Broken Blades Page 18

  Armin pulled back a bit and gazed at him. “Not that ridiculous. Or is it?”

  “No. I just … I don’t know.” His head was spinning with emotion and relief and fondness, and laughter seemed like the only thing he could do. He pulled away a bit, slipped out of Armin and lay down heavily at his side, then pulled him into a tight hug. “I just thought I’d lost you. It’s happiness.”

  Armin chuckled and kissed him again. “You won’t lose me again. I promise.”

  Neither of them could make a promise like that and know for certain it could be kept, not with the state of the world around them, but Mark didn’t care. If only for tonight, he had Armin.

  Chapter 24

  Fatigue pushed down on Armin’s shoulders, not to mention his eyelids, as he stood behind Holzknecht during the Appell at dawn. He’d managed an hour of sleep, perhaps two, but hadn’t expected it to be enough. And a man couldn’t possibly sleep enough to tolerate the aggravating SS officer currently strutting back and forth in front of the ranks while the guards counted the haggard, yawning men.

  Subtly rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet, Armin forced himself to stay awake, letting the ache in his muscles keep him from dozing off where he stood. He let his gaze drift from one group of men to the next, mostly watching the Brits. Focusing on the Americans meant too easily finding Mark’s face in the crowd, and he was too tempted to let his gaze linger. Since Mark appeared as well-rested as Armin felt, a long look across the yard would not help ward off suspicions.

  Finally, Holzknecht dismissed the ranks, and they shuffled back inside. Their grumbling, particularly the choice words they had for the Germans, had annoyed Armin at one time, but as they—loudly—expressed their contempt for “that Kraut” or “teacher’s pet,” Armin struggled to contain his amusement. Disrespectful, of course, and Schäfer was chomping at the bit to crack down on the casual disrespect, but where would that end? Previous attempts at enforcing strict discipline had only led to both sides wearying of it.

  Once the prisoners had gone, Armin followed Holzknecht back inside.

  “Kommandant,” Holzknecht said when they returned to Armin’s office. “I believe we should discuss the matter of discipline.”

  “Delighted to.” Armin turned to Schäfer, who had moved toward the door. “Schäfer, would you be so kind and stay? Discipline is one of Hauptmann Schäfer’s favorite pursuits.”

  So, yes, he might have sounded too high-spirited or sarcastic—Holzknecht’s face betrayed he wasn’t quite sure which of those. Or maybe whether Armin was just being insolent toward military decorum.

  Schäfer clicked his heels and closed the door.

  “Please be seated.” Armin settled in his own chair behind the desk, placing his gloved hand on a number of slim files he’d meant to read after Appell. Sitting down reminded him of last night, and he took a secret thrill in the memory—reminding him he was alive and he had something left to fight for—something that no order, no war, had yet taken away from him.

  “Kommandant. There were several breaches of military bearing at Appell.” Holzknecht raised his chin in clear challenge. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Schäfer’s mien was dark—though he often sang the same song, Armin felt maybe Schäfer didn’t care for the key or pitch. “Many of these men haven’t had any efficient military chain of command since they were captured several years ago. Chandler isn’t an efficient or very well respected leader, in my estimation, and Millington-Smythe has been with us for so long I don’t think he remembers any other state of being.”

  Holzknecht’s gaze slid toward Schäfer, eyes narrowing. “Then perhaps we need to remind them.”

  Schäfer tightened his jaw, and Armin wondered if he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He’d done it in a private conversation with Armin, but not with a set of SS runes in the room.

  Armin tapped his thumb on the stack of files. “Holzknecht, while I appreciate that you want to maintain strict discipline within Ahlenstieg, perhaps you’re not fully appreciating the situation these men are in.”

  The SS officer’s nostrils flared. “Are you sympathizing with them, Kommandant?” He spat out Armin’s title. “They are prisoners. Enemies. And they will—”

  “And for a castle full of miserable men, they are more well-behaved than perhaps you understand.” Armin leaned back in his chair and stared coolly up at Holzknecht. “Or would you like to see what happens when we tighten their shackles a bit more?”

