God help me. God help him.
Chapter 26
Armin didn’t like how Holzknecht stood in his office; the man looked like he was ready to smash something or somebody, though he didn’t move, just stood there, the irritation visible in a sharp line along one of his eyebrows.
“A few more questions, Colonel.”
“Of course.” Armin moved to the side of his desk, about three steps away from Holzknecht, but closer to the door.
“I’m curious why you didn’t tell me that you and Driscoll have history.”
Armin cleared his throat. Had Mark told him? How much? The office wasn’t disturbed, so there hadn’t been overt brutality—but some men might talk if a gun was pointed at their head. Would Mark speak in such a situation? And if he had, why did Holzknecht persist in the game? He didn’t seem the patient sort. “I didn’t feel it mattered.”
“Leave that decision to me.”
“Well. In the interest of efficiency, I had to abbreviate.”
Holzknecht flexed his fingers. “If you were going to recruit him as a stool pigeon, why him?”
Oh God. That was what Mark had told him? “He seemed less hostile than the others. Relatively new. Less jaded. Still under the recent impression of captivity. And his friend had died. He seemed more vulnerable than any of the others.”
“And you knew each other from before.”
“I wouldn’t call it knowing, Obersturmbannführer. We had a shared interest. I hoped to build something from that.”
“How did he respond?”
How would Mark respond? “Told me to go to hell in so many ways and I was skirting dangerously close to violating the Geneva Conventions.”
“Which you recently said you’re upholding.”
“Well, I bent the rules a bit in the interest of keeping everybody alive.” Armin narrowed his eyes. “And in the interest of serving the Führer, as you continually remind me is my duty.”
Holzknecht’s nostrils flared, and his lip curled slightly. “Enough of your games, Colonel.” He stabbed a finger at Armin’s chest. “There is more going on here than you are letting on, and I will find out.”
Armin laughed humorlessly. “If you’re so sure there’s more going on, then I would think you’ve already found out, haven’t you?” Have you?
Holzknecht glared at him, and Armin was sure he would launch into another tirade of accusations masquerading as questions. Instead, the Obersturmbannführer straightened, setting his jaw. “This isn’t finished. I’m going to go speak to some of your guards.”
“Be my guest.”
They exchanged Heil Hitler salutes—Armin forcing far more enthusiasm into his than usual—and Holzknecht left his office, letting the door slam so hard it seemed to rattle the whole castle. Alone at last, Armin sank into his chair and rubbed his hand over his face.
It was impossible to say what scent Holzknecht had picked up. What he thought was happening between Armin and Mark, or between Armin and Germany, but nothing—not even Mark’s story about Armin recruiting him as a spy—had thrown him off that scent. Was this all because of his connection to Heinrich? Or something Oskar had done?
Or had he and Mark let their guard down at an inopportune moment?
Armin sighed, letting his head fall back against the back of his chair. They couldn’t risk being together again. If their previous interludes had been dangerous, any future ones would be suicide. And as much as Armin wanted Mark’s touch again, he’d already put Mark in the crosshairs of the SS.
There was no telling what Holzknecht might suspect, or what might happen, but whatever this was that had followed Mark and Armin from Berlin to here, that couldn’t go on. Walking away had been hard back then, but they’d both survived, and with any luck, they’d survive it again. Maybe after the war was over, they’d find themselves in the same place again someday.
Not here, though. Not now.
* * * *
Holzknecht must’ve questioned every man in the castle. Armin had no idea what he’d learned, or who’d said what, but after a solid week of prowling around the prison, Holzknecht abruptly announced he was leaving.
“I’ll be reporting to Berlin that I believe this camp needs a more competent Kommandant,” he growled. “But for now, it is back under your command.”
How kind of you. “Very well. Safe travels, Obersturmbannführer.”
Holzknecht muttered something Armin didn’t catch. Then, with a couple of Heil Hitlers still echoing off the rafters of Armin’s office, the man left. Armin hadn’t been this relieved since perhaps the day they’d discharged him from the sanatorium—though the war was still raging all around them, the rabid dog was gone. Everyone could breathe again, at least for the moment.
Holzknecht and his ilk had barely disappeared over the horizon before Armin called Chandler and Millington-Smythe into his office to see if the prisoners were prepared for their upcoming Games.
The two commanding officers exchanged puzzled glances.
“The …” The British officer cleared his throat. “They’ve, um, not been practicing lately. With the SS here, asking questions …”
Armin forced a thin smile. “This is my camp, Lieutenant Colonel. Not his. The Games are on.”
They were clearly unsure what to say, though Armin assumed that Chandler was fishing around for a way to turn the Games into something that violated the Geneva Conventions (they didn’t), and, besides, benefited the Germans in some way.
“Rations have been insufficient recently,” Chandler finally said. “At that rate, the men will be too weak to compete in anything.”
“I’m looking into it.” Armin fixed his gaze on Chandler. “I did ask for more food for everybody, garrison and prisoners.”
“What if you don’t get it?” Chandler asked back.
“Then that’s my responsibility. While provisioning is not at desirable levels, I won’t let men starve while I’m responsible.”
