Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  This time, Armin did drop back a step, and instantly regretted it. He swallowed. “I … yes, I am.”

  The Obersturmbannführer’s eyes narrowed. “Are you aware of his recent activities?”

  “To my knowledge, his most recent activity is being strung up in Berlin like all the other men who conspired against the Führer. It was on the radio.” The Führer’s voice, ranting against the traitors and cowards who had conspired to blow him up and then take control— he’d remember that one to his dying day. The list of names. Claus von Stauffenberg, Ludwig Beck, Erwin von Witzleben, Henning von Tresckow, Friedrich Olbricht, Werner von Haeften, Erwin Rommel, Heinrich von Starck. Some of the best old Prussian-style officers Germany had had left. The blood of dukes and counts and knights spilled by a small immigrant NCO from Austria.

  And now he should add something about his great relief that the Führer had been unharmed. However, the words stuck in his throat.

  Holzknecht folded his arms. “You visited him in Paris before you took this post.”

  “He insisted.”

  “Why?”

  “It was meant to be a vacation.”

  “Meant to be?” Holzknecht leaned closer. “You’d been recovering from a mental breakdown in the months prior. Surely you were well rested.”

  “The sanatorium didn’t quite have the same facilities as Paris.”

  “Such as?”

  “The German embassy put on rather splendid concerts and receptions. Von Starck felt that I should get used to being among people again.”

  “And introduced you to his co-conspirators, perchance?”

  “He introduced me to everybody of any importance, including the Kommandant of the Paris garrison.”

  “To what end?”

  “They did not try to recruit me into von Stauffenberg’s conspiracy.”

  “And yet some of the men you met in Paris were traitors.”

  “Apparently so. I also met writers and singers and sculptors and learned later that some of them were quite lousy.” Armin shrugged. “I was a convalescent. If I had had a conspiracy to run, I wouldn’t entrust any of it to a grieving Eastern Front cripple just holding on to his sanity at that point.”

  “All of which might have convinced me if I had not arrived and found you getting so … chummy with the enemy.”

  “They’re not enemy combatants anymore. They’re prisoners, and it is my duty to keep them here and keep them alive. Have I not fulfilled that duty, Herr Obersturmbannführer?”

  “Your duty, first and foremost, is to the Führer and to the Reich.”

  “Indeed. And in what way am I derelict in that duty by ensuring that my men remain alive, and that these prisoners—any one of whom could be of value to the Reich—remain within my camp? If it is a crime to toss them some athletic equipment so they can entertain themselves rather than attempting to escape, then I am guilty. Otherwise—”

  “There is a difference between throwing them some toys and joining in their games, Colonel. They are softening you.” He tightened his arms across his chest. “Or were you already soft?”

  Armin sighed heavily. “I am not a conspirator. I knew nothing of the conspiracy, and had no part in it. I do not demand salutes from my prisoners, but they stay within the walls.” He threw up his hand. “What do you want from me?”

  “It isn’t what I want. It’s what the Führer wants.” He gestured at the window that overlooked the yard where the Appells took place and the prisoners loitered in better weather. “And prisoners viewing their Kommandant as their kind-hearted schoolmaster is not what he wants.”

  It took all the restraint Armin had left to not sneer. He’d long been certain that the SS had their brains removed and propaganda machines installed in their place. They didn’t think. They simply repeated the party lines over and over without question.

  Holzknecht broke eye contact and walked toward the fireplace. Standing in front of it, facing away from Armin with his hands folded at the small of his back, he was quiet. Then he turned his head so Armin could just make out his profile. “Word among your men is that you’ve been quite friendly with some of the prisoners. Some specific prisoners.”

  Ice formed in Armin’s veins, but he schooled his expression and his posture just in case the man turned around. “Is that so?”

  “That’s what they say.” Slowly, Holzknecht faced him again. “Is there a reason you’ve had private meetings with a captain, rather than his commanding officer?”

  So maybe the man was a lot more cunning and informed than Armin had given him credit for. It also meant he had real information, not just instinct or malice. “Of course there was a reason.”

