Winter of the World by Ken Follett

Strasse Barracks would be any better?
    Walter said: ‘This is an international incident, Commissar.’ Lloyd guessed he was using the title in the hope of making Macke behave more like an officer and less like a thug.
‘You have arrested three foreign citizens – two Austrians and one Englishman.’ He held up a hand as if to fend off a protest. ‘It is too late to back out now. Both embassies
are being informed, and I have no doubt that their representatives will be knocking on the door of our Foreign Office in Wilhelm Strasse within the hour.’
    Lloyd wondered whether that was true.
    Macke grinned unpleasantly. ‘The Foreign Office will not hasten to defend two queers and a young hooligan.’
    ‘Our foreign minister, von Neurath, is not a member of your party,’ Walter said. ‘He may well put the interests of the Fatherland first.’
    ‘I think you will find that he does what he’s told. And now you are obstructing me in the course of my duty.’
    ‘I warn you!’ Walter said bravely. ‘You had better follow procedure by the book – or there will be trouble.’
    ‘Get out of my sight,’ said Macke.
    Walter left.
    Lloyd, Robert and Jörg were marched outside and bundled into the back of some kind of truck. They were forced to lie on the floor while Brownshirts sat on benches guarding them. The vehicle
moved off. It was painful being handcuffed, Lloyd discovered. He felt constantly that his shoulder was about to become dislocated.
    The trip was mercifully short. They were shoved out of the truck and into a building. It was dark, and Lloyd saw little. At a desk, his name was written in a book and his passport was taken
away. Robert lost his gold tie pin and watch chain. At last the handcuffs were removed and they were pushed into a room with dim lights and barred windows. There were about forty other prisoners
there already.
    Lloyd hurt all over. He had a pain in his chest that felt like a cracked rib. His face was bruised and he had a blinding headache. He wanted an aspirin, a cup of tea and a pillow. He had a
feeling it might be some hours before he got any of those things.
    The three of them sat on the floor near the door. Lloyd held his head in his hands while Robert and Jörg discussed how soon help would come. No doubt Walter would phone a lawyer. But all
the usual rules had been suspended by the Reichstag Fire Decree, so they had no proper protection under the law. Walter would also contact the embassies: political influence was their main hope
now. Lloyd thought his mother would probably try to place an international phone call to the British Foreign Office in London. If she could get through, the government would surely have something
to say about the arrest of a British schoolboy. It would all take time – an hour at least, probably two or three.
    But four hours passed, then five, and the door did not open.
    Civilized countries had a law about how long the police could keep someone in custody without formalities: a charge, a lawyer, a court. Lloyd now realized that such a rule was no mere
technicality. He could be here for ever.
    The other prisoners in the room were all political, he discovered: Communists, Social Democrats, trade union organizers and one priest.
    The night passed slowly. None of the three slept. To Lloyd, sleep seemed unthinkable. The grey light of morning was coming through the barred windows when at last the cell door opened. But no
lawyers or diplomats came in, just two men in aprons pushing a trolley on which stood a large urn. They ladled out a thin oatmeal. Lloyd did not eat any, but he drank a tin mug of coffee that
tasted of burnt barley.
    He surmised that the staff on duty overnight at the British embassy were junior diplomats who carried little weight. This morning, as soon as the ambassador himself got up, action would be
taken.
    An hour after breakfast the door opened again, but this time only Brownshirts stood there. They marched all the prisoners out and