Cruel Dreams and Communism by Jones Sebastian

Author:Jones, Sebastian
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Raven Publications
Published: 2018-11-07T00:00:00+00:00

7 July 1941

Gestapo Headquarters, Rouen, France. 5pm

Lutz had been summoned just as he was about to leave for the day. He had been settling into his office and adjusting to the new faces and habits of the place. There were all sorts of little, personal quirks he had to get used to. Like how his colleague, Braun, always held a meeting at four o’clock and insisted everyone take tea while they were going over the day’s events. You had to tolerate these little habits to fit in. Lutz was learning, but not fast enough for his own liking.

As it happened, he was the only Gestapo officer left in the building by five. All the others had gone for dinner. That meant he was the only one who could be summoned when a prisoner was brought into the building.

Lutz was aware that men had been out looking for someone under the orders of the Gestapo, but no one had explained precisely what was going on to him. He was still the outsider, the intruder and everyone was cagey about what they said to him. That was annoying, but it was the sort of thing Lutz was used to. He had experienced it throughout his life.

When he was found by a guard who was looking for an officer to report to, Lutz was rather glad that he had stayed behind when the others went. He now had an opportunity to be ahead of the game, instead of behind.

Lutz was escorted to the basement where prisoners were held in small cells, once used to store food and wine. The cells had been divided up, where necessary, and supplied with stout doors that could be bolted shut. Lutz was used to the groaning that always came from those kept in these rooms. He blocked it out with the conviction that they were bad people who were attempting to subvert the Fuhrer’s power and control of Europe. Such people could groan all they wanted, they would get no sympathy from him.

The soldier who had fetched him, showed him to one of the cells. Lutz peered through the small window to see a man sitting inside.

“Who is he?”

“The British pilot we were searching for,” the soldier said, looking a little surprised by the question.

Lutz was wrong-footed; he knew nothing about a British pilot or a search for him. But admitting that would look extremely bad in front of an ordinary soldier.

“Where did you find him?” He asked instead, hoping to get the answers he needed in a roundabout fashion.

“He was hiding in the woods. A farmer reported that his wife had had some bread stolen from the kitchen. We found him not far away. He didn’t seem to know what to do.”

“And the plane?”

“The wreckage is where it crashed. There is an anti-aircraft battery nearby, if we wanted they could secure the wreckage there.”

Lutz did not answer. He was not interested in the plane.

“Has he said anything?”

“Not to us,” the soldier shrugged.

“Bring him up to one of the interrogation rooms,” Lutz said.

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