Winter of the World by Ken Follett Page A

loaded them on to a truck, forty or fifty men in one
canvas-sided vehicle, packed so tightly that they had to remain standing. Lloyd managed to stay close to Robert and Jörg.
    Perhaps they were going to court, even though it was Sunday. He hoped so. At least there would be lawyers, and some semblance of due process. He thought he was fluent enough to state his simple
case in German, and he practised his speech in his head. He had been dining in a restaurant with his mother; he had seen someone robbing the till; he had intervened in the resulting fracas. He
imagined his cross-examination. He would be asked if the man he attacked was a Brownshirt. He would answer: ‘I didn’t notice his clothing – I just saw a thief.’ There would
be laughter in court, and the prosecutor would look foolish.
    They were driven out of town.
    They could see through gaps in the canvas sides of the truck. It seemed to Lloyd that they had gone about twenty miles when Robert said: ‘We’re in Oranienburg’, naming a small
town north of Berlin.
    The truck came to a halt outside a wooden gate between brick pillars. Two Brownshirts with rifles stood guard.
    Lloyd’s fear rose a notch. Where was the court? This looked more like a prison camp. How could they put people in prison without a judge?
    After a short wait, the truck drove in and stopped at a group of derelict buildings.
    Lloyd was becoming even more anxious. Last night at least he had the consolation that Walter knew where he was. Today it was possible no one would know. What if the police simply said he was not
in custody and they had no record of his arrest? How could he be rescued?
    They got out of the truck and shuffled into what looked like a factory of some sort. The place smelled like a pub. Perhaps it had been a brewery.
    Once again all their names were taken. Lloyd was glad there was some record of his movements. They were not tied up or handcuffed, but they were constantly watched by Brownshirts with rifles,
and Lloyd had a grim feeling that those young men were only too eager for an excuse to shoot.
    They were each given a canvas mattress filled with straw and a thin blanket. They were herded into a tumbledown building that once might have been a warehouse. Then the waiting began.
    No one came for Lloyd all that day.
    In the evening there was another trolley and another urn, this one containing a stew of carrots and turnips. Each man got a bowlful and a piece of bread. Lloyd was now ravenous, not having eaten
for twenty-four hours, and he wolfed down his meagre supper and wished for more.
    Somewhere in the camp there were three or four dogs that howled all night.
    Lloyd felt dirty. This was the second night he had spent in the same clothes. He needed a bath and a shave and a clean shirt. The toilet facilities, two barrels in the corner, were absolutely
disgusting.
    But tomorrow was Monday. Then there would be some action.
    Lloyd fell asleep around four. At six they were awakened by a Brownshirt bawling: ‘Schleicher! Jörg Schleicher! Which one is Schleicher?’
    Maybe they were going to be released.
    Jörg stood up and said: ‘Me, I’m Schleicher.’
    ‘Come with me,’ said the Brownshirt.
    Robert said in a frightened voice: ‘Why? What do you want him for? Where is he going?’
    ‘What are you, his mother?’ said the Brownshirt. ‘Lie down and shut your mouth.’ He poked Jörg with his rifle. ‘Outside, you.’
    Watching them go, Lloyd asked himself why he had not punched the Brownshirt and snatched the rifle. He might have escaped. And if he had failed, what would they do to him – throw him in
jail? But at the crucial moment the thought of escape had not even occurred to him. Was he already taking on the mentality of a prisoner?
    He was even looking forward to the oatmeal.
    Before breakfast, they were all taken outside.
    They stood around a small wire-fenced area a quarter the size of a tennis court. It looked as if it might have been used to store