Another Place in Time

by Tamara Allen

  Warren held still. Stefan’s gaze wandered, dazed and unfocused, and then at some moment he locked onto Warren’s face. At first a sweet, shaky smile crossed his lips, and he said thickly, “Oh, yes, you.” Then he blinked, frowned, licked at spit-slick lips, frowned again, and a look of dawning horror crossed his face. His mouth worked, tensed, then he said, “Ah, hell!” And burst into rough, helpless tears.

  “Don’t!” Warren reached for him and pulled him up, wrapping him in a hug, ignoring spit and piss and anger. All his concerns were temporarily submerged in the deep, painful sobs wracking Stefan’s body, the gasps of breath, and the hot dampness against Warren’s neck. For long minutes Stefan clung to him, but eventually his crying eased. Then he pushed Warren away, even though it meant he sprawled off-balance on the floor again. He wiped his mouth with a clumsy hand, staring at Warren. “You were leaving. I think . . .?” The uncertainty, through the trailing sobs that still rattled his voice, made Warren ache.

  “You were telling me things I needed to hear.” He didn’t move off his knees.

  Stefan scrubbed his sleeve over his wet face. “I think I was finished.”

  “I don’t.” Warren made an effort to speak slowly and softly. “You were doing it on purpose, making me angry by the way you told it. I don’t like being manipulated like that. And I need to hear the whole story.”

  Stefan pushed himself up to a sitting position with hands that still trembled uncertainly. “I am not . . . I cannot remember. Ach, I am wet, dirty. Foul. You should leave me.”

  “You must be joking.” Warren frowned. “Do I seem like a fair-weather friend to you?”

  “A what?” Stefan rubbed his hip as if it hurt.

  “Someone who leaves when things get a bit rough.”

  “Oh. No.” Stefan blinked hard. “I’m sorry. I cannot think. When it happens, after, I am like a baby in a mud puddle, all flailing and dirty and lost.”

  “Let me help you get found, then.”

  “I am disgusting. How can you not see it? You should leave now and perhaps come back tomorrow. I command you to leave.”

  “Prove to me you can stand on your own, and maybe I will.”

  Stefan’s first uncoordinated attempt was laughable, if Warren had felt like laughing. The second was damned near dangerous. Warren grabbed Stefan’s arm and managed to break his lurching fall. “Enough. Prove your manhood another time. For now, let me help you to bed.” He wrapped that arm across his shoulders and hugged Stefan’s waist.

  “Bathroom first,” Stefan muttered.

  “All right, but not alone.”

  “I cannot fight you now.”

  “Praise the pigs.” Warren guided his faltering steps. “Shall we try the stairs?”

  “Slowly.”

  Eventually, he got Stefan upstairs, out of his wet things, dressed in clean pajamas and into his bed. Stefan was docile and silent, his eyes drooping tiredly. Warren tucked the covers around him and then sat on the edge of the bed. “There you go.”

  Stefan said, “Thank you. Very much. I am fine now.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “I will be soon,” Stefan mumbled. “I wish to sleep a little.”

  “Go ahead,” Warren said. “I’ll be here.”

  Stefan’s eyes drifted shut. He looked pale and exhausted, and Warren wasn’t surprised when his breathing eased quickly into sleep.

  Such a confusing man. He’d wondered about Stefan’s past, but never came close to guessing this. And yet he was sure there was a lot more to the story than “I was a German soldier, now get out.” He watched Stefan sleep, wondering what the rest might be, pondering the future, and the past. Just as he was thinking about getting up and going in search of a book to read, Stefan said without opening his eyes, “Are you still here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was afraid I had dreamed that.”

  “Nope. But I’d say it’s still conditional on hearing the rest of the story, when you’re up to telling it.”

  “All right.”

  He thought Stefan had drifted off again, but then his voice came again, thin and quiet. “My mother went from Switzerland to Germany in 1910. She met my father, who was a young army recruit. They were married, and my brother Ernst was born the next year.”

