Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Armin threw him a sidelong glance. “I don’t recall this war being fought with swords.”

  “Maybe if it had been, they’d have had a chance.” Chandler looked at him again, smirking, and the way his eyes were narrowed told Armin he was searching for a weakness. For some way to needle Armin into a confrontation or even just a spirited debate.

  “It would seem that one of the most experienced men here”—Armin nodded toward the fencers—“is one of yours.”

  Chandler’s lips tightened again. “Isn’t it a fascist sport? The Duce was a keen fencer, I’ve heard.”

  “The British would beg to differ.” Armin flexed his legs, restless to be going—or restless for Chandler to be going, more like it. “It’s one of those European pastimes. I do assume it’s more common in societies with strong social strata, and a caste system, of sorts. Then again, in Germany, we’re all Volksgenossen these days.”

  Chandler frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Comrades of the people. It implies we share the same race and blood.” Armin lifted an eyebrow. “The same destiny. Our brand of fascism has a few strange egalitarian elements, doesn’t it? Regardless. The Hungarians and the Italians are the best fencers in Europe, and that means the best fencers in the world.”

  “Are you saying Americans are too egalitarian and culture-less to be any good at fencing?”

  “I did not use those words.” Armin smiled. He watched the proceedings, pleased with himself. Chandler was odious—he was itching to punish him or get rid of him every time he just looked at him.

  “You’re a fascist, a German, and a noble. Why don’t you fence?”

  Armin stopped smiling. He turned toward Chandler, facing him fully. “Perhaps you’ve noticed I have an unfortunate lack of the necessary limbs for the sport.”

  Chandler smirked. “I’ve noticed all the other men only need one hand to hold a sword.” The smirk broadened. “Do you find them too heavy for that, Kommandant?”

  Why the man was goading him, Armin had no idea; any other Kommandant would have found ways and means to assert his authority.

  Major Chandler wasn’t stupid. Not entirely, anyway. He was cunning in ways that mostly irritated Armin, but were potentially dangerous, too. If a “civil conversation” landed him in the hole—that would give him ammunition to convince his men to do more than just try to escape. A revolt wouldn’t last long. Not with this many guards and guns. It would be messy, though. And there would be paperwork and questions, not to mention the possibility of valuable prisoners being killed.

  No, that wouldn’t do, especially not as a consequence of Armin taking Chandler’s bait.

  He held Chandler’s gaze and smiled again. “I was left-handed, Major. And as you’ve undoubtedly gathered”—he paused, arching an eyebrow—“or perhaps haven’t, there is a certain amount of finesse and precision required for a fencer to stand a chance against his opponent.” He glanced at the piste, then back at Chandler. “But should you decide to give it a try, I’m sure the other gentlemen will go easy on you.”

  A few chuckles and gasps went up behind him, and he realized a number of the men had stopped and were watching the exchange between their commander and Kommandant.

  Armin faced Chandler again. “Good day, Major.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, and left the room with Schäfer on his heels.

  “The last Kommandant would have refused to accept him as a representative.” Schäfer groused in a low tone.

  “The last Kommandant is no longer here, Hauptmann.” Armin glanced up at him. “Unlike him, I intend to stay here in spite of my prisoners’ fervent wishes.”

  “He could be shot while trying to escape.”

  “As much as I appreciate—and share—the sentiment, Hauptmann, that is the style of the SS. These men are protected under the Geneva Conventions, which, I believe, make no allowances for annoying personalities. It is why you and I, upon capture, may just survive. Unless, of course, the Russians get us.”

  Schäfer looked uneasy. Of course, implying that there wouldn’t be a final victory—the much-quoted Endsieg—was damn near treason. Armin couldn’t have said it more clearly without running a tremendous risk. These were things nobody could talk openly about. “They won’t.”

  “No, they won’t. Not alive.”

  “Where exactly did you serve, Kommandant?”