  The SS officer snorted. “If I didn’t know any better, Kommandant, I would believe you were afraid of them.”

  “Afraid of them?” Laughing, Armin shook his head. “No. No, I am most certainly not afraid of my own prisoners.” He schooled his expression and glared at the SS officer. “But I have a responsibility to maintain order here. Safety not only for the prisoners in accordance with the Geneva Conventions, but for my men.” He sat up again, resting his elbow on the desk. “Maybe you aren’t aware of how many of our men can be wounded, if not killed, during prisoner uprisings, but I am. And that kind of uprising is the cost of tightening the—”

  “Examples can be made,” Holzknecht snarled. “Let them rise up, Kommandant. That’s why we have nooses, dogs, and bullets.”

  Armin watched him silently. At the edges of his peripheral vision, he noticed Schäfer fidgeting uncomfortably. His gaze flicked toward his security officer, and when they made eye contact, that must have been all Schäfer had been waiting for before he allowed himself to speak.

  “With all due respect, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Schäfer said quietly, “hanging them and shooting them for every slight will only increase the uprisings and the escape attempts.”

  Holzknecht glanced back and forth between Armin and Schäfer. “So you two are afraid of the prisoners, then. Cowed into a corner and doing whatever must be done to keep them happy so they won’t rise up?” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Perhaps that’s how the weak men of the Wehrmacht run things, but I assure you: it is not the way of the SS.”

  I know. I’ve seen your work on the Eastern Front.

  Apart from Stalingrad and the things he’d personally witnessed in battle, one memory was engraved on his mind. A drunk soldier telling him that a unit of SS soldiers had shot a thousand women and children in a small town in the Ukraine—nothing special, but what the soldier had told him then had chilled his blood and it had never properly warmed since then.

  Can you imagine, the SS shot their own girls that day? Normally, they say, they try to shoot those of other units, but in that case, it wasn’t possible. They weren’t Russian girls, either. Russian women aren’t that pretty. I heard one say, “but Franz, you surely won’t shoot me?” in the most tender tone, like she couldn’t believe it.

  So much for racial purity. And so much for tender spots for anybody—even their own bedmates.

  No doubt that Holzknecht saw nothing wrong in such stories—maybe only that they were told, but nothing else.

  “I’m aware of the ways of the SS.” Armin leaned back in his chair, exhausted already. Reasoning with this man wasn’t going to change a damn thing. Considering this new prison warden, Armin was more than tempted to open the cage himself. Now, that would surely get him court-martialed and shot. Or hanged as a traitor.

  “Then you better bear that in mind.”

  “And I’d suggest you bear in mind what I’ve said as well, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Armin said. “Lack of military bearing is a minor problem. Annoying, but if that’s the extent of their rebellion, and they’re not escaping or rising up, then I see no reason to punish them severely enough to warrant a revolt.” He smiled thinly. “Assuming, of course, the members of the SS are capable of handling such minor annoyances?”

  The SS officer’s lips thinned. His already ramrod posture stiffened. “The SS is perfectly capable of handling … minor annoyances. I’m not sure I would consider a prison being run by its prisoners to be—”

  “That’s
enough,” Armin snapped. “Will that be all, Herr Obersturmbannführer?”

  Holzknecht smirked just slightly. “Yes, Kommandant.”

  “Dismissed,” Armin said through gritted teeth. “Schäfer, stay here.”

  The SS officer bristled, glancing at Schäfer.

  Oh, did I interrupt your plans to meet with him in the hallway and turn him against me? I do apologize.

  Holzknecht didn’t say anything, though. He offered a salute and a Heil Hitler, which Armin returned with just enough enthusiasm to keep the man from suspecting any misdirected loyalties. Then he turned to go, letting the heavy door bang shut behind him.

  As soon as he and Schäfer were alone, Armin exhaled and reached up to rub his temple.

  “Are you all right, Kommandant?”

  “Fine, fine.” Armin waved his hand and stood. “Just tired.”

