Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Mark stiffened even more. “He’ll get suspicious.”

  “I doubt that.” Armin kissed him lightly, wondering how being apart for just a moment could turn both of their lips so cold. “You asked me to promise you something. What was it?”

  Mark stayed tense for a moment, but the ice slowly melted, and he wrapped his arms around Armin’s waist. He found Armin’s lips, and as they sank into another kiss, the rest of the tension slipped away. Finally, he broke away enough to speak, but didn’t pull back completely.

  “In Berlin, you fucked me.”

  Armin shivered. How many times had he relived that night? “I did.”

  “Promise me”—Mark’s breath whispered across Armin’s lips—“that you’ll let me return the favor.”

  He may have gasped. Mark glanced at him as if he had. Or made some other sound. “Whatever you want.” Just that Mark might want him still was something of a miracle, though it felt natural just then. Like the arm was just a detail. The prison, the war, the tremendous, bridgeable gap between prisoner and the Kommandant, master of life and death in this place. “Anything I can give you, you can have. I’m not going to withhold anything from you. Not this time.” Not ever.

  “What changed your mind?”

  Seeing rats gnaw on frozen corpses for too long. Humans the size of dolls, shrunk by the heat. How cities turn to rubble.

  Armin shook himself. “Life is short. Nothing else really seems to matter now.” He kissed Mark on the lips. “But not here.” He finally managed to pull away and free himself. “I’ll be holding you in my arms tonight. Just imagine I’m here with you.” He smiled, because that thought was childish. It was something you might say to a frightened child, but maybe it did give them some solace. “We waited so long, we can wait a little longer.”

  Chapter 21

  Armin left without another word or even a touch. As the door locked, the heavy clank echoing through the silent cell, Mark dropped onto the hard mattress.

  Somewhere in the corridor, Armin snarled at someone in German. Likely reprimanding the guard. Or maybe just bidding him good night—in German, it all sounded the same. He just couldn’t quite comprehend that the man he heard outside was the same man who’d been in here for a few long, dangerous minutes.

  We waited so long, we can wait a little longer.

  Mark closed his eyes and exhaled, shivering as the cold of the cell settled onto his shoulders and crawled beneath his clothing. They both knew damn well this was madness, and yet all it took was a touch or a kiss to convince them to abandon all reason and try to make it happen anyway. Let it happen, that is. They couldn’t force this any more than they could prevent it. It simply was, no matter how hard either of them tried to keep it at bay.

  But maybe they’d gotten somewhere tonight. A step closer to a firing squad or God knew what else, maybe, but they’d both given in enough to admit that they didn’t want to resist each other. Now all Mark had to do was wait out the rest of his time in this cold, isolated cell, and let Armin orchestrate some sort of clandestine meeting. Chandler wouldn’t be thrilled if Mark went to see the Kommandant on his own, but he didn’t need to know exactly why Mark was seeing Armin. Or, for that matter, just how much of him he was seeing.

  Mark lay back on the hard bed and closed his eyes again. His mind wandered, as it often did, back to that single night in Berlin. A bed much more comfortable than this. Air much warmer. They’d shed their clothing and held onto each other in ways Mark had never held onto anyone else—neither before nor since—and all the while he’d been aware that there would be consequences if they were caught, but he hadn’t cared. He’d had nothing to lose.

  And with nothing to lose, he’d given in completely.

  So this is what a man is like, he remembered thinking. Any other time, the thought would have sounded ridiculous, and he might have even laughed at himself for thinking it, but in the moment, it had been so profoundly true. He’d never thought about how a man might feel, or that he’d ever be with one the way he’d been with Armin, naked and touching and kissing in a way he’d never quite been able to imagine himself doing with a woman. That was when he’d known for certain that the rumors about himself had been true, that he was queer, and he understood why everyone had been so shocked when he’d come home from Berlin and proposed to Grace not two weeks later.