“All we have is your word—”
“Richard,” Millington-Smythe suddenly said. “You might not be aware, but the Kommandant is a man of his word.”
“Even he can’t make a Red Cross truck appear outside the gates.”
Armin took a deep breath. “I assure you, I have experience with such situations.” Not that it had done the Sixth Army a lick of good—no amount of wizardry had turned snow to bread. And to think he’d been decorated for being an outstanding administrator once upon a time … Armin shook his head. “More experience than I’d wish on anyone.”
Chandler looked at him quizzically, but Millington-Smythe nodded. “We’ll leave you to that task, Kommandant.”
“Yes. Thank you. Dismissed.” Armin watched them go, the British SBO damn near herding out the American major.
Holzknecht’s visit had distracted him from the endless work of keeping a camp in working order under circumstances that could only be summed up as “managed scarcity.” The soldiers in the garrison were on short rations, too, but they all understood that only fighting men received more, and nobody was in any state to fight. And one thing Fetzen had done right—he’d used the grounds of the castle to grow food, and while those only yielded root vegetables, there were a lot of them. The prisoners had never agreed to work there, and in any case, flight risk was too high, but some locals had taken care of those crops. And when some soldiers had begun to keep rabbits, Fetzen had allowed that, too.
Beyond that, though, the situation did look pretty dire. Feeding two hundred men on some sacks of potatoes and a few dozen rabbits wouldn’t work for very long.
Given that situation, the Games seemed a bit foolhardy, but morale had to be kept as high as could be expected. No one would be running marathons, but some energy could be spared for short sprints, a few rounds of boxing, and of course fencing. Preparation for the Games would keep everyone occupied while Armin did what he could to bring in more rations.
It seemed to work—whenever he left his office, men were practicing their various sp
orts. At every Appell, at least a handful of men were wearing pads and jackets. The tension that had gripped the camp while Holzknecht was here—or perhaps that was all in Armin’s mind—had dissipated, and the upcoming Games did exactly what they were intended to.
* * * *
As Armin was finishing paperwork to request additional rations one afternoon, someone knocked at his door. It was around the time one of them usually returned the fencing equipment, so he absently called out “Come in.”
The door opened. Without looking up, Armin muttered, “Put them back in their place.”
Footsteps across the floor. Blades clinking inside the bag. The gear rustled and clanked as it was placed where it belonged, and the footsteps retraced their path across the floor.
“Danke,” Armin said.
The door closed. Armin continued his paperwork, but then paused, his neck prickling.
He lifted his gaze.
Standing against the door, Mark stared back at him, his expression blank.
Armin sat straighter. “You should return to—”
“I know.” Mark glanced at the door, and then took a few tentative steps closer to the desk. “I … needed to see you.”
“About?”
“Does it need to be about anything?”
“Yes,” Armin hissed. “Mark, what we did … we can’t.”
“I know.” Mark lowered his gaze, and then pulled in a deep breath and met Armin’s eyes again. “For the record, I didn’t tell him anything.”
Armin laid his pen down. “Considering we’re both still alive, I know.”
“He … he knew. About Berlin.” Mark paused, then quickly added, “That we’d met, I mean.”
Armin nodded. “Quick thinking, telling him I tried to recruit you as a spy.”
A small smile tried to form on Mark’s lips, but then he scowled. “What did he want?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”
“But we still can’t—”
“We shouldn’t have in the first place.”
“That didn’t stop us before.”
Armin sighed. Slowly, he stood, the last few chilly nights making his joints ache and creak. He came around the desk, but stopped before he was too close to Mark. As if being in the same room wasn’t too close already. “Because of me, he interrogated you. If he’d known just one or two things more than he did …” Armin couldn’t finish the sentence, and shook his head. “We can’t. I won’t.”
Mark set his jaw, though he seemed to be struggling to hold Armin’s gaze. “For … for the record, you kept me sane while I was in the hole.”
The memory of that night sent a faint ripple of arousal through him, but it was quickly muted by the ache in his chest. “If we could again …”
Mark nodded. “I know.” He sighed, breaking eye contact. “I should go. Before anyone asks questions.”
“Yes,” was all Armin could say.
Mark’s eyes flicked up, and then he turned to go. Sighing, Armin rubbed the bridge of his nose. One day, he wished he could have Mark without knowing this moment would inevitably come. But he’d known it in Berlin, and he’d known it this time, and he’d given in anyway.
And just like he’d known both times it would, this part hurt like hell.
“And you’re keeping me sane until this is over.”
Hand already on the door, Mark turned around, his expression stricken. “They say it’ll be over by Christmas.”
“They’ve been saying that for a year or two.” Armin made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t believe everything you hear on the BBC.”
A smile stole on Mark’s features—so yes, he’d been listening in to enemy broadcasts. Maybe those did more for the morale in Ahlenstieg than the “Olympics,” but the men were only bystanders in the former while directly involved in the latter. “Anything you want for Christmas?”
Armin couldn’t form the word, but the way Mark sobered, they’d still heard it both. He sighed and sat down again. “It’s not long now.”
