Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  The guard held his gaze, his jaw tightening.

  “Will that be all, Obergefreiter?”

  Krause hesitated, shifting back and forth, then nodded. “Yes, Kommandant.”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  After exchanging salutes, the guard left, and Armin went to the fireplace, trying in vain to get warm.

  “He’s right, you know.” Schäfer had been watching silently from against the wall, and despite his size in these close confines, Armin had nearly forgotten he was there. After Armin’s heated discussion with Major Chandler—who somehow seemed to believe the Germans had instigated Lieutenant Broadwater’s attack—and a conversation with the irritated guard he’d attacked, Schäfer had all but blended into the stonework.

  “Am I wrong, Hauptmann?” Armin faced him. “A more severe punishment would have silenced every one of the prisoners for today, but they’d be planning a revolt before nightfall.”

  “Are you afraid of them revolting?”

  “Afraid? No. But I think we can all agree it’s to be avoided.”

  “Then perhaps they should not be encouraged.”

  Armin opened his mouth to remind Schäfer of his place, but a knock at his office door stopped him. “Come in.”

  Another guard opened the door partway and leaned inside. “The prisoner you requested is here, Kommandant.”

  “Send him in.” Armin met Schäfer’s gaze, and nodded toward the door.

  Schäfer muttered something, and then walked out, brushing past Mark as the two of them turned to fit through the narrow space at the same time.

  The door closed, and Mark stepped in front of Armin’s desk. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I did. I have asked everyone who was involved to tell me precisely what happened. You were still in the infirmary earlier, so … now I’m asking. What happened this afternoon?”

  Mark’s shoulders tightened, as did his lips, as if Armin’s question annoyed him. “Lieutenant Broadwater has been struggling ever since Lieutenant Keller’s death. Today he …” Mark’s eyes lost focus, and then he shook his head. “He just went crazy. Went to attack one of the guards, and when I stopped him, he turned on me.”

  Armin forced himself not to shudder. He’d only caught the last part of the chaos, and had seen—albeit briefly—Mark pinned to the ground by a man much larger than him. “I assume you were uninjured.”

  “Yes. Might feel it for a few days, but I’ve had worse.”

  Pursing his lips, Armin nodded. “Good.” He watched him, not entirely certain what needed to be said. He hadn’t missed Mark’s near-slip, calling him by his first name rather than Kommandant, but it didn’t seem that anyone else had noticed.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’m glad to see you’re all right. I wanted to be sure.”

  “Would you have been as concerned about anyone else?”

  Armin gritted his teeth. “I’ve already been to see your lieutenant to make sure he’s well.”

  Mark’s eyebrows jumped slightly. “Is he?”

  Armin nodded. “The doctor will keep watch over him. Check on him twice daily. But he doesn’t appear to have any significant injuries.”

  Mark’s shoulders dropped, as if his rigid posture had been from worry over his friend more than irritation with Armin. “Is he awake?”

  “He is.”

  “And how is he?”

  “Quiet. He didn’t seem to recall much of what happened, but he was compliant. As near as I can tell, he’ll be all right.”

  Mark swallowed. “I’ll pass the word along.”

  “Good.” Armin paused. “And yes, to answer your question, I would have summoned any injured prisoner or gone to see them myself.”

  Some of the tension returned to Mark’s stance. “I suppose keeping the peace keeps the paperwork to a minimum.”

  “It isn’t just paperwork.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  You know it isn’t.

  “Are you trying to make me admit to caring for some prisoners more than others?”

  “Do you?”

  Armin tapped a fingernail on his desk. “Make no mistake, Mark. Regardless of what may have transpired between us, past or present, I am—”

  “I know what you are, and what I am,” Mark said coldly. “I am well aware.”

  “And your men? Are they aware?”

  “Of course they are.”

  “Good. Then they know that I’ve given my word to make an example out of anyone who attempts something like this again.”

  Mark nodded. The question was in his eyes, as palpable as his grief over his friend and his innocence back in Berlin—would you really order a man killed as a warning to the rest?