  Schäfer’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  Armin’s head snapped toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “I—” Schäfer swallowed, eyes wide. “I … you’re paler today. I was concerned you might have another”—his eyes flicked toward the door, and then he lowered his voice—“episode.”

  Armin almost laughed. Though he loathed the idea of anyone else in the castle, friend or foe, learning about his episodes, it was better than someone discovering his other secret. Episodes of madness were only signs of weakness. His arrangement with Mark was most definitely a grave breach of discipline.

  He shook his head and waved his hand again. “No. No, I’m fine.” He rolled his shoulders, wondering when the left one had become quite so damned stiff. “I think I just need to walk a bit. Get some air.”

  Schäfer eyed him. “You wanted me to stay here, though? Was there something …”

  Armin chuckled. “Just thought I’d save you from an accompanied walk down the corridor.”

  “An—” Schäfer glanced at the door again, and then he too chuckled. “Much appreciated, Kommandant.”

  Armin turned toward the clock on the wall. “The prisoners must be practicing in the yard now. I think I’ll go down and watch.” He picked up his coat off the back of his chair. “Would you care to join me?”

  Schäfer clicked his heels and drew silently, almost elegantly near to help drape the coat over Armin’s shoulder with the bad arm. For a strange moment, Armin almost got the impression that Schäfer was just a bit too close, that the gesture or the care in it was oddly loaded.

  Much like that guard dog, Schäfer was protective. But there was selfish interest in this, too. Schäfer seemed on the whole to think that Armin made a decent Kommandant—not that Schäfer had ever so much as criticized the previous incumbents.

  Maybe there was some pity or compassion, and their dealings were maybe shockingly familiar with each other, considering their ranks and the Wehrmacht’s usual codes. But Armin had often seen that code jump out the window in a fox hole. He found that familiarity fortifying and soothing. Maybe Schäfer was the same in this—they’d both fought in the rat’s war, reduced to rats themselves.

  “Thank you.” He said it evenly, like those small helps to make up for his lack of a second hand didn’t actually mean a thing. Then gathered up his cap and left the office to go watch the prisoners.

  Down in the yard, two teams kicked a football across the mostly frozen ground. Others watched and cheered, and when they saw Armin, they straightened a little, offered nods of acknowledgment, but otherwise continued to watch the game.

  If Holzknecht was anywhere around, watching the subtle exchanges between Armin and the prisoners, he undoubtedly thought Armin was soft, at the whim of his prisoners rather than the other way around. Fool.

  The SS seemed to have no grasp on how people’s minds worked, least of all people in captivity. The way Armin saw it, the men had already had their freedom taken from them. There was no need to beat a dog who was already caged, even if he growled at those outside the bars. Men like Holzknecht would beat an unhappy caged dog, and then wonder why it turned around and bit them. Well, no. They wouldn’t wonder at all. They’d shoot the dog as an example to all the others, and probably wonder why those dogs didn’t wag their tails at the sight of their masters.

  With Schäfer behind him, Armin continued across the yard and into the castle. As he walked down the corridor, the familiar sounds of metal clanging against metal caught his attention. He barely kept himself from smiling. Maybe Mark was practicing today.

  They stepped into the room where the fencers trained, and sure enough, Mark was on the piste. He wore a mask, and his uniform was as generic as any other man’s, but Armin immediately recognized him. He was too familiar with the angles and planes of that particular body to mistake him for anyone else.

  And besides, there was no other fencer in the castle with that degree of precision and style. Mark moved with more grace than a man wearing ragtag equipment on a prisoners’ team had any right to, feet as light and controlled as a dancer’s while subtle flicks of his wrist and motions of his fingers maneuvered his blade around his opponent’s.

  His opponent had obviously learned a thing or two, and wasn’t a clumsy novice, but up against Mark, he may as well have been. A few weeks’ worth of practice wasn’t enough to keep him out of the way of Mark’s blade.

  Mark scored a point, and the referee called it. Both men stopped and returned to the center of the piste. Before they faced off again, Mark took off his mask and ran the back of his arm across his forehead.