What were a few months compared to eight years? Too damn long, of course. “No, not long.”
Silence settled between them, silence that rang out with words they both couldn’t speak without wanting the time to drag on. Armin opened a file in front of him, kept his unseeing gaze on it, and only looked up when the door had closed behind Mark.
At least after Berlin, Mark had been gone. Now, he was gone, but still imprisoned in this place as much as Armin was. Armin closed the folder again and sighed. Yes, the war might well end before Christmas. They might all be free from this place in a few months. But a few months within the same walls as Mark promised to feel a lot longer than the years since Berlin.
* * * *
As Mark made his way from Armin’s office back to the fire-warmed room where the other men were probably playing cards, he was numb. The conversation seeped beneath his skin and stayed there, thick and cold, just like Grace’s words had done when that last letter had arrived. For the first time, he regretted burning her letter. He wanted to read it again, and remember that he’d felt like this back then, but he’d come out of that. He’d returned to … well, not normal, but something better than this.
Except he was fooling himself if he thought this was anything like he’d felt that night. Hurt? Yes. But that end had been inevitable in a way this one hadn’t been. He and Grace had been doomed to fail. Had there not been a war, they wouldn’t have hung on as long as they did because Mark would’ve been home, not thousands of miles away so both of them could pretend everything was fine.
And had there not been a war, Mark probably never would’ve crossed paths with Armin again, but even if he had, this wouldn’t be happening. If they had somehow found each other again, without a war going on around them and a bloody line drawn in the sand between them, Mark couldn’t make himself believe they would’ve gone their separate ways like this.
He stopped in the corridor and leaned against the stone wall, letting the cold bite into his skin through his shirt. At least then he felt something besides numb. Or whatever this was.
He stared up at the centuries-old archway above him. He loved Grace, but he’d never really been in love with her, not the way all his friends seemed to be in love with their wives. More like the way Kitten had loved Rubble—he’d have been devastated if anything had happened to her, and losing her had hurt.
But Armin.
God.
Armin.
Mark closed his eyes. He didn’t even know what it felt like to be in love with someone because he’d never had a shot at it, but damn it, if it hadn’t been for this war, he was pretty sure he’d have fallen in love with Armin.
Maybe he had.
Chapter 27
Compared to the real Olympics, this was a sad shadow, but just like the revues and plays and concerts that the prisoners put on, all of which were lacking in just about everything, they made up for it with earnestness and genuine energy. And the amount of material they did have was still astonishing—much of it had been sent in parcels and some had been dug up from the times when the castle had been a youth hostel in happier, more peaceful times.
Schäfer, of course, doubled his attentions—all the noise and activity could easily mask an attempt to break out. After much internal debate, Armin had accepted the British SBO’s invitation to watch the proceedings—he’d decided against presiding himself, let alone “open” the Games. It was better if the prisoners felt this was their Games, their competition. Armin made sure he put on a pleasant, interested face throughout, but didn’t say much.
After the run-in with Holzknecht, he’d distanced himself and prayed that Mark understood that was for both their safety. It still hurt to see him—spy him crossing the yard or stand in a huddle with his friends—but Armin never again tried to cross the divide, because whoever had reported on him to the SS officer was likely still watching.
It was only luck that nobody had caught them in really incriminating circumstances, because n
either Schäfer nor his men were easily fooled—the prisoners called them “ferrets” for a reason when they watched and searched and sometimes pounced. All it took was suspicion and that honed perception could be turned the wrong way.
Prizes were basic, too—packets of food, cigarettes and books, most of it from tireless efforts to keep everybody fed and in good spirits. Armin again left it to the SBOs to hand them out to the winners.
He briefly rose from that strangely detached feeling during the fencing competition and especially when Mark fought. He put on a good showing, and Armin fully expected him to win, but one of the British officers rallied unexpectedly, Mark seemed not quite as cool and collected in the last bout, and the British officer won. Armin bit down on his disappointment, and then all that washed away when Mark pulled off the mask, shook hands with the winner and looked right at Armin.
With his face flushed and his sweaty red hair plastered to his skin, he was, for a brief moment, the young fencer who’d caught Armin’s attention in Berlin. Just then, it all came tumbling back—their heated encounters, the pitifully few words they’d spoken. How no touch, no kiss had ever been enough. “Rekindling an old flame” was more apt than Armin would have thought possible. Flames burned. They were always hungry.
A large bulk moved into view. Schäfer. He was making his way through the watching prisoners, gaze fixed on Armin, face expressing urgency.
“Excuse me,” Armin said, stood and moved toward him. Schäfer leaned in close, “Kommandant, an important call for you.”
Armin’s pulse was already pounding, but now for a different reason. Those calls never meant good news.
Focused straight ahead, Armin left the room as quickly as he could without making more of a scene than was necessary. His sudden departure wouldn’t go unnoticed—already he could hear murmurs behind him—but sprinting out would only cause a panic.
With Schäfer hot on his heels, Armin hurried up the corridor. Once he was sure he was out of sight of any prisoners or guards, he broke into a jog. Then a run.
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