  They climbed the stairs back to the Kommandantur, and Armin only spoke again after they’d entered the office. “Eastern Front, Sixth Army. You’re an Ostkämpfer too, you know what it was like.” Nothing more. Those few words were shorthand for mud and horror and mass graves and endless, endless country—so vast and featureless the mind went a little bit insane contemplating it. “It’s ironic. I assume Russia has taught me about the value of human life. It’s a place where no life has any value, but on me, it had the opposite effect.”

  “Understood, Kommandant.” Schäfer glanced around as if he was certain someone was hiding in the shadows and listening. “But that doesn’t mean your prisoners value our lives.”

  Armin flattened his hand on his desk and leaned over it, glaring up at Schäfer. “And they’ll value ours even less if they believe us to be cruel and unreasonable.”

  “They already do.”

  “Then perhaps we shouldn’t fuel that fire.”

  “And you think the best way to avoid fueling that fire is to demonstrate cowardice?”

  Armin stood straighter.

  Schäfer drew back, jaw tight and eyes wide.

  “Will that be all, Hauptmann?” Armin asked through his teeth.

  Schäfer swallowed. “Yes, Kommandant.”

  “Wegtreten.” Dismissed.

  Schäfer didn’t hesitate, and hurried out of Armin’s office. Exhaling, Armin lowered himself into his chair. He rubbed his temple with his fingertips. Cowardice? Hardly. The war was lost. The tide had turned at Stalingrad. No nation—not even a supremely disciplined one—could come back from losses like that. They’d shed enough blood in Russia to wash every stone with it.

  And it still hadn’t been enough.

  He shuddered, remembered the rubble, remembered the cold, the hunger, the desperation. The order to hold on, to push through, to mount an attack, an attack, an attack, and then fighting for every cellar, every room, every street. It had been its own world. In the dust and rubble of Stalingrad, the world had shrunk to one nightmarish landscape of destruction and fear.

  He’d struggled remembering anything else. Had sometimes just sat there, exhausted, and mustered what mental energies he’d had left to remember a place not-Stalingrad. What a meadow looked like. A forest’s smell. The sound of red deer in autumn. The times, as a child, when the hush of snow had been magical, carrying the promise of Christmas instead of the crunch of enemy boots.

  He shook himself, stood up, walked up to the fireplace.

  Maybe it was weakness. Maybe he’d been broken beyond recognition in the war and … after. Maybe he was just exhausted. Maybe he was a traitor—though, no, not that.

  His loyalty had always been to Germany rather than the Führer. And loyalty was a quality that had been hard-won. He’d taken Germany for granted, had had no passion for her because she did not require it. Now, though, with the tide of the war turning, he saw her as something precious, something deserving—maybe needing—loyalty. He knew that it animated other men. Knew the pressure only reinforced it. Every death, every sacrifice. It was one of the few things he had left now; an army of ghosts.

  Chapter 15

  Three days after Rubble’s death, Millington-Smythe organized a memorial service. The village priest led a prayer service beforehand, and he’d prayed quietly over Rubble’s body and burial, but few of the Americans—and no one from the Eighth Army—could stomach him leading a funeral for a man killed by Germans. There were no captive chaplains, and Major Chandler had all the eloquence of a sputtering plane engine, so the British CO stepped in.

  The service was as nice as coul
d be expected. Every prisoner, it seemed, came by to pay his respects at some point. After Appell, Mark even spotted some of the Germans leaving the makeshift chapel, faces grim and voices quiet and respectful. He didn’t say anything to them, though, and definitely didn’t tell his men.

  In the days that followed, Mark stayed close to both Kitten and Silent Joe. He couldn’t decide how it felt being near them right then. Dangerous, like smoking beside a fuel tank. Reassuring, like when he’d huddled up with his family the day the Japs had bombed Pearl Harbor. Hopeless, like any one of them might be next, even though they’d all walked away from the crash intact.

  Day by day, Silent Joe retreated farther and farther into himself. Not only had he all but stopped speaking, he didn’t even seem to be there anymore at all. Unless something demanded his full attention, his focus remained distant, and his mind seemed … anywhere but here.