  “Being?”

  “I gave him fencing equipment. We talked briefly about fencing and his record in the sport.”

  “Where did that equipment originate?”

  “It was left in my office by someone before me.”

  “I see. You knew Heinrich von Starck from the same Heidelberg-based fencing association?”

  “Yes, I was a keen fencer myself, once upon a time.”

  “So I’ve seen.” Holzknecht measured him. “It’s been said that the late Reinhard Heydrich invited you to the SS to bolster our fencing corp.”

  “A tragedy what happened to him.” It should have taken him longer to die, the lisping, horse-faced violin player.

  Holzknecht didn’t take the bait. “Any reason why you rejected?”

  “I had already determined for myself to pursue a career in the Wehrmacht. Family tradition.”

  “Your cousin Oskar joined the Luftwaffe?”

  Armin took a deep breath. “He’s always been the odd one out.”

  “That’s among the factors left to be determined—whether he is indeed the odd one out.” Holzknecht folded his hands behind his back. “I would talk to the representative of the Americans, and then that American Captain. Have it arranged.”

  “To what end, Herr Obersturmbannführer?”

  “Official business.”

  “From?”

  “SS Obergruppenführer Meier.”

  “I’m responsible for these men. You can talk to them while I’m present.”

  “I won’t be doing any permanent damage, Kommandant. Major Chandler might yet be useful.”

  “They’re all registered prisoners-of-war.”

  “I’m aware.” Holzknecht’s eyes narrowed. “Have it arranged. I’ll borrow your office for the interviews. Later, I’ll talk to the British senior officer.”

  Armin swallowed. There wasn’t much he could do—any move he made to block Holzknecht from interviewing the prisoners would rouse too much suspicion.

  “All right. My office is yours.”

  Chapter 25

  After yet another Appell, Mark was on his way back to his cell with Kitten and Silent Joe, but one of the guards stopped him.

  “Zur Kommandatur. Jetzt.” The Kommandant’s office. Now.

  That was weird. With that SS officer running around, seemingly watching Armin’s every move, it seemed like the worst possible time for him and Mark to meet, especially alone. God help them both if the SS officer caught wind of their relationship.

  But he couldn’t say no to Armin. Especially since Armin was the Kommandant.

  “Uh. Okay.” To Kitten and Silent Joe, he said, “I’ll be back when, um …”

  “We’ll see you when you get back.” Kitten gestured at Silent Joe, and they continued without him.

  The guard gestured sharply. Come with me. An escort was hardly necessary, but he supposed that with the walls growing more ears by the day, it was best to keep up appearances. So, stomach fluttering, he followed the guard up to Armin’s office.

  At the door, they stopped, and the guard tapped twice with his knuckle.

  “Eintreten.”

  Mark’s heart skipped. That wasn’t Armin’s voice. Familiar, but not Armin.

  The guard pushed open the door and nodded sharply at Mark. Without a word, Mark went inside, an
d in the same moment the door clicked shut behind him, he realized where he’d heard that voice before.

  “Captain Driscoll.” Obersturmbannführer Holzknecht sat in Armin’s chair, hands folded on top of a file folder. “Please. Sit.”

  Mark glanced around the tiny office. They were alone aside from the ghosts of the kisses he’d shared in here with Armin. Where was Armin?

  “Captain. Sit down, please.”

  Mark willed his heartbeat to slow, and he obeyed, taking a seat in the aging chair in front of Armin’s huge desk.

  The German sat back, moving his folded hands from the desk to just above his belt buckle. “You’re a fencer.”

  And you’re an asshole. Mark cleared his throat. “I am, yes.”

  “Quite a good one.” Holzknecht tapped the folder on his desk before returning his hands to their position. “A shame about that match with the Hungarian.”

  Mark’s neck prickled. The reminder of his defeat didn’t bother him so much as what else that folder between them might contain. Had this man been reading up on him?

  “How did you enjoy Berlin, Captain?”