  But it wasn’t just men. He hadn’t realized that until recently, really not even until tonight. The epiphany he’d had in that summer-heated bedroom with the man he’d thought was a reserved, stuffy German gentleman, had not been about the way he felt about men.

  It was about Armin. It had always been about Armin.

  And what about him—he couldn’t even be sure. His pride, or an odd turn of phrase, or the grace of his movements, the effortless extension of the whole body—weapon and intent—in a lunge. A spark in his eyes, that near-comical German accent that had become so sinister in recent years, but to Mark was so very much more Armin than German.

  Most definitely the way Armin had touched him, mischievous, patient, then teasing, and skilled. It seemed as if Mark’s body didn’t hold any secrets to Armin, seemed both tool and sole focus of anything Armin did. He was a skilled lover, patient, but he’d also laughed a few times, as if none of it had been all that serious, or maybe he’d shown more of himself in those moments, a man who wasn’t all stuffy and “korrekt.”

  Somewhere inside, Armin had an irreverent sense of humor, an ability to bend rules, to shrug off expectations. Maybe that was it. Rigid, uniformed, German Armin had broken rules that Mark had always followed, and in that, shown him a way out of a cage he hadn’t even known existed.

  Only so he’d returned to the cage after, steadfastly denying there was an exit, or a cage, or a different way of being. War had finally torn him out of there. Seeing Armin now reminded him of those mistakes. Somehow, they’d gone wrong, and Armin had let him go. Not this time. Second chances were too expensive to squander. Even if there was no future, even if it was all truly hopeless.

  Just imagine I’m here with you.

  It helped a bit, just knowing that Armin was thinking the same kind of thoughts, felt the same kind of yearning, and was willing to risk it all. Total madness, maybe, and yet the same courage they both had when they committed to an attack and faced whatever counter-attack would inevitably come. You won the bout with attacking, always attacking. And now they weren’t enemies or opponents.

  I’m here with you.

  Here with him, perhaps, but not here in this bed. This cold, uncomfortable bed that barely had room for one, never mind two, but they would have fit because together they had seemed to occupy less space than one of them alone.

  The rack would have made too damned much noise, though. The guards would have heard. The other prisoners would have heard. It had been impossible here, no matter how much Mark had tried to negotiate with Armin and with himself and with reality for just one night together in this place. They’d have to wait, he knew, until they could be well and truly alone.

  His body didn’t understand that, though. The only thing Mark’s body understood just then was the absence of Armin and the need for him, that aching, unrelenting need to have him. Just thinking about Armin had kept him hard even after the man had left, and if Mark had any hope of sleeping at all, he needed Armin to do something about that.

  I’m here with you.

  So you are.

  Eyes shut tightly, Mark pulled the blanket over himself, and then reached underneath it to unfasten his trousers. Now that he wasn’t resisting, his mind flooded with more memories than two men should’ve been able to fit into a single night, and as his cool fingertips touched his cock, the memories seemed to warm the skin, the air, everything.

  He stroked slowly, in absolutely no hurry even though he was desperate for relief. It had been a long, long time since he’d surrendered to those memories—the cold band around his left ring finger had always been enough to remind him why he shouldn’t—and the
sheer relief of giving in was nearly as pleasurable as the orgasm inevitably would be.

  He let himself remember every detail of that sun-drenched room, how the light had played on Armin’s face and how his expression had seemed softer, how even the scar on his cheek and the uniform he half-wore couldn’t chase away the gentle humanity that came out a little more as the afternoon had gone on.

  And in the darkness, when he couldn’t see Armin anymore—couldn’t have even if he’d been able to keep his eyes open through that intensity—he remembered the sounds Armin had made. The way Armin’s near effortless English had devolved into German, slurred German if such a thing was possible, and how the sharp edges of his mother tongue’s words had smoothed into nothing Mark could even begin to understand except that it was all tender and affectionate, even playful.

