Broken Blades Page 23

  Mark shuddered. Even if the incoming soldiers violated every battlefield law to avenge their friends and brothers, none of it would ever make it into an official report. No one would be accused, tried, or convicted of crimes against the Kommandant of a POW camp. The Geneva Conventions that Armin had always upheld wouldn’t save him. Nothing would.

  On the way to a storage room to rummage through the remaining Red Cross parcels, Mark caught up with Chandler, who was actually helping for once.

  “Major,” he said. “What’s going to happen when the troops get here?”

  “We’ll find out when they do,” Chandler said around a half-smoked cigarette. “Let’s just hope they’ve got blankets and coffee.”

  “I mean, what’s going to happen to the Kommandant?”

  Chandler halted, and eyed Mark. “What?”

  Mark swallowed. “The Kommandant and his men.” He gestured out at the courtyard, where the guards were milling around, all keeping their distance from Holzknecht’s blood. “What will happen to them?”

  Chandler sucked in some smoke, and as he blew it out, held Mark’s gaze. “Why do you care? We’re getting out of here.”

  “We are. But …” He pushed his shoulders back. “We’d all be marching into the hills if not for the Kommandant. It … it wouldn’t be right if he faced a firing squad when—”

  “Are you suggesting we need to protect a German?”

  Mark hesitated, but then nodded. “Yes. I am. Because he and his men protected us. I think we owe them that much.” He cringed, fully expecting a foul-mouthed tirade from his CO.

  Instead, Chandler dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. “Millington-Smythe and I will do what we can. I don’t like Colonel von Kardenberg, but God knows what he just saved us all from, and at the risk of his own men turning on him.” He looked out at the courtyard and exhaled slowly. “I can’t make any promises, though.”

  Mark’s insides churned. “If there’s anything I can do to help, sir …”

  Chandler met his eyes again. “You’ve got a soft spot for him, don’t you, Captain?”

  “I …” Mark cleared his throat. “Kind of hard not to when he’s gone to such lengths for captured enemies.”

  Chandler looked out at the courtyard again, and his gaze seemed fixed on that patch of frozen blood beside the Nazis’ truck. He didn’t speak for long enough for Mark to get twitchy and uncomfortable; there was still work to be done, and he hadn’t yet been dismissed.

  Finally, Chandler spoke again, almost whispering, “We’ll do what we can. Now let’s get back to work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 29

  Making sure that all paperwork was in order was one of those useless, dutiful things that kept Armin’s mind off the future. He cleaned up his desk as if he’d simply been relieved of duty—he didn’t care about the inkwell or the pens or any of the other items (the bronze eagle-shaped penholder would likely be looted as a souvenir, and good riddance to the ugly thing), but he did pause to take the photos out of the frame and put them into an envelope for protection, then stuffed it into his breast pocket. Everything he was was in there—his ration book, his pay book that held his titles, awards, his ranks, his name, and then the photo of his wife and the little boy he’d lost before he truly understood he’d had him.

  The paperwork was neatly stacked and arranged. The higher-ups had never given him an order to burn it, and he didn’t have anything to hide. He’d make things as easy as possible for whoever would run this place now—from experience, he knew what a pain it was to fumble his way through incomplete or inconsistent records.

  He then stepped over to the fireplace and selected a number of books. A collected Goethe, the Moby-Dick (mostly because of his message to Mark in there), Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, and a Bible. He would have wanted to take all of them (he was peculiar about his books), but unlike the prisoners he wouldn’t have much time to build up a library. He also took a notebook and some pencils and a sharpener, and placed everything on a blanket, about to fold it, when Schäfer came in.

  Armin straightened and looked at him. It was hard to read Schäfer—he wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t angry. Maybe disturbed.

  “With all due respect, Kommandant.”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “We should shoot the SS soldiers.”

  “And then every single one of the prisoners, too? They’ve all seen it.” Armin shook his head. “I’m quite prepared to answer for my actions.”