  Warren waited, but when Stefan had been silent for several moments, he prompted, “Then what happened?”

  “The Great War happened. My father served honorably, but after the war he was discharged. He got a job in the building trade. He was strong and healthy. And in 1921, I was born. But the times were hard. People lost jobs, money was scarce. I was a child, but I remember days we went hungry. I recall my mother trying to feed four of us from a couple of potatoes and an onion, making a thin soup.”

  “We weren’t that close to the edge,” Warren said. “Even in the hardest years, Mother had some family money. We didn’t have luxuries, but we got by.”

  “People starved.” Stefan’s drowsy voice was at odds with his words. “Workers were paid by the day, and you spent all you had, because tomorrow already the money would be worth less. I remember standing in line with my mother for hours . . . Well, that is not important.”

  “It’s part of the story.”

  “It is part of everyone’s story. But Hitler came to power and things seemed better. There was the feeling that Germany could rebuild, be reborn. Then one day when I was fifteen, I came home.” He swallowed, and his voice sharpened. “I was told that my mother was dead. Burned, in a kitchen accident. Too badly burned for me to even see the body.”

  “Oh, Stefan.” Warren leaned toward him.

  Stefan’s eyes popped back open, bright and intent, locking on Warren’s face. “It was a lie.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “I believed it.” Stefan closed his eyes again. “I was so sad. Ernst was my father’s favorite, already in the military with a promotion under his belt. I had been my mother’s son, and now I was no one’s. But I tried to become what my father wished. I exercised and grew strong, gave up reading, except on rare occasions. Learned to shoot my father’s old gun. And when the time came, I enlisted in the army.”

  “How old were you?” Warren could picture young Stefan, bright and determined to make his father proud.

  “Seventeen. I had my father’s blessing; finally he was satisfied with me. A year later, we moved to annex Poland.”

  “That was an invasion,” Warren said.

  “I know. Now I do. But then . . . I was eighteen. I believed that the Poles were a backward race, poor and uneducated, who could not govern themselves. They had provoked our warship, brought it upon themselves. We would share with them the benefits of the new society, the greater Germany. I did not understand why they would resist the inevitable.”

  “You were what? A foot soldier?”

  “Yes. We marched in. It was very fast at first, very easy. The Poles fought us, but they had nothing, no way to stand against us. Dear God, Warren, they had cavalry, while we had tanks.” Stefan winced. “We shot them down like hunting for sport, and still they came. Horses and men. I could not understand why they did not just give up.”

  “And then?”

  Stefan looked at him again. “I killed men on that battlefield. I shot one man dead, for certain. I know I did. He slid off his horse into the mud. His eyes were open. The horse was screaming, and I shot it too, to make it stop.”

  “It was a battle,” Warren said helplessly. He’d never seen one.

  Stefan nodded. “Well. We settled in to control the territory after a while. There was still fighting elsewhere, but my unit was assigned to patrol some towns we had pacified. Then Unger . . .” He bit his lip. “Herr Feldwebel Unger was my direct commander, several years older than me. He liked to have me assigned as his assistant when we made the patrols. He enjoyed having command, walking into any house he chose, ordering the people there to bring out what they had of food or valuables. He would say he was searching for contraband or weapons, and take
what he wished.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. For a long time, I did nothing. I followed orders. Whatever he wanted from them, or from me, he should have.”

  “From you? Was he . . . the one?”

  “Yes. Before the war began, and after.” Stefan pushed himself more upright in the bed. “You must understand, he was not all bad. At first. The power, having people who had to obey and bow to his will in every way, it was not good for him.”

  “What happened?” Because clearly something had.

  “He began to also make the prettiest woman in the house show him her room, to search it.” Stefan’s mouth twisted. “And still I did nothing. I stood there like a log and aimed my gun at these people while Unger took the wife or the daughter behind a closed door.”