  To this day he wished he knew what it was Armin had said—voice strained and breathless—just before Mark had come. Maybe the words didn’t matter. The voice and the touch and the way Armin had moved inside him—forcefully and still somehow gently, just like his simultaneously sharp and soft German—had been enough to drive Mark insane, and so he’d given in. He’d let Armin drive him insane, and just thinking about it while he stroked his cock drove him close to that edge again.

  Damn that guard who’d interrupted them earlier. He’d been so close to Armin, separated only by the work of seamstresses, and rubbing against him, feeling that Armin was as hard as he was. God, what he wouldn’t have done to have made Armin feel this way, touching and stroking him until his toes curled inside his boots and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. He imagined himself pushing away those layers of uniforms and enemy lines, and touching Armin again, maybe stroking him like this or taking the risk and bending over the rack so Armin could—

  I’m here with you.

  Despite the cold, the pleasure crested, made him close his eyes and arch up into a touch he willed to be Armin’s, imagined him smiling down at him, a little smug and a lot affectionate, imagined Armin spurring him on and watching him, holding him, and that was when he came, the climax more intense than what he could usually get by himself, almost as strong as if Armin were there, chuckling and holding him and kissing him through the last shudders.

  Only those thoughts and memories kept this from feeling sad and bereft, allowed him to fully enjoy it, even cherish it in a way that couldn’t be darkened with guilt or regret. For that short while, Armin was there just because he’d promised he would be.

  He relaxed back onto the bed and exhaled, the rest of the world fading around him. He wiped himself clean with a piece of cloth, and closed his trousers, then pulled the blanket up under his chin, feeling warm and protected and maybe a little bit loved for the first time in years.

  Chapter 22

  “You should not forget that you no longer report to the OKW.”

  Armin looked from the letter in his hand to the man standing in front of him. Six feet something of Teutonic Beast and the SS gorget patches to prove it. “Indeed. My apologies, Herr Obersturmbannführer Holzknecht.”

  He measured him, weighed him, but the guest merely regarded him with barely hidden contempt. There was no love lost between the SS and the Wehrmacht. He’d heard rumblings of a high-level conspiracy (of which he approved) and then the assassination attempt (for which he would have volunteered if anyone had asked), and he’d lost a friend in all of that. He’d expected the wave of purges and the attempt to cleanse the Wehrmacht of traitors and anti-Hitler officers. Armin himself wasn’t suspicious—he’d guarded his tongue very well indeed ever since it had become clear that people were murdered for saying or thinking the wrong thing.

  Yet, this letter ordered him to rout out and identify “elements dangerous to the Reich.” A Reich already crumbling at the edges. “This seems hardly necessary. There are no dangerous elements being held at Ahlenstieg.”

  “What is necessary and unnecessary is not your decision to make.” The words very nearly came out in a bark. Armin glanced at Schäfer, who stood near the door like a watch tower.

  “Indeed. Führerbefehl. I understand.” He stood, slowly, then walked around his desk. “How may I assist you, then?”

  “All prisoners of the Reich are under control of the SS and ultimately Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler. You will continue the day-to-day running of Ahlenstieg. However, I must ensure that the camp is run properly and correctly and in keeping with the Führer’s wishes.”

  The order to transfer all prisoners to the ultimate control of the SS had struck Armin as a strange thing even then. What an odd thing to take control of in a fading empire. Prisoners? Was Himmler keeping them to negotiate a treaty? Did they still believe a treaty was attainable, even after having broken the Munich Agreement, the Ribbentrop-Molotov Pact and any other treaty whose paper had only been good enough to wipe the Führer’s arse?

  They might be a strong card in a deck that was increasingly depleted. The Allies might negotiate a lenient treatment for the Nazi elite if that meant saving their men. It didn’t bear thinking about. Would the Allies insist on that “unconditional surrender,” or would the prisoners be enough to sway them?

  “Of course, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

  The SS officer placed his hands on Armin’s desk and bent over. “I have also been informed that you’ve had a lapse in discipline in this castle. This will no longer be tolerated. We will increase the Appells to six a day, and will use the harshest punishments available for infractions.”