  Schäfer’s jaw muscles tensed visibly. “The men aren’t sure who to take orders from.”

  “Ah yes. I should officially hand it over, shan’t I?” Armin folded the blanket, then, unwieldy, handed the bundle to Schäfer. “Have the garrison assemble in the yard.”

  “Kommandant …”

  “Let’s get it over with, Hauptmann.”

  Schäfer saluted, as in defiance, and stepped outside to give the orders.

  Armin ran his hand over his face, feeling for stubble, but despite what he’d done, he looked presentable. Every inch a decorated veteran. He’d always been good about appearances.

  He made his way out slowly, paused only to take the picture of Hitler off the wall, turned it and leaned it against a wall in a corner. The impulse to smash through it with a boot was strong, but he didn’t even have enough emotion left for anger.

  When he got to the yard, the full garrison stood at attention. A small group of prisoners had gathered in the corner of the yard, but all were watching.

  Armin took a deep breath and stepped in front of his men. “Soldiers—I wish to thank you for the time you’ve served diligently and dutifully under me. The circumstances can be trying for a man, but I’ve been honored to be your commanding officer in this hour and those before it. God willing, we’ll all go home to our families. I wish you a long, peaceful life.” He took a deep breath and saluted them. Stunned, some saluted back, others slower, some immediately, and Armin kept their gaze for a long moment before he lowered his arm and turned sharply on his heel.

  Millington-Smythe and Chandler straightened and looked him firmly in the eye as he walked up to them.

  “Gentlemen, I hereby officially hand over control of Ahlenstieg and its garrison to the Allies.” Armin pulled his pistol from its holster and offered it, butt forward. Millington-Smythe accepted it. Maybe they were all too aware that that gun had ended Holzknecht’s life just a little while ago.

  “Thank you, Colonel Truchsess von Kardenberg.”

  They, too, shared a salute, and just like that, it felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from Armin’s shoulders. He was no longer in charge. No longer responsible. Now he was a prisoner in his own castle, without even the means to commit suicide if necessary.

  “You. Escort the Colonel to his new quarters in the tower.”

  Well, not the hole, then, but he’d never thought of Millington-Smythe or Chandler as vengeful.

  Two POWs, who seemed almost nervous about the task, indicated for Armin to follow them, and Armin took the bundle of things from Schäfer, then followed.

  His escorts said nothing all the way across the yard and up the tower’s winding stairs. The cold and bone-deep fatigue slowed Armin’s gait, especially on the last dozen or so steps, but the men didn’t hurry him or complain. They didn’t seem to be moving much faster.

  One held open the door, and murmured, “Kommandant.”

  Armin gave him a slight nod. “Lieutenant.” He wasn’t even sure just then if he’d addressed him correctly; he knew American insignia inside and out, but his mind was preoccupied. The man didn’t correct him, though.

  Armin stepped into the room. The door shut, and he closed his eyes and released a breath. It was cold up here, and quiet, but he’d manage. It wasn’t the hole and it wasn’t the end of a rope, so he couldn’t complain too much.

  He set the bundle on the floor beside the small, hard cot, and stood at the tiny window overlooking the countryside.
At some point, someone had fitted the window with bars. Appropriate; now that he was a prisoner, he was behind not only wire but bars. As if he had any intention of going anywhere. Or that he’d get far if he tried.

  Outside the door, footsteps approached. Someone—one of the officers posted to guard him—said, “Yeah, he’s in here.”

  “I need to see him.”

  Mark’s voice hit Armin like a blast of cold air. He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes as a key scratched and clattered clumsily in the door lock. It scraped, and the door clicked.

  Armin turned around as Mark stepped into the room.

  Over his shoulder, Mark said, “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll keep an eye on him if you boys want to go smoke.”

  “Thanks, Captain.” One of the guards caught Armin’s eye through the doorway, and he already had a cigarette between his lips as he turned and started down the stairs.