  “Berlin? I … I haven’t been there since 1936.”

  “I know.” The man smiled, which somehow made his eyes colder. “How did you enjoy it then?”

  “Um …” Mark swallowed. “It seemed like a nice enough city. I rarely left the Olympic park or village, though. Didn’t … didn’t see much.”

  “What a pity.”

  Mark didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. He had the distinct sense of facing down an opponent, of the need to attack and parry and if necessary retreat, but he didn’t know what game they were playing. He couldn’t parry a weapon he couldn’t see.

  “What was your impression, Captain, of the Germans you met there?”

  Mark forced himself to sit still, despite the urge to squirm under the man’s scrutiny. “They were very …” He chewed his lip. “Their military bearing was impressive.”

  Holzknecht laughed softly, and Mark wished he hadn’t. His piercing scrutiny had been a lot easier to stomach than this quiet amusement. He still didn’t know what game they were playing, but he definitely recognized the feeling of being pushed to the very edge of the piste, his heels teetering on the line and his balance still inching backward.

  The humor faded, but the precarious sensation didn’t. Holzknecht sat up again, moving his folded hands back to the desk, and his eyes narrowed slightly. Tilting his head, he asked, “Do you remember any of the Germans you met in Berlin?”

  Icy sweat rolled down the back of Mark’s neck. “It was a long time ago.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  Mark curled his fingers around the end of the chair’s armrest. His eyes flicked toward the file folder. Holzknecht must have known. This line of questioning wouldn’t just come out of nowhere.

  “I … the Kommandant was my team’s chaperone.”

  No surprise registered on the Obersturmbannführer’s face. Of course not. “And how well did you and Colonel Truchsess von Kardenberg know each other?”

  “Know each other?” Mark shrugged tightly. “He was our chaperone. I—”

  “You and he seem quite friendly now.” The German pushed Armin’s chair back and stood. Hands behind his back, he slowly came around the desk, raising the hairs on Mark’s neck again as he neared the chair. “Would you consider him a friend, Captain?”

  Mark suppressed a shudder, and forced himself not to draw away from the Obersturmbannführer’s proximity. “I’m his prisoner. In what way would he be my friend?”

  “That is what I am asking you.”

  Mark curled his toes inside his boots, just to relieve some of this nervousness. “I would consider myself lucky to be in a camp run by a man who abides by the Geneva Conventions and appreciates a good fencing match. But beyond that …” He shook his head.

  “I see.” Holzknecht paced back and forth behind Mark. No, he wasn’t pacing at all. He wasn’t agitated. This seemed a calculated move, as if he knew exactly what the quiet tap of his heels and the muffled creak of boards would do to Mark.

  Mark’s only defense was to keep every reaction beneath the surface. No flinching. No shifting. Stare straight ahead, breathe, and prepare for the possibility of anything—an attack, a feint, an opening for an attack of his own.

  “You recently took part in an escape attempt.”

  Mark nearly released a breath. Though he suspected Holzknecht would have no qualms about making an example out of him, this new line of questioning was less dangerous than the last one. “I did, yes.”

  “And your punishment?”

  “I was sent to the hole.”

  “For how long?”

  He let himself shudder this time. “Long enough to make me think twice about making another attempt.”

  Holzknecht laughed again, which made Mark’s skin crawl. When the German spoke, though, the humor had vanished. “I understand that during your period of punishment, you had a visitor.”

  Shit.

  “I did.”

  “Go on.”

  Mark swallowed. Holzknecht wasn’t just looking for a noose to put around Armin’s neck—he wanted Mark to make the rope and tie the knot.

  Mark spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “The Kommandant came to speak to me. He had reason to believe that when I was let out of the hole each day, I might try to escape. He warned me not to, that I’d be shot like the men who’d tried before me.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Perhaps he’d omitted some significant truths, like how much they’d kissed and promised each other, or how the lingering heat of Armin’s body had kept him warm until nearly dawn, but Armin had warned him against trying to escape. Holzknecht didn’t need to know that Armin had begged him not to try.

