Katzmire was thirty-one, bulky, nearly bald, about six feet in height and he hated women. He had caught his own bitch cheating on him about five years back and had just about beaten hell out of her and given the other guy a broken jaw and a ruptured hernia. Since then, he'd had a couple of sluts who'd lived with him a few months at a time and then pulled out because they couldn't stand his sudden fits of furious rage and his brutality. When he wasn't seized by such vicious tantrums, Ludwig Katzmire was exceptionally crafty and close-mouthed. He had been a sales manager in a department store before the war, and he had been invaluable to the store manager in pointing out who was slacking and who was cheating, and even stealing from the till. So naturally he had found his way to the Gestapo and although he had only the rank of sergeant, he was considered by no less a personage than
Kolonel
Dietrich Dortmund, who was the chief intelligence officer of the Gestapo in Berlin, as a highly skilled and very conscientious worker for the cause of expunging the traitors from Germany's midst.

Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire was congratulating himself on the find he'd made. That Trudy whose boyfriend he'd picked off with that quick shot from his Luger—now there was a real piece of cunt. Come to think of it, he'd not had his ashes hauled in over a month now, because somehow whenever he brought in women for questioning, the high-ranking officers had hogged them all to themselves. But this
Oberst
Mueller looked like a pretty decent sort of chap who believed in fair play. After all, hadn't he personally accounted for no fewer than four suspects in the
Till Eulenspiegel
affair. That was certainly worth a piece of cunt, if nothing else. And if by great good luck they happened to be really connected with the case, he might even make
Lieutenant.
Then the girls would have to take notice of him.

After receiving his assignment from the
Oberst,
Sergeant Katzmire hurried down the corridor and made his way to the door facetiously marked “Admissions.” That was a good one, that was! He didn't know what the percentage was, but it certainly couldn't be more than two or three percent of the people who came to that office who ever left that building on their own two legs,
am zwei Beinen.
He went in, smartly saluted the monocled gaunt lieutenant, and enquired where
Frau
Nordheim was being interrogated. Receiving this news, he then respectfully requested the whereabouts of the three prisoners which he and the two plainclothes men had brought in here, and was told.

As he left the office, whistling the “Hoest Wessel” song which was just about Germany's patriotic anthem these days, the stocky, almost bald noncommissioned officer of the S.P. felt remarkably pleased with himself. He went down the stone stairs, curtly explained his errand to the corporal who sat at the desk guarding the long corridor of subterranean cells and interrogation chambers, and then walked down to the room where poor Helga Nordheim was still enduring her prolonged martyrdom. Opening the door very quietly, he peeked in and grinned with salacious enjoyment.

Gott,
what a beautiful
arsch
the bitch had, and they'd worked it over a bit, you could see that. How he'd like to get between those cheeks and drive home his plunger and grease her up. It would be just as good as an enema for the lady, and it would do them both a world of good.

He turned to the right, after closing the door, and went down the hall about half way. There were two cells, one next to the other, with heavy metal doors and no windows inside, and just a footstool as furniture. Sometimes a cell like this had to do for a prisoner, especially if the traffic was heavy, for two or three days. Of course it was too bad, but then if these bastards wouldn't be disloyal, they wouldn't be coming here. He opened the first door and smirked at Erich Luvrow.

“Tough luck, kid,” he said colloquially. “Say, you know, I've just seen them take your little girlfriend into one of the interrogation rooms.
Oberst
Mueller is handling things. That's not so good for her, you know.”

“Wh—what do you mean?” Erich quavered and bit his lips. He was very pale and he was trembling. That was an excellent sign, too, when they started getting afraid even before you called them in, the sergeant thought to himself.