  Warren wanted to hit him, and wanted to hold him. The frozen anguish on his face forbade either one. And of course, that was Stefan’s only lover, going off and raping women while he was ordered to stand by. What kind of torture had that been? He said softly, “Was he still, while this was happening, having you too?”

  Stefan looked sick. “Yes.” His voice was just a breath. “Then one day, he chose this girl. She was so small, perhaps twelve. Perhaps. As he dragged her by the arm, I saw her brother go for a shotgun. I did nothing. I stood there like that same log while he shot Unger in the back.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “The boy turned on me, but he had fired both barrels and the gun was empty. I saw him prepare to die, this boy not much older than the girl. I lowered my gun. I said, ‘ Run. Out the back door. Be fast.’ My Polish was not good, but he understood. He grabbed her hand and they ran. I hurried to the front to meet the others of my unit, you understand, who had heard the shot. I told them there was a man in the upstairs of the house. I said we should burn him out. I thought a fire would hide all and distract them.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No. They searched the house upstairs instead and found no one and no way out. Then one of the older men looked at Unger’s body, how he lay, where the shot had gone. And he knew I lied about it coming from upstairs.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was arrested, thrown in a cell. Questioned. I said first I did not see, I was mistaken. But they knew by then the shot came at close range from inside the house. It was clear I was still lying. Eventually, I said I let Unger die because he and I . . . Because he made me. But I would not say who held the gun.”

  “Stefan . . .” Warren reached out to touch him, but didn’t complete the gesture. Stefan gave a small shake of his head, the words tumbling out faster now.

  “I was to be further interrogated, and probably shot afterward, for aiding the enemy or my part in killing Unger, it didn’t matter. I heard later that they razed the whole village to the ground and killed everyone they found there, as a warning. Perhaps the children got away first.”

  “But you didn’t die.” Was that head injury from his own people? A botched execution?

  “My brother Ernst, you remember? He was higher up. Not enough to spare me, but he came to my cell. He commanded me to tell him what happened. He demanded the truth. He was my brother. Finally, I said I let an old Polish man shoot Unger because he made me bend over for him, and I could not do it anymore.”

  “And?”

  “He beat me. He hit me until I fell and struck my head on the cot, maybe some more afterward. I do not remember well after that, but I was told . . .” Stefan swallowed. “He claimed I was dead, killed in anger because I’d said Unger was my lover. It was not regulation, but no one would care that he killed his unnatural, murderous brother. I do not know how he got away with having me declared dead. Probably he bribed someone. He was allowed to take my body, presumably to bury dishonorably. Instead, he bandaged my face, got me papers, and shipped me with an attendant as a wounded man, not home to Father, but all the way to Switzerland, to my mother.”

  “He did what? Wait—your mother died.” Warren was confused, his hatred for Ernst suddenly short-circuited.

  “I had thought. I was told. But it turned out she had an argument with my father, and he beat her. She left him, and he forbade her to have contact with me. Ernst was already adult and out of the house. He knew.”

  “They told you she burned to death!” Warren said, appalled.

  “Yes. But she had returned to Switzerland, to her own parents, and Ernst knew a man who knew someone who got me in through France. I was ill for weeks, and she cared for me, and slowly the fits and confusion went away and I was better.” Stefan swallowed again. In the low light, his face had a greenish cast.

  Warren said, “I don’t need to hear more right now. You should rest.”

  “No. Let me tell it now.” Stefan took a breath. “In any case, there is not much more. I spent several months with my mother. We read and talked and studied together, and she got me a Swiss passport. I expected to live there forever. But she caught an ailment of the stomach and died.” The tremor in his voice was brief, quickly controlled. “My grandparents, her parents, disliked me. I reminded them very much of my father. They arranged for me to come here to America, to Great-Aunt Elsa, who stubbornly clung to her farm and needed help. In those days, travel through France was still possible, and I came here by boat. And here I stay, a German soldier in your midst, but not a spy.”