  “Did he warn the others?”

  Mark shook his head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear anything from the other cells.”

  The floorboards creaked again, slower this time. And closer. Holzknecht stopped, and he stood so close behind the chair Mark thought he could feel the man’s breath on his neck.

  A hand rested on Mark’s shoulder, pressing just hard enough to make his heart beat faster. He cringed as if Obersturmbannführer’s fingers might suddenly sprout claws and tear into his flesh.

  “In certain other camps, those who attempt escape are lined up and shot.” Holzknecht’s fingers twitched slightly. “In public, as examples to the others.”

  Mark’s mouth went dry. He’d heard rumors of that happening, but hadn’t known for sure if they were true.

  “Yet in this camp,” Holzknecht went on, “the Kommandant takes the time to warn a would-be escapee that another attempt might get him the bullet he already deserves. And coincidentally, that would-be escapee knew the Kommandant some years back. And that man has been seen going into the Kommandant’s office alone, fencing with the Kommandant …” The hand lifted slightly, then came down in a pat that was both firm and menacing. Mark was still unconvinced that the fingers on his shoulder wouldn’t suddenly produce claws, and he was even less convinced when the German quietly said, “Tell me, Captain, why you think he’s done all of this for you and no other.”

  It still wasn’t an all-out attack, but the man drove him along the piste—less a fencer and more of a train. “I don’t know his mind. The men do say he can be peculiar.”

  “That’s not my question. Why you?”

  “I …” There wasn’t really a good reason. Admitting to the friendship would get Armin punished, and it would most definitely separate them.

  “Tell me why you’re so special.” The man’s tone dropped at the end of the sentence, making this a quiet, menacing order.

  “I think he was trying to recruit me as a spy.” Mark leaned forward and rubbed his hands over his face, mostly to hide his expression.

  “A spy?”

  “To report on escape attempts, unrest … those kinds of things.” Mark drew a deep breath and exhaled. “At first I t
hought he was trying to be friendly, given we’ve met before, but then he mentioned privileges.”

  Holzknecht pushed back, seemingly with a suppressed groan. “How did you respond?”

  “I don’t want to be lynched as a traitor. Besides, the war is almost over.” Shit. That last thing had just slipped from his lips.

  “Almost over?” Holzknecht sniffed. “Why do you say that?”

  Mark tamped down his nerves, and then twisted around to look the man in the eye. “It hasn’t been that long since I was out there fighting. I’ve seen the state of the Luftwaffe.” He snickered, deliberately making it as obnoxious as possible. “You think you’re going to win a war with planes held together by prayers and—”

  The German’s hand came out of nowhere, striking Mark’s cheek and sending him spinning back around. Mark’s eyes watered, and he rubbed his cheek, moving his jaw a little to make sure it was still where it belonged.

  “If the war is almost over,” Holzknecht said through his teeth, “it won’t be Germany that falls.”

  Mark laughed dryly, cringing inwardly in case he took another hit, and fully expecting it to be closed-fisted this time. “That may be how it looks from your cushy little offices and bunkers. But out there?” He shook his head. “I know what I saw.”

  Holzknecht muttered something in German. Then he came around Armin’s desk and took a seat across from Mark again. “Say what you want, Captain. You are, after all, Germany’s prisoner.”

  “For the moment.”

  Holzknecht’s lips pulled tight. “This conversation is over.” Gesturing sharply at the door, he added, “Dismissed.”

  Mark didn’t stay around. On his way out, he tongued the inside of his cheek, finding a small cut where his teeth had torn the tender flesh. He didn’t taste much blood, and none of his teeth seemed to be dislodged. Even if they had been, it would all heal, and it was a small price to pay for diverting Holzknecht’s attention from his questions about Armin. Mark was expected to believe the Germans would lose, but for Armin, even suggesting such a thing could be a death sentence.

  A gash inside his mouth and a throbbing cheekbone were well worth it if it kept Armin out of harm’s way. Assuming Mark hadn’t said anything damning without even knowing it.