The Inspection

This story is a FANTASY. In real world, slavery is never acceptable. Any similarity to actual persons or places is purely coincidental.

I am grateful to Charrla for the wonderful editing.

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There is fierce competition in the common European market. Countries often make it difficult for companies from other Member States to operate, under the guise of protecting either EU law or their own exorbitant standards.

Here is one such case out of hundreds. I have tried to describe it impartially.

Zenek did not hide his anger. When carrying a transport of female slaves through Germany, he had encountered a checkpoint. As a result, the slaves had been confiscated, taken to a special facility, and probably released.

The transport company we were both employed by lost a lot of money because of it.

"The Germans implemented the Long-Distance Directive differently," he said, nervously smoking his cigarette.

I stood at a distance because I hate smoke. "They have stricter requirements."

"Much stricter. They found a whole series of shortcomings: the chains were too short and too heavy, the distance between the slaves was too small, they had no access to water, they were not allowed to pee every four hours."

"Oh crap," I sympathized.

"I am afraid that they will fire me," Zenek continued.

"Mm hmm—maybe it won't be that bad. It's not your fault. Does Germany have the right to demand that such transport meets German requirements, since it goes from Poland to Belgium?"

"Probably not, but this is a matter for lawyers. Does a simple driver like me have to know about it?"

The next day it was my turn. I was supposed to take a truck of slaves to France.

The day was cloudy. After double checking everything, I hit the road. In theory, everything was okay: the chains were longer and lighter, we gave them leather collars instead of steel ones, and there were fewer slaves—only twenty—so each had a lot of space.

None were immobilized in an unnatural position (the directive expressly forbade this). None were gagged (German regulations prohibited this on long journeys). Each had a bottle of water within easy reach. Their hands were handcuffed in the front (it was forbidden to handcuff their hands in back on long journeys, except in exceptional circumstances). They had no face masks or blindfolded eyes (permitted only in the case of extremely problematic slaves, and only for a while). Each wore a diaper (an alternative to having their physiological needs met every four hours).

They really were treated like queens. In my opinion, Germany was excessive with these requirements. Polish regulations—and French ones, too—were more liberal; they referred to common sense.

After all, the carriers knew what to do to ensure that the goods arrived in good condition. There were some female slaves who could stand long journeys with their hands chained behind their backs, chains on their legs, and heavy collars around their necks. They sat, slept, chatted with others, and time passed quickly. And we didn't have to take them to grass every four hours; they peed under themselves and no one got hurt. After they arrived, they were washed.

Of course, there are also more delicate women, and they needed to be handled more carefully. But believe me: carriers were not stupid. They wanted the slave girl to reach her destination physically and mentally healthy. It paid off for them.

Well, we knew what the requirements were for. The Germans weren't satisfied with the fact that so many Polish companies transported goods through their country. That's why they stacked the deck against us. Of course, this didn't only apply to the transport of slaves, but all goods.

And here was the Nysa River. I was already at our western neighbors' border.

Whenever I passed this spot, I thought of the Polish army, which set off across the river here in April 1945, at the side of the "brotherly" Red Army. At the very end of the war, due to the incompetence of their commanders, they were crushed by the German troops, which, from the south, broke through the west to surrender to the Americans. So many people died in the last days of the war ...

Nevermind, that's history. Everyone will die one day. It wasn't cloudy anymore, and I was driving the highway to the west. My hopes of passing through Germany uneventfully turned out to be in vain. About 100 km past the border, the German inspection car overtook me and gave a signal to drive to the parking lot. You know how your heart beats when the inspection stops you?

After stopping, I got out of the cab. It was a pleasant afternoon; the spring breeze was merrily swinging the green branches of trees. There were several cars and two trucks in the parking lot.

Not a fat blonde Hans got out of the car, but a young woman in a navy blue uniform. After a short greeting, she started the inspection. Only one person? Usually they drive in pairs. Maybe the second controller was on vacation or sick.

Good thing I spoke German. Hmm, this German girl was not ugly at all.

"Does the inspection employ beautiful ladies only?" I asked as I opened the lorry trailer.

She smiled. "I have work to do," she replied evasively. She had black curly hair, black eyes, and pearly teeth, but her skin was fairly bright.

"I am Henryk, Heinrich in German," I continued as the trailer opened. Sometimes even men can't stop talking.

"Selcen," she replied.

"Oh, is that a Turkish name?"

"Yes," she replied quickly and stepped inside.

I followed her in. Twenty faces focused and anxiously looked at us, each on a chain tied to a neck collar and attached to the wall of the trailer.

Selcen walked slowly, carefully examining each naked slave girl. You may have guessed that the goods for export (intra-EU export, but let's not be pedantic) were high class: girls pretty as a picture, healthy, full of energy and sex appeal.

"Are they all from European Union?"

"Eighteen EU, two non-EU ones," I replied.

"Does everyone have an ID card?" she asked with typical German accuracy. Ordnung muss sein.

"Yes, of course."

"Which ones are non-EU?"

"These ones." I pointed them out. "This one from Ukraine, that one from Iran."

Both obediently rose and knelt. Selcen checked if they had the tag "Slave of a Third Country" on the collar. Of course, they did.

"From Iran." She smiled at a nice girl with long dark hair. "Welcome to the European Union, the zone of freedom," she said in English.

The Iranian woman also smiled. "I'm so glad to be here. I hate the oppressive Iranian regime," she said with a strong but perfectly understandable accent.

We smiled, pleased. What an unexpected example of Euro-enthusiasm.

"Aren't your chains too tight?" Selcen pointed to the handcuffs on the girl's arms and legs.

"Hmm, a bit tight, but they are fine," replied the slave girl with a smile, raising her handcuffed hands a bit.