  And Kitten was hard to read. Sometimes, he seemed serene, as if he’d made peace with their situation and with Rubble’s death. Other times, not. It was subtle—a finger tapping sharply beside his untouched food. An unbreakable stare fixed on one of the Germans. When he spoke at all, a low undercurrent warned that he wasn’t to be crossed.

  Keeping an eye on the two of them was sometimes all that kept Mark’s threadbare sanity from fraying, but more often than not, it felt a lot like those last moments before the plane had hit the ground. Trees and rocks whipping by, the ground coming up fast, no telling how bad it was going to be when metal finally hit dirt.

  A week or so after Rubble’s somber memorial, most of the prisoners were occupied with preparations for the Games, stopping only when it was time to eat, sleep, or stand for Appell. Today, not long after their meager lunch, Mark stood between Kitten and Silent Joe in the courtyard as the guards slowly counted them for the thousandth time. He fidgeted, as much from the bitter cold as impatience. He was itching to get back to fencing practice. At least that was something to do, and his two grieving friends would sit quietly off to the side with their thoughts.

  Beside him, Kitten shifted his weight. Then again. Mark watched him out of the corner of his eye, and his gut twisted when Kitten clenched a fist at his side. His gaze was fixed on something, but moving. Mark followed his stare, and his gut tightened even more—Kitten was tracking one of the guards as the man counted a row of men in front of them.

  “Kitten,” Mark whispered through his teeth.

  Kitten didn’t respond. His lips were pulled tight, and a hint of red was just beginning to bloom in his cheeks. Mark had a feeling it wasn’t the biting wind that was doing it, especially not as Kitten’s nostrils started to flare.

  “Kitten,” Mark said again.

  Still no response.

  The guard was making his way down a row, counting aloud in German while another followed along with pencil and clipboard.

  Kitten rocked to the balls of his feet, then back to his heels. The color in his cheeks deepened. His eyes narrowed.

  Mark touched his arm. “Kitten, look at—”

  “Quiet!” one of the guards snapped, oblivious to the twitch of muscle beneath Mark’s hand.

  “Kitten—”

  “You there. What are—?”

  And Kitten lost his mind.

  He lunged forward, and Mark went with him. Though Kitten was larger, Mark was faster. He got an arm around Kitten’s neck and a boot in front of his shin, and they both went down.

  “Don’t shoot! Please!” someone yelled. “Don’t shoot them!” Men were shouting in both English and German, boots scuffing all around them.

  Mark loosened his grip on Kitten. “Easy. Come on, let’s—”

  With a furious roar, Kitten came at him this time. His huge hands locked around Mark’s throat, and the two of them toppled onto the hard ground.

  Eyes filled with fury but focused somewhere else entirely, Kitten gripped Mark’s neck tighter. “Fucking Krauts. All of—”

  “Kitten, for God—” Mark’s breath was trapped behind Kitten’s iron hands. He dug at Kitten’s fingers, but they wouldn’t move. Other men tried to pull him off. He didn’t budge.

  “Stand down, Lieutenant!” Silent Joe called out.

  “Fucking Nazis,” Kitten snarled, gripping Mark’s throat tighter. “Murdering fucking—”

  “Stand down, Lieutenant,” Silent Joe barked as Mark’s vision dimmed.

  A rifle butt came out of nowhere and connected with the side of Kitten’s head.

  Immediately, he let go, and as Mark gasped for breath, a German and another prisoner dragged Kitten off him.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Mark rubbed his throat as he scrambled to his feet. “Please, don’t—”

  Another blow to the head knocked Kitten flat. The guard raised the gun again, and was ready to deliver what would quite possibly be a killing blow, but Silent Joe appeared and shielded Kitten with his body.

  The guard snarled something in German.

  Silent Joe put up a hand. “Please. He won’t hurt anybody. He’s—”

  “What’s going on?” Armin’s voice spun Mark around, and he saw him striding through the wide-eyed crowd with the hulking Hauptmann on his heels.

  A guard kicked Kitten’s leg. “This prisoner tried to attack me.”

  Armin’s eyebrows jumped.

  “And he tried to choke me,” Mark cut in.

  Armin turned to him.

  “Quiet!” the guard snapped. “You will speak when—”

  A sharp gesture from Armin silenced him.