  Armin nodded. “Leave it to me.”

  “You will report matters of discipline to me. I will sign off on any counter-action and punishment.”

  “Schäfer will assist you in terms of countermeasures. He’s very good at sniffing out tunnels and other escape attempt preparations.”

  “I will talk to him separately, later.”

  Armin glanced at Schäfer, then back at Holzknecht. Was that an attempt to divide and conquer? How much could he rely on Schäfer if the man received orders that Armin wasn’t aware of, and which might include reporting anything else Armin did to him? It was the Nazi way of doing things and dealing with resistance. They set one against the other until there was no organized resistance left. “Very well.”

  “I knew you were a reasonable man.” The SS officer peered down his nose at him, then straightened and jerked up his right arm. “Heil Hitler!”

  Oh dear, the Heil-Hitlering had finally made it to Ahlenstieg. Armin stood and raised his arm. “Heil Hitler.” He found it ironic that “heil” could mean “heal,” and some jokers responded with “you heal him!” when being Heil-Hitlered. But with this man now in control of Ahlenstieg, the time for jokes was over.

  The SS officer turned to Schäfer, and Armin could feel the hulk of a man tensing under the newcomer’s scrutiny. Holzknecht’s eyes remained cold as his lips peeled back into an unsettling smile. “Hauptmann, I don’t suppose I could trouble you with a tour of Ahlenstieg.”

  Schäfer’s gaze darted to Armin, but only for a second. He undoubtedly knew as well as Armin that the politeness and the smile were meaningless. The words were as good as an order, complete with the threat of a bullet if not carried out.

  “Of course, Herr Obersturmbannführer.” Schäfer started toward the door, and the officer followed.

  Once he was alone again, Armin lowered himself into his chair. Restlessness kept him from getting comfortable, so he rose and wandered around as much as the tiny room allowed. He stood beside the fire. Then stared out the window at the prisoners down in the yard inside the castle’s walls. A number of them were training in earnest for the Games he’d promised, the Prisoner Olympics, which had become a popular and effective diversion. Aside from the tunneling incident, escape attempts had been minimal recently. He supposed that was in part because of the weather—even the guards who took leave didn’t bother going much farther than the village—but also because morale was as good as could be expected in a place like this.

  Several heads turned. A f
ew men whispered to each other and gestured—some subtly, some not—in the direction they’d been looking. The men who’d been practicing hockey stopped, and everyone watched as Schäfer led the SS officer across the yard.

  Armin gritted his teeth. Neither the Americans nor the Brits knew all the fine points of Third Reich politics, but they weren’t stupid. They recognized the SS insignia. Even if they didn’t, the uniform was as imposing as the man wearing it. Nothing about the SS conveyed gentleness and civility, and this man was clearly born to be one of them.

  After Schäfer and the officer were gone, the hockey slowly resumed, but with less enthusiasm. The men were distracted, casting glances after Holzknecht.

  Armin stepped away from the window and went back to the fireplace to warm the chill creeping under his uniform. Holzknecht wanted strict discipline here. He likely believed that a miserable POW was a compliant POW, though Armin’s experience had taught him the opposite. Even if the Obersturmbannführer didn’t believe that, it was a moot point because a non-compliant POW was a dead one. The idea of Games, particularly sanctioned and even refereed by the guards or the Kommandant himself, would be ridiculous to a man like him.

  There would be no Prisoner Olympics under this officer’s watch. Pity, because he’d been looking forward to them, if only to break up the monotony. And for that matter, he’d been looking forward to watching Mark fence again.

  Armin’s hackles rose.

  Mark.

  In three days, he’d be out of the hole. And Armin had promised things, hadn’t he? Things he couldn’t possibly have thought he was capable of delivering.

  Armin sighed, shaking his head. He should have known. They both knew this was madness, and pursuing anything—even a look, never mind a touch—under the watchful eye of Holzknecht was nothing short of a death wish.