“Oh, nothing really. Except that he's one of the toughest men in Berlin. He doesn't stand any nonsense, especially from broads. You know, if I were really fond of a little bitch who got pulled in here, I'd do just about anything to save her neck. And it's not only her neck you'll have to save, my friend.” He gave Erich Luvrow a wink, as between two men of the world. “You see, fellow, once a bitch is stripped down naked, you can see everything she's got. Well, the Secret Police and the Gestapo are flesh and blood men, just like you and me, though you wouldn't believe it. But it's a fact, take it from me. By the way, I'm Ludwig Katzmire. And don't let the name fool you. There's no Jew on either side of the blanket for at least a dozen generations, so far as my old man could figure out from the family tree. What's your girlfriend's name?”

“E-Eva J-Jung,” Erich Luvrow's voice trembled and was very faint.

“That's a nice name, that is. Just like Mother Eve. I'll bet she's just as beautiful,
nein?”
This with a salacious wink.

“Yes, she is. She's got lovely yellow hair and—” Erich stopped, biting his lips as his anguish mounted.

“There, you see? I suppose you've slept with her? Oh, come on, don't be so damn shy. We're men together, aren't we? I could have a son about your age—well, maybe not, but I feel like that. I'm not a bad sort of guy when you get to know me. Lots of times people come in here and it's a mistake, and maybe it's that way with your girlfriend and with you. I sure hope so, for your sake. But I'll tell you as friend to friend that you might be thinking about whatever it is they pulled you in for.”

“Why are you talking to me like this? You were the one who arrested me! You were the one who shot my friend Max Dornburg!” Erich suddenly broke out.

“Gently, gently, boy. I had to shoot him. He was trying to escape. It could have been my job, and I could have wound up in a place like this myself if I hadn't done my duty. You'd have done the same thing in my place, take it from me you would. Now listen, I just have orders to pick up any suspicious characters, and we happen to know this damned traitor newspaper is probably being put out by one of your professors where you go to school and get smart, see? So get real smart, and if you know anything at all about it, or if Eva does, or even if she doesn't, you ask to see the
Herr Oberst,
understand? You know, if I had a cute girl with yellow hair, I wouldn't want to see her stretched out on the table tied down so hard the ropes bite that pretty skin and make ugly marks that will last a while. And they'll take a whip and use it on that bare bottom, you can depend on that. They always whip a woman on the behind. Makes her feel like a little kid getting thrashed by her daddy, and it starts her talking. And then, if she doesn't cooperate, there's lots of other things they can do to a girl. Believe me, they've got lots of imagination here and all the time in the world to use it in. Well, Erich, don't say I didn't warn you.”

Before the aghast youth could protest or utter a syllable, Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire walked out of the cell and clanged the door shut behind him.

He went directly to the cell to his left, unlocked the door and smiled to see Trudy and Eva standing against the back, their arms around each other's waists like orphans of the storm. He'd seen that old
Amerikanischer
movie by that same name with that simpering Lillian Gish and her sister. It had been about the French Revolution, and the two broads had been in jail, very much like these two. And they had been so scared of the guillotine and what the men were going to do to them. Well, that was just play acting—this was for real. And now that he saw Trudy and Eva, he was beginning to feel the need for getting his ashes hauled in one hell of a hurry.

“You're to come with me at once!
Schnell raus herein!”
he barked.

The two young women exchanged an agonized look and slowly left the cell. He let them go ahead, so as to get a look at their legs. Not bad at all. He liked that golden-haired piece. No wonder that kid Erich would have the hots for a piece of
kootzele
like this.

“In here,” he ordered.

They stopped before a door directly next to the room in which poor Helga Nordheim lay tethered to the table. He unlocked the door, gestured to them to go in.

This room was larger, and it had several more sinister devices, a fact which made Trudy and Eva shudder and gasp simultaneously. Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire chuckled.