  Mark nudged the door shut with his heel. This room had seemed cramped before, but it was simultaneously tiny and enormous now. Too small to back away from Mark, so big that Mark felt hundreds of miles away. Too close. Too far.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Armin glanced at the window. “I don’t think you’ll want your commanding officer finding—”

  “They’re not here yet.” Mark stepped closer. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but I need to be.”

  Armin’s throat tightened. “Mark …”

  Mark flinched, lowering his gaze. “Chandler, he said they’re going to do what they can. To make sure they go easy on you.”

  “Easy.” Armin laughed, and damn, that was hard. “There’s no easy way out for a man who’s been charged with keeping someone’s countrymen prisoner.”

  “You aren’t like the other Germans.” Mark met his eyes. “You never have been.”

  Armin clenched his teeth, suddenly struggling to keep his emotions in check. “I’m as human as any man within these walls.”

  “You’re probably more human than any of us.” Before Armin could speak, Mark reached for him, and cool, calloused fingertips on his cheek killed what was left of his voice. Neither of them moved, and nothing existed but that gentle point of contact, Mark’s hand tentatively resting against Armin’s skin, his touch so light Armin was afraid something as brisk as a single breath would make him pull back.

  And pulling back was exactly what Mark needed to do. Or Armin needed to. But neither moved.

  Armin reached across himself and put his hand over Mark’s, pressing it more firmly against his face, the thick line of his scar creating a strip of numbness, a place where he couldn’t feel Mark’s touch, and for that reason alone, he regretted that damned thing. That rite of passage that meant nothing now except a place where Mark’s body heat couldn’t reach him.

  Finally, Mark whispered, “Keeping you here as a prisoner is just a formality. You’re not going to be executed.”

  Armin laughed, squeezing Mark’s hand tighter. He lowered their joined hands, but didn’t let go. “Your youthful optimism was one of the things that drew me to you in the first place. Promise me … promise me you’ll never lose that.”

  “The only thing I’m worried about losing right now is you.”

  Armin swallowed hard. “I’m not yours to lose any more than you’re mine to lose. Maybe in a different time or place—”

  “We had a different time and place. We blew that, and now we’re here.”

  Armin let go of Mark’s hand, but slid his arm around his waist. “There are things in this world we can’t change. This is one of them. But like we can’t overcome this damned war and see how things might’ve turned out, the war can’t take away what little time we had. All I ask is that you never forget it.”

  “No need to ask. I didn’t forget you in the last eight years, either.”

  “No, apparently you didn’t. Strange, to think what could have been. I could have left the country and stayed in America, perhaps. Or asked you to stay with me in a place like Switzerland. It just seemed so little … so little to go on. And I had no way of knowing you’d be different to any of the others. I’m sorry.”

  Mark touched his forehead to Armin’s. “I wouldn’t have been ready. I told you, I got married.”

  “I’m just trying to see where things went wrong. Where we could have … changed fate.” Armin closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m … just glad it’s over. I’m so tired.”

  Mark placed his arms around Armin, drew him tighter, into a strong, steadying hug. Armin would’ve given his soul to break down and possibly even cry in those arms—cry with both relief and exhaustion—but he didn’t want to waste what time they had left with turning into a wreck. If one of those “fits” would come over him, he hoped it would happen when he was alone.

  “You’re safer as a POW than before. They won’t kill you in cold blood. We won’t let that happen.”

  “Ah, but I’m a traitor to my own side, too.”

  “You did what you did to uphold international law, Armin.”

  “I did what I did because of you. All my life I did … what I did for myself. For pleasure. Because I was bored. Because of the family name. Because I just didn’t want to do as told. Because I was obliged to. I don’t think I’d have shot Holzknecht if not for you. I’d have let him take the men.”

  “I don’t think you would’ve.” Mark looked him in the eye intently. “That’s not you.”

  “I don’t know. I just didn’t think I’d ever care for somebody again. I didn’t think I had any of that left in me. Beyond … basic humanitarianism or even the desire to do the right thing. I didn’t know I would have enough of me left to be able to care.”

