The men climbed the stone ramp from the seabed to the wall of rough granite blocks, mottled with golden lichen.
Two German guards in the gateway examined each man’sDienstbuch—paybook—that served as identification papers and service documentation and more.
Once admitted, the men passed through a narrow ward bound by granite walls interspersed with arched openings filled with guns. The wind picked up as they went, ruffling clumps of grass in the mud beside the path.
They passed through a stone gateway stamped with a royal coat of arms.
On the other side, a crew of OT workers was setting up wooden framing in preparation for the pouring of concrete for yet another bunker.
As soon as Schmeling arrived, Gerrit, Bernardus, and Riedel would review the plans for the bunker and start calculations for any changes that needed to be made.
Unlike the Ukrainian workers on the docks, these men had meat on their bones and adequate clothing. Oddly enough, most of them wore bowler hats.
They were speaking Spanish. After the Spanish Civil War, many of the communist Spanish Republicans had fled for their lives to France, where they’d been interned. When the Germans invaded France, the Spaniards were given a choice—return to Spain, where they would be executed—or volunteer with Organisation Todt.
At least their classification as volunteers granted them more freedom and benefits than the slave workers.
Organisation Todt treated their fellow Germans best. Those they considered Aryans—like the Dutch and Scandinavians—were treated fairly well. Those from western Europe were treated with moderation. And Jews and those from eastern Europe were abused.
The wrongness of it all. The cruelty. It grated and swelled in his chest.
Schmeling had yet to arrive at the construction site, so Gerrit, Bernardus, and Riedel waited to the side. And Gerrit observed. Observed the men working hard and with good cheer.
He could no longer contain it, so he assumed an innocent air. “These men work harder than the Ukrainians and Russians.”
“Ja, even though this castle serves as a penal colony for our workers.” Riedel wrinkled his broad nose. “But then these men are not lazy Slavs.”
“They are also well-fed and properly clothed.” Gerrit closed his mouth before mentioning how they weren’t being beaten. “That must help them work harder.”
Riedel’s eyes narrowed in thought, but Bernardus shot Gerrit a look of death.
“Possibly,” Riedel said. “But it isn’t our concern. The guards and camp commandants know what’s best. They know how to work with Slavs.”
Gerrit sniffed and fiddled with the cuff of his jacket. “I heard a guard say they’re little better than beasts.”
“They would know.”
Gerrit tugged at that cuff. “If you want good milk and eggs and pork, you treat your beasts with care.”
A sharp inhalation, and understanding glimmered in Riedel’s brown eyes.
“Gerrit, come see the view.” Bernardus strode across to the far wall.
“Excuse me,” Gerrit said to Riedel, and he joined his friend by the wall facing east, toward the docks, not the most outstanding of views.
“What are you doing?” Bernardus glared at him. “Stop it.”
“I can’t stand by while—”
“We can fight only one battle at a time.”
Gerrit’s sigh tumbled in the darkening air. “We aren’t fighting even one battle.”
The starch went out of Bernardus’s spine. “I know. I—I’m sorry.”
Bernardus didn’t need more guilt, so Gerrit offered a slight smile. “I understand. No use dying in a battle we can’t begin to win.”
“Yes.”