  He didn’t ask, though, and for that, Armin was grateful.

  Mark straightened a little. “Was there … was there anything else?”

  “No,” Armin said quietly. “Dismissed.”

  He half expected Mark to chide him for being so formal when they’d been so … informal in the past, but there was no room in this moment for humor. Quietly, Mark started to leave.

  His hand hovered over the doorknob. Then he turned around. “They’re not going to … Kitten will be all right, won’t he?”

  Will any of us?

  Armin rested his hand on his desk, pausing when he remembered he couldn’t fold his hands. “My men have their orders. He’ll be safe while he’s in the hole.”

  Mark held his gaze. “How long will he be there?”

  “Until I order otherwise.”

  Mark chewed his lip, eyes still fixed on Armin, as if he were weighing whether to keep pressing the issue. He didn’t, though. With a curt nod, he again turned to go, and without a word, he was gone.

  Armin exhaled. He prayed that Krause and Schäfer were wrong, and that today’s amnesty didn’t lead to more prisoners believing they could get away with assaulting guards.

  Because if it did, he’d have no choice but to make good on his word.

  Chapter 17

  Kitten spent two weeks in the hole. When he came back, he seemed even more gaunt, his cheeks as hollow as his eyes were distant. Chandler and some of the other men insisted the guards had been starving him, but Mark was sure that wasn’t the case. Within a couple of days, it became apparent that no amount of food would have kept weight on Kitten’s bones because he refused to eat more than a few nibbles here and there.

  Silent Joe took him under his wing again, and that seemed to be good for both of them. Kitten wasn’t alone, and Silent Joe had someone to focus on and drag him back out of himself. He coaxed Kitten into eating like Kitten had coaxed his tiny mewing namesake back in training.

  As December dug its claws in, dropping snow and more cold on the camp, the men continued preparing for their Games. But playful competition wasn’t their primary duty in this place, and despite the near-frozen ground, other preparations quietly continued.

  Deep beneath the castle, Mark dug at the wall of packed dirt in front of him. He felt like he’d been at it for days, working away at this same wall, never gaining an inch.

  He sat back on his heels, keeping his head down so he didn’t scrape it on the low dirt ceiling. Wiping his brow, he glanced around. They had made headway. He’d started his shift clipping his elbow on that makeshift wooden support, and that was now almost a foot behind him.

  “At what point do we start digging up?” he asked Second Lieutenant Wilson, who passed sack loads of dirt back to the other men to get the debris out of the tunnel. “You know, toward the daylight?”

  “When we’re far enough out to come up without the guards seeing us.” Wilson dropped an empty flour sack beside Mark. “Heard this morning we’re past the wall now.”

  “Well, that’s promising.” Mark chiseled away at the cold, damp dirt. “Maybe we’ll get out of here before next Christmas.”

  Wilson chuckled. “Won’t be long, Red. Won’t be long.”

  After another hour or so, Mark was relieved, and headed out of the tunn
el. Near the entrance, he stripped out of the dirt-caked uniform and cleaned as much dirt as he could off his skin and out of his hair before he put his own uniform back on. With a thick, dulled splinter from one of the supports, he removed all the incriminating dirt from beneath his fingernails.

  One of the other men checked him over, and then, apparently satisfied Mark didn’t look like he’d been digging beneath the castle, dismissed him.

  He wasn’t even halfway to his rack when Shaw stopped him in the corridor. “There you are! Hey, uh, the Kommandant’s been watching us all practice again. Commented on your skill.”

  Mark’s heart skipped. “He … he did?”

  Shaw nodded. “Yeah. Said he was disappointed to not see you at practice today.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth.” Shaw laughed. “Come on, Red. I’m not an idiot.” He clapped Mark’s shoulder. “I told him you’d been practicing earlier and didn’t want to overdo it.” He glanced back the way he’d come. “He said he hoped he’d see you at this evening’s practice, though.”