"Do they treat you well?" Selcen inquired.

I was worried. Why investigate so much? It made no sense. This Iranian woman could say something inappropriate and create a problem.

"Yes, yes, very well," confirmed the girl. "They even gave me this—" She pointed to her diaper.

"A nappy," Selcen suggested and nodded. "That's good."

I sighed with relief.

"Generally okay," said the satisfied inspector as she made notes on her clipboard. "Well chained, each slave on a separate chain."

She was silent for a moment. "Yesterday we checked a Belarusian truck. Tragedy. Slaves chained in pairs to each other, without any pattern, each pair differently. It was a pity to watch. And they were without diapers, you understand. And they were going from Belarus to Andorra." She shuddered.

"To little Andorra in the Pyrenees? I wonder what for."

"I don't know," she shrugged.

Have you ever been to Andorra? The road from France winds through the mountains. And this little country is full of electronics stores.

"And, was there a fine?" I asked, pretending to be naive.

"Haha! You're kidding. They were confiscated." She nodded, "But here they are properly attached, they have diapers, and I see that they have water. And the food?"

"They got it before they left. They'll get another meal in the evening," I assured her.

"Do you have a meal plan?"

"Umm, here's the meal plan." I gave her a card I found in my pocket, hoping she wouldn't look very closely.

"But there's no meal plan here with the times of serving." She pointed to the card.

"Well, there isn't one." I made a contrite face.

She shook her head. "Our rules require it."

"The EU directive doesn't say anything about a meal plan," I objected.

"But it does refer to regular meals. How would an inspection check it without documents?" she said upon reflection.

"There is no such requirement in our regulations," I insisted. "And it is a Polish truck, and these slaves go to France."

"But we are on the German highway." She smiled triumphantly. Roma locuta, causa finita.

I decided that it was time to act decisively.

"Excuse me for a moment." I jumped out of the trailer and went to the cab. I came back in a moment.

"Here you are." I gave Selcen a bouquet of Polish tulips.

"Gee!" She was surprised. "Thank you."

"You are a beautiful woman," I said in Turkish.

If you could have seen her face. She opened her eyes wide.

You might ask: why were the tulips in the cab. What can I say? I took them from Poland just in case. I know you won't believe it, but that's just how it was. Ok, let's go back to our story.

"Do you speak Turkish?" she asked, incredulous.

"I used to study it on Duolingo, a free website. I still remember a little." I blinked, pleased with the effect.

Her amazement turned to contentment. She did not give me a ticket; she did not confiscate the slaves. You won't believe it—after I carefully closed the slave trailer, we went behind the parking lot and sat down on a gentle grassy slope.

"You're cool, Heinrich." She was sitting next to me, the setting sun falling on her pretty face. "My family wanted me to marry quickly. But I didn't want to. Turks are terribly macho," she said. "After the wedding, I would have been expected to only sit at home with a group of children. This was not the life for me. Many Germans are nice and handsome, but some I meet either don't like Turkish women or treat me like a whore. I have lived here almost since birth, I speak German better than many German people, and some still treat me like an immigrant. Besides," she sighed, "I'm shy and I don't have many opportunities to meet someone nice." She looked at me. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. We've known each other only half an hour. Excuse me."

"You're welcome." I bent down and kissed her hand. "Speak, I want to listen to you. You don't seem shy at all."

She laughed. "Maybe not at work. But privately, yes. Heinrich ... you're different from the guys I've met. I have no qualms about telling you such things. Weird. You give the impression that you respect women. I feel so good in your company."

"Respect is my middle name and kindness is my third name," I joked. In fact—I do not want to brag—but I give the impression that I respect and just like people.

We sat for a while, watching the setting sun illuminate the Saxon fields.

"Selcen," I said with a pounding heart.

"Yes?" She looked at me with her black eyes.

I leaned over and kissed her lips.

"Heinrich," she whispered when I finally pulled away. "That was wonderful."

How nice it was to sit on the edge of the parking lot. There were cars passing on the highway, my cargo truck awaited me, but at the moment I didn't care about anything.

"Heinrich, you give flowers to officials, you know languages, you listen to women patiently and kiss them passionately. Do you have any flaws, any dark secrets?" She squeezed me.

I thought of a brilliant answer.

"Yes, I have."

"What?" She looked at me.

"Oh, terrible flaws. Uninvited, I make breakfast and coffee for the German officials and bring it to them in bed in the morning."

"Oh, that's really terrible, Heinrich." She nodded, chuckling. "How do you wake them up?"

"Hmm. I uncover the quilt and kiss her foot a little, and then I kiss each toe of such an official," I said cheerfully.

She was silent for a moment, muttering softly. "It's not a terrible flaw, actually. As long as the coffee is with milk."

"Of course. I don't drink it any other way."

Unfortunately, she finally looked at her watch.

"Ah, I must go—more inspections." She jumped up abruptly.

"Selcen, will you give me your phone number or email?"

"Yes," she said happily, "and I'll give you my address. Will you come?"

"As soon as I can, beautiful woman. In three days I will be back with another transport to Poland."

"Great." Her eyes glittered. "You can spend the night with me."

We said goodbye tenderly; she got into her car and left with my tulips. I stood by the truck and waved at her, already missing her. It felt like we had known each other for years.

Then I got into the cabin and headed west. I was a bit late, so I decided to stop only in Bavaria. There I would feed my girls, who were probably already getting hungry. I would spend the night and arrive in France the next day. I'd leave my slaves in France, and take others from Spain and France. God willing, I would be back with them in three days. I hoped to visit lovely Selcen.

I didn't know if I would come across further inspections, but I knew that I would not find a woman like Selcen anywhere else.