  “I can’t imagine you sending twenty men to their deaths on that asshole’s whim.”

  “You probably can’t imagine me falling in love with a man I’ve only met under the worst possible circumstances either.” Armin reached for Mark’s face. “But that happened too.”

  Mark flinched, and he swallowed as if he was trying to keep himself composed. Military bearing had left this room a long time ago, and they were both hanging by the brittle threads of emotions they weren’t supposed to have, and Armin was almost certain he’d just snapped one of the last few keeping Mark together.

  “You should go,” he whispered. “Rest. Check on your men.”

  “I don’t want to leave.”

  I don’t want you to leave. “Go. It’s only going to get harder.”

  Mark sighed, and he nodded slowly. “I know.”

  Their eyes met again, and Armin steeled himself, tamping down those nerves that sometimes overcame him. He just had to hold steady until Mark was gone, and that wouldn’t be long now.

  And damn him, Mark cupped Armin’s neck in both hands and kissed him. God. If a first kiss after too many years could cut through him, he should’ve known a last one would break him.

  He didn’t retreat, though. He just followed Mark’s lead, and promised himself this would be the last thing in his mind while he stood in front of the firing squad. Mark’s lips, soft and tender, his rough hands gripping Armin almost painfully, the way his breath both cooled and warmed Armin’s skin—yes, that was the note Armin intended to go out on, so he held on tighter and made sure he memorized everything. From the scrape of Mark’s stubble beneath his thumb to the warmth of his body that refused to be tempered by layers of clothes and a drafty room.

  Mark drew back, and their eyes met once more.

  No, that. That would be the last thing Armin thought of. The defiant brown eyes that had lured him in back in Berlin.

  Mark let him go. They both shifted their gazes away. Without a word, Mark walked to the door. He paused there, and Armin held his breath, certain Mark would cut him one more time with some parting words that would only make this hurt that much more, but the silence went on, following Mark out of the room and, after the door had closed and the lock turned, down the stairs.

  Armin sank onto the cot, rubbing his face with a shaking hand. Under his breath, he
cursed, and before he’d even realized it, he’d whispered a venomous curse in the Führer’s direction. Damn him for this war. Damn him for everything that had conspired to keep Armin and Mark together, but apart.

  And damn him for the Olympics that had brought them together in the first place.

  Chapter 30

  The COs had decided against going out and trying to find the Allies—there were likely still Germans around and running into them was dangerous, so the next activity was to hang “white flags” out of the castle windows. And not a moment too soon, as fighter planes zipped toward the castle, ready to attack. However, before any actual bullets were fired, they waggled their wings and turned away, and everybody heaved a sigh of relief.

  Mark stood with some others on the battlements, from where they could oversee the town below, its little railway station, the frozen pond. And, more importantly, the advancing group of tanks.

  They moved slowly, navigating the deserted narrow streets of the village below, then stopped at the foot of the mountain that Ahlenstieg perched on. The gun raised, which was when Millington-Smythe hurried off the battlements. “Open the gate!”

  Mark went after him and Chandler, and before the two SBOs were back on level ground, the gate was wide open. Which was a rare sight—the landscape beyond, the clear sky. Ahlenstieg seemed much less like a prison now, and more a historical site a tourist might visit, knowing he could leave.

  One tank stayed behind, one advanced and rolled up the hill, and with it came a number of trucks full of GIs. Mark’s heart beat faster—the men who jumped out of the truck seemed healthy, well-fed and just a bit tired. This wasn’t a unit that had clawed its way through tough German resistance.

  “Who’s in charge here?” an American staff sergeant shouted.

  Chandler and Millington-Smythe stepped closer and Mark didn’t understand what they said, but could guess, considering the surprise on the American staff sergeant’s face when he scanned the gathered men. And Mark realized what he might be seeing—compared to his own men, impressive and ready in their uniforms, the ex-prisoners of Ahlenstieg were a ragtag band of men who’d gone hungry more often than not, gray-faced, and ravaged. Compared to the liberators, they were all a sorry sight.