  “Arm—” Mark gulped, still rubbing his neck. “Kommandant, please. He’s not … he’s not even here.” He tapped his temple. “He’s grieving, and he—”

  “I know, Captain.” Armin’s voice was soothing, even if his accent was not. “But he attacked—”

  “He didn’t know who he was attacking. He was …” Mark hesitated. “He’s just grieving our friend. That’s all.”

  The guard said something to Armin in German, and Armin shot back something that may have been venomous, but it was hard to tell when he spoke his native tongue. The guard clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes at Armin’s back, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Armin studied Mark. His gaze drifted from him to the other prisoners, then to the guards. At their feet, Kitten groaned, stirring beneath Silent Joe.

  Finally, Armin spoke to his guards. The one opened his mouth as if to protest, but a look from Armin stopped him. He passed what was apparently an order on to his other men, and they reached for Kitten.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Silent Joe pleaded. “Please. Please, don’t—”

  “He won’t be harmed.” Armin glanced at the guard. “Take him to the hole.”

  The command was in English, so Mark assumed it was for the prisoners’ benefit, not the guards’. As if Armin wanted them to know Kitten wasn’t being taken out and shot somewhere.

  Silent Joe hesitated, but then eased himself up off Kitten. The guards hauled Kitten to his feet, and his head lolled to one side. A sick feeling rose in Mark’s throat—the rifle butt had left a wound on his forehead that wasn’t serious, but eerily resembled the gash on Rubble’s head. Hopefully his time in the hole would give it a chance to heal before Kitten caught a glimpse of his reflection.

  The guards started to roughly drag him away, but Armin spat something at them in German, and they led Kitten more carefully.

  As they left, Armin cast a sweeping glance around the gathered prisoners. “Do not mistake my sympathy for this man’s grief for leniency. Anyone tries something like this again, I will use the full extent of my authority.” To the guards, he spoke in German, and Mark thought it translated to “Count them again. Twice.”

  “Into your lines,” the guard bellowed.

  The men immediately fell into ranks and stood at attention as Armin stormed out of the courtyard. One by one, they released clouds of breath—maybe they had to stand out here in the cold for a double Appell, but they hadn’t witnessed one of their own taking a bullet.

&
nbsp; Mark had a feeling no one would challenge Armin’s threat. Armin himself seemed to understand that it took a man beyond the brink of sanity to do what Kitten had done, that while the attack couldn’t go unpunished, perhaps, like everyone here, like Kitten, Armin had seen enough death.

  Beside him, Silent Joe asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” Mark cleared his throat, which he swore still had a phantom pair of hands around it. “You think Kitten will be?”

  “As long as no one shoots him.”

  “I don’t think the Kommandant will let that happen.”

  Silent Joe exhaled. “Let’s hope not.” He paused. “Go to the infirmary after this. Make sure you’re really all right.”

  Mark stole a glance at him. Something in Silent Joe seemed to have shaken free, as if he’d suddenly remembered his place as the superior officer of their crew. What few men he had left needed his leadership, not a shell-shocked husk with no business wearing the insignia of captain.

  Chapter 16

  “He should have been properly punished, Herr Kommandant!” Krause said through clenched teeth. He stood at attention in front of Armin’s desk, shoulders back and arms rigid at his sides as if that decorum would make up for his insubordination. “The prisoners will think—”

  “The prisoners will think what, Krause?” Armin asked coolly. He sat back, eyeing the man. “Should they think I am a monster who will have a grief-stricken man shot like a dog?”

  The guard stared at him, sputtering. “Kommandant, with all due … I …”

  “Listen to me, Krause.” Armin rose slowly and came around the desk, eyes locked on the guard’s. “I maintain order in this camp by wielding power, not abusing it. Had any other man in that courtyard attacked, he would have been sent off for a court-martial. But the one who did so today …” Armin shook his head. “To shoot him would be, in the eyes of the other prisoners, no different than shooting a confused, scared child.”

  “But they will attack us—”

  “They will not. And if they do, mark my words, there will be examples made.”