Chapter One - Britte Altmeyer.
Britte had survived the end of the Great War and now had to endure the peace. The Berlin Republik Club was the hot spot of the city. Britte had secured the exotic waitress job and had managed to scrape by. In 1927, the Weimar Republic held a tentative grasp on power and the money had begun to flow into Germany, money she intended to get. Although Berlin had the highlife, the streets were scarred by daily fights between police and the Freicorp; or Communists or both. The unemployed soldiers with vicious political agendas took to the boulevards and streets and dispensed their ideology with clubs, fists and even guns. However, her shift was beginning. The weak afternoon sunshine was scarred with heavy dark rain clouds. She had slept in and now, Britte was going to be late for work and had to make a stab at leaving her apartment and walking down the street to the tram.
There had been troubles that evening, a mass of brutality had splashed blood on the streets and throughout the morning, sporadic fights penetrated her consciousness. Eventually, she dragged herself to the tiny washroom and used her last clean flannel to wash her nakedness. She looked into the cracked mirror, her short side-parted mannish hair was blonde with streaks of brown. Her breasts were a good medium size and required no bra. Her left breast still bore the bruises of a wandering hand but she shrugged and then used the cloth to wash her pussy hair. The thick, coarse black hair was getting too long, so she sighed and grabbed at the small scissors to cut at the hairs at her cunt and then used the last good razor to shave at her labia, leaving a neat crown of pubic hair on her pudenda. She smiled thinly, her regulars liked her shaved cunt and would often give a more generous tip. She returned to the bedroom and donned the cupless bodice and boots. She wore no panties, as there was little point.
Looking outside, the rain had begun to fall and She picked her moment, wrapping her leather long coat, given to her by her dead lover, Franz, before he returned to his unit in 1917. He died in his Fokker Triplane under a hail of bullets, so she had been told. His flying coat had been returned to her. She held it tight to her body, a shield against the wind and rain of that October and a protection against anyone seeing under its length. In her borrowed high-heeled boots, she skittered across the wide road, looking up for the tram, the red electric carriage trundled past, but Britte managed to reach out and a helpful hand caught hers and helped her up onto the narrow foot plate,
"Danke!" Britte looked up at an immaculate black dinner jacket, paired with a matching black woollen overcoat,
"My pleasure, Fraulein. " The tall man smiled thinly across his scar-lined face, a clear indication that he was a war veteran.
Britte found her feet and looked around, the tram was crowded and as the tram rattled and shook, she lost her balance and fell forward, her hands fell forward and landed in his broad, muscular chest,
"I beg your pardon, Mein Herr" She then felt the unmistakable hard outline of a pistol, secreted sway in a shoulder holster. She looked up alarmed,
"State Police," he muttered, smiling but Britte moved away suspiciously. Men with guns were never a good thing, despite their protestations of being there to protect others. A man with a gun became a beast: a beast that takes what he wants at the point of the gun he carries.
Britte had learned the hard way, in the field hospital in Belgium, when French soldiers tore through the camp, he was bent on revenge and pillage on their minds. Britte had run into the deserted tavern in the bombed-out village, with another nurse, Lise Altmayer. The two fled to escape soldiers in the camp and ran straight into four French men, helping themselves to whatever wine or beer could be salvaged. Two young, pretty women, in their used uniforms, had little chance. The soldiers grinned like slavering wolves, one barred the door, and the others offered sips of the sour wine. Britte, always the pragmatist, smiled along and played along with the drunken men. She laughed with them, and drank some of the wine, but not enough to feel its effects. Steeling her nerves, Britte flirted with them. She teased them split wine on her uniform, and acted like a silly schoolgirl. All the time, they kept drinking. Further bottles were discovered and more were consumed. Two hours of this would hopefully make them insensible.
It had nearly worked.
Lise had copied Britte's flirtatious behaviour guessing she planned to get the men drunk, and then escape but then all of a sudden, one quiet, moustached man grabbed at Lise and tore open Lise's uniform exposing her small pink breasts, and pulled her onto his knee and grabbed under her uniform skirt and grasped at her cotton knickers. Now the scene descended into anarchy. Lise slapped the man, who tore off her uniform, intent on raping her. Britte tried to reach the now crying Lise but by then Lise panicked and in a mad scramble for the moustache man's rifle; that lay on the kitchen table was accidentally shot, as the Frenchman struggled with her.
Lise was dead instantly, the men looked at the body first and then at Britte. The Frenchmen knew the situation had now changed forever. The death of Lise meant they were all complicit in her death and now, faced certain death at the hands of a firing squad unless there were no witnesses. The moustache man rechambered a fresh round in the rifle and aimed it at Britte, she looked at him, wide-eyed expecting the shot.