  Armin’s throat tightened. He’d barely been able to see Mark last night—darkness had been a small price to pay for their brief encounter—but he imagined this was exactly how he had looked right then. Sweaty. Cheeks flushed. Hair unruly as if someone’s fingers had run through—

  He turned away and focused on finding a chair. Not that he needed to sit to watch the match, but it gave him something to do for a few seconds.

  “Kommandant,” someone said, and Armin turned.

  Mark’s opponent gave him a slight nod, and when Mark met Armin’s eyes, he did the same.

  “Thought you’d gotten bored watching us, Kommandant,” one of the other fencers remarked. “Been a while.”

  Armin lowered himself into a chair and schooled all of the amusement out of his expression. “I thought I’d come see if the teams had made any progress since I last watched.”

  “And?” One of the Americans smirked. “Are we entertaining?”

  Armin could see why Holzknecht was less than impressed with the military bearing here. Especially among the Americans. They wouldn’t outright spit in his eye or call him Hitler’s lapdog, but the subtle comments spoke of their contempt for him. Could he blame them? Certainly not. And if this was the extent of their rebellion, then so be it.

  Sitting straight in his chair, Armin said, “You gentlemen have certainly … improved.”

  “Well, he has.” The American gestured with his sword at Mark. “Don’t think any of us are going to beat him.”

  Mark laughed, glancing at Armin before quickly shifting his gaze in another direction. “I just have more experience. That’s all. Let’s keep practicing.” He pulled on his mask.

  “Too bad we don’t have anyone with more experience.” The other American put on his mask, which muffled the added, “Would be entertaining as hell to see you fight someone on your own level.”

  “Right.” Mark chuckled and assumed the en garde position. “Can’t imagine there’s anyone here besides the Kommandant who can—” He stopped abruptly, his teeth nearly snapping together.

  Armin’s blood froze. He thought he could feel Mark’s heart skip.

  “What?” The American glanced at Armin. “The Kommandant fences? How the hell do you know?”

  “I …” Mark cleared his throat under his mask. Then he turned to Armin. “Isn’t that a fencing scar?”

  Armin absently touched the deep gouge on his cheek. “It is. Got it at Heidelberg.”

  “What’s that?” someone asked.

/>   “Center of German fencing,” Mark said, eyes still locked on Armin.

  Nodding, Armin glanced at the other American. He’d never interacted with that one, so he wasn’t sure who he was dealing with. “Though I was largely privately tutored in fencing.” Well, when he hadn’t been raising hell on and off campus—back when life had been mostly a game and taking a deliberate wound in the face the extent of “proof of masculinity”—these days, that included shooting women and children in cold blood. Two different worlds. He didn’t recognize either anymore.

  “I followed their regional championships for a while,” Mark said. “A number of very excellent fencers came from there. Heinrich von Starck comes to mind.”

  Armin winced. “He taught me some of my first lessons, actually. He was a guest of the master who was running the salle I belonged to at that point. A very respectable gentleman and officer. I assume teaching me was as much about teaching me as reining in something of a hotspur.” Armin touched his scar again. “I don’t imagine he was entirely satisfied with his results on that front.”

  Mark laughed. After a moment, the other American chuckled. Was it so hard to imagine a younger Armin challenging the world, assuming that things would yield and bend around him on his path—when he could have been bothered to pursue anything with any passion, that was.

  Maybe it was. Regardless, Mark had betrayed the familiarity they shared, and although the explanation was sufficient and Armin didn’t think the other American had caught on the true meaning, they were moving on thin ice and had barely made it back to firm ground.

  “Will you fence again? Kommandant?” The American asked.

  Armin shook his head. “I’ve never held a blade with my right hand. It’s no use.”

  “Would you like to, though?” Mark’s question.

  His next breath got stuck somewhere in Armin’s throat. “I shall live vicariously.”

  Mark glanced down at the weapon in his hand, then at his opponent. “I’ve never held a blade with my right hand either.” Slowly, he turned toward Armin. “We’d be evenly matched.”