  Warren took Stefan’s hand, despite his quick attempt to avoid the contact. “Listen. You aren’t a soldier any more. They beat you half to death. I think that counts as a discharge.”

  “Dishonorable.”

  “And a good thing too,” Warren said tartly. He was rewarded by an easing of the lines around Stefan’s eyes. He squeezed his clammy hand. “You are Swiss, at least as much as German now. That’s not a lie, if not the full truth. And you’ll become American. We all have ancestors who came over on the boat, some of them less than savory. What counts in the good old US of A is what you do once you hit American soil. Is there any of that you’re ashamed of?”

  “No.” Stefan stared at their joined hands. “Some would say this is the thing for which I should feel shame.”

  “Do you?” Warren held his breath as tightly as he held Stefan’s fingers.

  “No.” Stefan raised his eyes to meet Warren’s, and his gaze was steady, if tired and pained. “I regret none of it.”

  “Nor do I.” Warren raised that hand to his mouth, kissed Stefan’s rough fingertips, licked one, kissed his wrist. “Not then, not now. And I want more.”

  “But Charlie . . .?”

  “This has nothing to do with Charlie. Or the war. For all we know, Charlie might have killed some cousin of yours on the front, or even your brother.” Stefan winced palpably, and Warren cursed his stupid words and hurried on. “That still would have nothing to do with you and me. As long as you don’t want Hitler to win this war . . .?” He paused and raised an eyebrow.

  “God. No.” Stefan’s expression was guileless. “I saw Poland, and lived in Switzerland on the edge of war, and passed through France. I know the lies we were told; I know the Third Reich brought the war on us all. But I know those men who make up Germany’s armed forces. The fighting will not be over until they are totally defeated, if they can be.”

  “They will be,” Warren said stoutly. They had to be. The tide had surely turned, recent setbacks aside. The Allies would win in Europe and, God willing, eventually in the Pacific as well. “Until then, you should live here, quietly, as Swiss. And yes, with my mother’s flag flying. Doing all you can not to be a target.”

  “It feels dishonest.”

  “How would tempting those boys to arson or murder feel?”

  Stefan’s mouth dropped open on a short, shocked breath.

  “I’m not trying to make light of it.” Warren let Stefan pull his hand away. “But I’ve been thinking. I like the physician’s motto of first, do no harm. The question is, which of your several truths does the least harm now to innocent people?”

  He let Stefan thin
k too, there in the quiet room. Stefan’s eyelids slowly drifted closed, and Warren tried to be resigned to another period of watching him sleep. But eventually Stefan said without opening them, “Yes. You are very wise.”

  Warren chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve been called that before.”

  “No, you are.” He sat up and looked at Warren. “And you are right. This, you and me, living quietly, as you said. This is right and kind. This is perhaps the fate for which Ernst spared me.”

  “Well, good,” Warren muttered, carefully not reaching for Stefan.

  He didn’t have to, because Stefan reached for him, pulling him into a rough hug and then kissing him breathless. “I thought I had to give you up for the sake of honesty,” Stefan said. “And now I see that I can keep you. It is like being reborn.”

  Warren held him close and did some kissing of his own. “Maybe not reborn, but this, what we have, is a hell of a gift. Not one I’m going to throw away.”

  “A gift?” Stefan met his eyes. “Do you think some power brought us together, then? God?”

  “God, power, fate, I don’t really have a belief. But you’re here where I need you to be. That’s enough.”

  Stefan laid his head on Warren’s shoulder, arms loose around him. “I wish I was not so tired. I would make sure you never want to leave.” His breathing slowed. “This is good, though.”

  “Let me hold you,” Warren murmured, too low to be heard. He thought of everything this young man had gone through, when he’d been barely more than a boy, and his arms tightened protectively.

  Stefan must have had sharp hearing, because he said, “You can stay as long as you like. Lie down with me? You must be tired too.”