Then suddenly the room went black. She had been stunned by one of the other soldiers and then fell to the floor. The men leapt on her, picking her up, tearing her uniform and stripping her naked, and then tied her to the kitchen table. The soldiers had agreed that they would enjoy the remaining nurse, then set a fire, to destroy any evidence in an attempt to avoid the punishment meted out to looters, rapists and murderers. All too soon, Britte came to, her entire body was aflame. She felt her hands and feet restrained and the rough penetration of a man's prick using her sore sex for his enjoyment. As each man spilt his seed inside her, she gritted her teeth and refused to cry. She would not give these men her strength, she grunted not from pleasure but as a release of their violent thrusting.
She looked away, her eyes straight ahead, the men sweating and heaving themselves as they abused her. Finally, the moustached man heaped the final humiliation by pushing his prick into Britte's asshole. She gasped and panted; her face clenched in pain as the man used her. He was mercifully short in his abuse, spraying his seed on her naked buttocks. She expected to die, to be shot after each man spilt his seed in her for a second time. Finally, she was untied and cast upon the floor, expecting a bullet from one of her rapists but a series of artillery explosions heralded a German counterattack, which sent the French soldiers fleeing and Britte managed to scramble what was left of her uniform and race back to her lines.
She never spoke of it. Fortunately, she did not fall pregnant, as so many victims did after being forcibly used by soldiers. After the war, she returned home to her village in the coalfields of the Saar but soon discovered its annexation and the region under French rule. She tried to settle quietly but became fearful and couldn't live under the occupation of the French. Britte could not allow herself to be in such a situation with soldiers again and she would not. She fled to Berlin, and now, two years later and after two brief love affairs with a man and then a woman had her life in the decadence and wanton lifestyle of Berlin in the roaring twenties. Britte looked at the policeman, he was a handsome man, despite the scar. He was rugged and powerfully built but looked dangerous. She didn't speak but then skipped neatly off the tram before he could stop her and made her way to the salon.
Chapter Two - Paul Von Wittenstein Zu Holzminden.
After watching the pretty young woman skitter off down the cobbled streets with a raised eyebrow, Paul surreptitiously checked his automatic Walther pistol and then looked for the next stop. As the tram trundled slowly, he stepped off and walked around the block of buildings and then made his way to the basement club, The Berlin Republik: Britte's workplace. He trotted nimbly down the dozen or so steps to the large thick steel-plated reinforced doors. Paul pounded curtly on the large green doors, and a panel slid back Paul flashed his State Police card and the door was smartly opened and Paul walked and was shown in by a black jacketed doorman. The corridor was dimly lit, large pictures of semi-naked women adored the walls, Lautrec -style and the air was stuffy and smelled of expensive cigars.
Opening out into the salon, the basement was filled with people. It was barely 1:00 pm and the joint was jumping. A six-piece band of players filled the air with 'Schrage Musik' or jazz. Smartly suited patrons sat on chairs, drinking and smoking and buzzing around them were at least a dozen corset-wearing waitresses. All the women were young, no more than 30, all bare-breasted and their sex uncovered. The waitresses were all slender with blessed with a variety of breast sizes, to suit all tastes. Some women wore a full bush, whilst a few had neatly trimmed pubic hair on show for the viewing pleasure of clientèle. Each waitress wore a decorated vizard mask, and their hair pinned high on their head.
As Paul followed the doorman, he saw one of the waitresses, balancing a tray with a large glass setting it down for the patron and waiting for payment. The fat patron slipped a folded banknote between her teeth and slid a fat finger into the folds of her hairy pussy. The girl gasped and forced a smile, then eventually moved away took out the banknote from her teeth and gave the money to the barman. It would have enraged the old Paul, the aristocratic officer in the Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte who was brought up to be honourable and courteous. The new Paul, after 4 years of bloody war had left his honour in the fields of France and had little care left in the world. He would have disliked the casual sexual opportunism of the salon, and how women were treated in these places, but now he looked away. Paul had a job to do, he had a murder to investigate and a bribe to extract from the Republik's owner. He had been demoted by his Kaptain, for his unwanted attention to the department's illegal activities and now was reduced to being the detective bureau's 'bagman'. He had initially resisted attempts to take the protection money, so now handling the payments, he was as guilty as the rest of the corrupt officers, but without the benefits of being any richer.
As the office door was opened, the owner of the salon greeted him with a thick brown manilla envelope and the offer of a drink, waving the doorman out of the room. The salon owner, Herr Richter knew the value of a secret arrangement, he wanted this new man to be easier to manage than his predecessor; Kaptain Hoffman had been before his untimely demise,