  Mark swallowed. The practice schedules for these Prisoner Games were getting intense, not quite rivaling his training for the real Olympics, but noticeably similar. Probably an attempt to keep them all busy. Men couldn’t dig out from under the castle when they were training for athletics for hours on end.

  “He said that, did he? That he wanted to see me at this evening’s practice?”

  Shaw nodded again. “Yeah.”

  “Did he seem suspicious?”

  “He seemed like the Kommandant always is. Like he’s asking you one thing but really asking another.” Shaw shuddered. “Man gives me the creeps sometimes.”

  Mark laughed dryly. “Well, if he wants me there, I’d better be there.”

  “Smart man.”

  Shaw left and Mark absently ran a hand through his hair, blood turning colder at the thin layer of grit that met his fingers. His sore, stiff fingers. His hips and knees ached too from kneeling as he dug, and his neck and shoulders hurt. He didn’t have a choice, though. If Armin expected him to fence, then he’d fence, even if he had to grin and bear it through aches and pains.

  What a strange reversal from those weeks back in 1936. Mark had to very nearly be forced off the piste. Not anymore. And Armin? Facing down Chandler, telling him it had been the lost arm he’d fought with—appearing oddly vulnerable and at the same time dignified. Even Mark would have wanted to punch Chandler for provoking Armin like this. Humiliating him with a war injury in front of the guards and the prisoners. A low blow. Armin had done nothing to deserve that, either. And if he had, it had been before Mark’s time.

  How had he lost that arm? How had he coped with it?

  Mark himself had been more scared about getting wounded or crippled than being killed, had told himself at least then it would be over when he’d flown through the fire hailstorm of flak tracers and shells, planes exploding around him like grim fireworks. He’d seen horrible wounds of gunners or pilots—had seen fighter pilots whose faces had melted off when the gasoline caught fire in their planes. He didn’t want to end up looking like that, with the horrible operations and the results a little less grotesque than from where they’d started. He was a prisoner, but he was still in one piece.

  And he was glad Armin was still alive, too.

  He must have lost friends just like they all had—after all, he’d been sympathetic toward Kitten when, Mark assumed, he could’ve rightfully had him shot. Mark refused to believe it was only out of a need to maintain order within the camp.

  * * * *

  Mark showed up for the evening practice. Some of the new guys were getting quite confident with their weapons, so he took the time to get properly dressed. As he did, he imagined how clothes like these would’ve sat on Armin’s body, sheathing him like his uniform had during that bout in Berlin, leaving him just enough space to move, transforming him into a faceless menace with impeccable technique.

  Mark caught himself wondering if any of these clothes had been Armin’s. The left sleeve was frayed a bit where it had rubbed against the French grip of the foil, possibly from hundreds of hours of training. And in the shoulders, the jacket was a bit too tight, but had enough play for the inch or so he had on Armin in terms of height. Indeed, this all could have belonged to him.

  He tried to ignore that he might’ve been sweating into the same glove as Armin. Mingling his sweat with that of a hand that wasn’t anymore.

  He was ready and grabbed a mask—had Armin ever carried this mask onto the piste?

  And just as he saluted with a bare face and then lifted the mask to slide it on, the Kommandant walked into the room. He shook his head briefly as if unwilling to be addressed.

  Mark cursed him. With Armin in the room, his concentration was shot.

  The mask’s tunnel vision didn’t help. The damage was already done—he felt Armin’s presence just around the edge of his peripheral vision, as if he didn’t already feel the ghost of Armin and his youth inside the jacket he wore.

  He focused on his opponent, reminding himself it was Shaw, not Armin, no matter how much room the mesh over Shaw’s face left for Mark’s imagination to interpret things.

  “En garde. Prêts. Allez.”

  If he stood idle, his distraction would get the best of him, so Mark opted for more aggression than usual. He attacked immediately. When Shaw parried, Mark drove him back, feinted, and then drove him back farther. Shaw’s back heel was nearly on the end of the piste, every motion of both his hands and feet defensive because Mark gave him no opportunity to go on the offensive.