“Now don't get upset my dears. If you're innocent as babes in the wood, you've nothing to worry about. You might say this is somewhat psychological. You see, when we put a nice person in here, he or she sees these things and, with any intelligence at all, says to himself that it's a lot better to be frank and honest and truthful right from the start than to be annoyed and inconvenienced. Sometimes our questioners are a little short-tempered. That's because of the war, you understand. My advice to you, the same as your own father might give you, is to hold nothing back and to tell the absolute truth at all times. The people who are going to question you will know all about lying and truth, believe me. Now let's see. I'm supposed to ask you to take off your dresses first. Just a formality, my dears. Don't be disturbed by my presence; I'm an old hand at this.”

“But we've done nothing!” Trudy protested.

The sergeant's face hardened and his fleshy, hard mouth twisted in a cruel smirk.

“That's what they all say. Now, I've got my orders, and they're from the
Herr Oberst
himself. Start undressing, or I'll call some men and they'll take your clothes off by force. I don't suppose you'd like that,
nein?”

Trudy and Eva looked at each other in consternation and both girls blushed. But they were frightened already by the fearsome devices placed in this room, not only for impressing them, as Sergeant Katzmire had implied, but also for coercing them into revealing every single thought that had ever crowded into their young minds since their birth. For this was the deadly and diabolical aim of the Gestapo.

Trudy was first to comply with the sergeant's order. She stooped and pulled up her brown cotton dress, after having removed her overcoat. Under the dress was a modestly cut, cheap white
ersatz
cotton slip. She hesitated a moment, her cheeks crimson, but the sergeant jerked his thumb at her.

“That thing, too, Miss,” he snapped.

When the slip fell, Trudy stood tall and slim, and Sergeant Ludwig Katzmire licked his lips. This one was sort of like a boy, with nice small, firm titties and delightfully long legs. The way she kept her black hair short gave her that boyish look, too, but his prick knew she wasn't a boy, damned if it didn't!

She had gorgeous creamy skin, and her cami-knickers (a one-piece pink cotton affair with shoulderstraps and a kind of tunic over her small titties joining a pair of rather wide-legged panties whose hems came down to about mid-thigh) were quite cute and provocative. Personally, he liked a bitch like this golden-haired piece of
kootzele,
this Eva. Now there was a pair of hips and a pair of titties you could hang onto while you poked her good and hard. But Eva Jung hadn't started to undress yet, still ashamed and frightened by this sudden, terrible drama which had taken place. While she could give thanks that dear Erich hadn't been hurt, she still had before her eyes the hideous sight of poor Max Dornburg sprawling in the gutter, and this man had fired the shot that had killed him.

“What are you waiting for? A personal invitation from
Der Fuhrer
himself?” he barked. “Off with it, like your girlfriend there, if you know what's good for you!”

Eva Jung was about five feet five, two inches shorter than Trudy. Her face was heartshaped, exquisitely sweet and feminine to the core. Her large, widely spaced blue eyes had long, thick lashes, to which she had put a cheap mascara which was beginning to run. Her nose was Grecian, with delicately fluted wings, and she had a rich, ripe, full mouth just made for kisses. Erich could tell you that—and Erich was thinking in his cell right now that perhaps that sweet mouth was going to twist in torment and gape in cries of pain. Erich was sweating by now and walking back and forth, the sergeant had no doubt of it.

“Why, yes—s-sir,” Eva quavered as she stooped and took off her black woolen dress. It was severely cut, because her elderly aunt (her parents had died of pneumonia last winter) had insisted that she dress like a respectable young woman and not like a
Dime.
Nonetheless, it could not hide the glorious jut of round, closely spaced titties nor the amplitude of mouthwateringly curved hips and succulently upstanding buttocks. She, too, had been wearing a plain cloth overcoat with a tiny strip of rabbit fur around the collar and cuffs, for show if not for warmth. That lay on the floor, like Trudy's, and now the dress joined it. Under the dress she wore a white batiste slip, rather coarse and somewhat frayed and yellowish from frequent launder-ings with the soap substitutes which had been rationed out during this abominable war. She hesitated, but a hard look from the sergeant convinced her of the folly of argument, and so the slip joined the little pile of garments at her feet.