  Shaw’s skill had improved, and his parries were more graceful now, less clumsy. Not quite effortless, but getting there. He was effectively backed against a wall, so all he could do was fend off Mark’s attacks, which he did admirably well.

  The side of the mask muffled a great deal of noise, but not quite enough to keep Mark from hearing a chair scrape, and then some footsteps. Was Armin leaving? Coming closer? Or was—

  Shaw’s blade knocked Mark’s aside and jabbed painfully between his ribs.

  The other men in the room applauded, and Shaw’s shoulders dropped a little as Mark backed off.

  Mark gave him a subtle nod. “Nicely done.”

  “Thanks.”

  On the way back to the center of the piste, Mark glanced toward the small crowd. Armin was still there, standing at the back of the room with that giant beside him. Same place he’d been before the match began.

  What is the matter with me? A dozen men in this room, and I assume every sound is him.

  The place where Shaw had scored his point throbbed slightly, and Mark guessed there’d be a bruise later. Well-deserved, if he was going to let Armin distract him like that.

  As Mark and Shaw faced each other on the piste again, Mark gritted his teeth. He was angry now. At himself, and also with Armin for being here and for still having this effect on him. And for having taken Mark up on the challenge back in Berlin, giving him a chance to memorize the way he looked in a fencing mask on the piste. Because looking at Shaw, that was all Mark saw: Armin. Armin the opponent. Armin the enemy. Armin the lover he should have forgotten a long time ago. Fucking bastard.

  “En garde. Prêts. Allez.”

  Again, Mark attacked viciously, driving Shaw right back to the edge of the piste. Their blades hit each other hard, the vibration reverberating up Mark’s arm and inside his mask. I didn’t beat you back then, Armin. I’m going to beat you now.

  As a left-hander, he had the natural advantage, and apart from one of the Britons, he was the only one. The target area was closer for him that way, as a right-hander had to turn his way to have any chance of hitting him, and then attack his strong side because it was much, much closer.

  He slapped the blade out of the way in another attack, lunged and scored, blade bending elegantly as he did and then withdrew. The other fencer came at him, claiming right-of-way, but Mark parried, feinted, counter-atta
cked in that familiar rhythm that had been drilled into him until it came without thinking at all. That was the place to be, mentally. No thought. Just responses, the feeling for the strength of the blade—circular parry, lunge, thrust. Too quick to think.

  Third point. Bout over.

  A few men clapped, and somehow, it still stung. A taste of something he’d lost. A mockery, even. Scoring a point against a weaker adversary—did that mean anything at all? He took off his mask and shook hands, then turned toward Armin.

  Chandler stepped nearly between them. “Seems to me Driscoll is running out of opponents.”

  “I shall request that the next Olympic-level fencer who falls out of the sky shall be sent to us,” Armin remarked dryly. “Well done, Captain.”

  Mark nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Seems you’re itching to cross blades again.” Chandler’s tone was unreadable, maybe mocking, maybe just plain spiteful, if tempered.

  But Mark could see why he’d say such a thing. Armin’s posture was very straight, very ready to fight, his hand closed, angled just so in the wrist as if holding a sword with the point down.

  To spare Armin the humiliation, Mark shook his head. “I don’t believe that would be proper, sir.”

  “What? Are you afraid of a one-armed Nazi?” Chandler’s words had a curious effect on Armin. He’d been ready to fight, and now he looked like he was half a step away from challenging Chandler to a duel, prisoner or not. Behind that schooled face something had twitched, something fierce and powerful. Pride.

  “I’m not afraid of the Kommandant, sir,” Mark said through his teeth. “But I don’t believe it would be appropriate. Under the circumstances.”

  “Agreed.” Something like gratitude and relief flashed across Armin’s expression, as much as anything could flash across the man’s face. Maybe Mark had just learned to read the little subtleties, and caught the decrease in tension between his eyes and the way his lips weren’t quite so thin and taut now.

  Chandler snorted. “I think the boys would find that entertaining. But”—he clapped Mark’s shoulder almost hard enough to make him stumble—“suit yourself.”