Manstein leaned toward Julie and breathed into her ear. “Darling. Can you tell me why you and your sad-looking fake husband over there are lying to my soldiers and wandering around the countryside?” His lips were just inches from Julie’s ear. Julie began to shudder. “What are you up to?”
Julie didn’t speak. Peter thought fleetingly that perhaps she was too frightened, that she was overcome with fear.
Manstein brought a finger up toward Julie’s face and wiped a small tear away from her cheek. “Fear is nothing, my darling. Nothing compared to what’s about to befall you.” He spun toward Peter then. A grin formed across his face, bringing great, white, wolf-like teeth into view.
“And you, my strong soldier. Do you want to relinquish the truth?” Manstein appeared to be orchestrating them almost like pawns, like puppets. He could do whatever he wanted to them; he could say whatever he wanted. They were at his mercy.
Manstein stood directly in front of Peter, then. “What are you doing here, sir? What are your real names? What is your mission?”
Peter shook his head back and forth, looking directly at the man in front of him. Manstein brought his long palm up toward Peter’s face and smacked him lightly, playfully on the cheek. Peter felt fear sizzle down his spine. He knew what was coming next.
“You like that, don’t you?” Manstein said. He cleared his throat. “Let me do it again. I rather like it, too.” He brought his hand back and slapped it hard across Peter’s cheek, across his mouth. Peter tasted blood once more. He blinked wearily up at Manstein, seeing stars swirl around his head.
Julie had started to scream quietly, as if she couldn’t allow anything else to exit her throat. As if she couldn’t get enough air. Manstein seemed to adore the sound. He brought his hand back once more and slammed it into Peter’s face. This time, Peter felt something crack deep inside his mouth. A tooth had come unlodged, and he felt blood begin to course down his tongue, into his throat. He started spitting it up.
“So. I take it you aren’t going to talk, no?” Manstein said. He rubbed his fingers together, considering his options.
Peter swallowed the metallic taste of blood, longing to rip this man to shreds. He couldn’t allow him to know about the mission; he couldn’t allow any information to get out. If he and Julie were going to die here, they would die with the details of the mission still locked in their minds. Nothing would ever be known.
Manstein clapped his hands ominously. The sound ricocheted from side to side in the great room. The soldier who had left a short while ago pulled the door open quickly and peered into the room, a look of fear on his face.
“I think we’ll move into the second phase of the interrogation,” Manstein murmured, bringing his eyes slowly from Peter’s bleeding face to Julie’s pale, squinched one.
“Right away, sir,” the man said. He turned back toward the hallway, and Manstein grinned at the two Americans in front of him, bringing his bright blue eyes from one to the other. He eyed them like they were his dinner: fresh meat.
Peter’s heart was ricocheting in his chest. He began to hear a subtle screeching down the hallway. He swallowed as the screeching came closer and closer, like a crescendo. He felt a tang—the blood—rise in his mouth. Julie, next to him, had a dribble of sweat coursing down her nose. She couldn’t stop shaking.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, soldier,” Manstein said. The door opened to reveal the soldier, pushing a screeching contraption. A large, very old mattress sat on a cart with wheels that spun haphazardly, taking the cart forward slowly, hesitantly. The cart seemed like it would collapse at any moment.
The mattress’s springs pushed high into the air, their points gleaming. Peter’s head spun. He tried to lurch in the chair, to speak. But the cart crept closer and closer to him and Julie. He knew it was time.
“Now. I understand, of course, that I won’t be getting any information out of the two of you. Where you came from, what your mission is. What you were up to back in that small French town. Ah, what a beautiful village, no?” Manstein brought his arms forward and cracked his knuckles. He bent his head this way, then that. Peter could hear his vertebrae popping. “And so. We’ll move on. I think—Peter first.” He smiled at Peter, showing his great teeth.
The other soldier came forward, past Julie. He grabbed Peter’s wrists and unclasped him from the strain of the shackles. He spoke in German, spitting out insults to Peter. Peter’s head hung low. He could see Julie, see her eyelids close over those beautiful hazel eyes. He wanted to hold her; he wanted to tell her they’d be all right.
The solider led him forward forcefully and tossed him onto the mattress. Peter could feel the cart nearly collapse beneath his weight. He could feel the small spokes of the mattress springs dig into his shirt and poke his skin. He closed his eyes, arching his back against the pain.
“Ah, yes. Not so easy to take, is it?” Manstein asked him. He chuckled.
Peter’s mind raced. He thought he could handle this; it was just the coils of an old mattress digging into his skin. He wouldn’t tell them anything. He could take it.
“But, of course, we’ll have to increase the pain. Just a bit, no?” Manstein said. He gestured toward the soldier once more. The soldier brought forth an elaborate contraption, one that plugged into an electric socket. Peter watched as he snapped the electric cord to the wires of the mattress. He started laughing, realizing what was about to happen. It would all be over soon, he thought. He would die.
Manstein held the switch in his hand, peering down at the laughing Peter. He clucked his tongue. “Peter, Peter. Now. Before I do this. Before I—” He giggled for a moment. “Before I electrocute you. Is there anything you want to answer for? Do you want to tell me what you and this lovely woman were doing in France, on my watch?”
Peter peered up at this German man, at his shining blond hair. He bared his teeth like a dog. “I won’t tell you anything,” he snarled. “Electrocute me as much as you want.”
“Suit yourself,” the German man said. He flipped the switch back and widened his eyes, peering down at Peter.
Peter felt his spine jolt with electricity. He tried to remember all he’d learned about electric units in school; he tried to remember how the flow worked. He tried to focus. But the pain seemed to numb his skull, his brain. He almost didn’t realize that he was screaming.
Finally, the electricity stopped. Peter was still shaking. He felt blood oozing out of his tongue once more, where he’d bitten it. He blinked up at Manstein. He wanted to speak, to say something, anything. But he couldn’t find the words.
“How did that feel?” Manstein asked him. His eyebrows were wagging. “Are you ready for another round?”
Peter didn’t think he’d live through another round. He felt like he could feel the earth spinning beneath him. He stretched his arm to the right, toward Julie, and tried to make eye contact with her. But her eyes were closed; her head hung low over her chest. When he died, would they electrocute her, too?
“Let’s try again,” Manstein said authoritatively. He grabbed the switch and flicked it once more, allowing the electricity to jolt through Peter’s body.
Peter felt like his stomach was on fire. He felt laughter bubbling from his gut and he closed his eyes, remembering the day his son was born. How joyful they’d been, he and Minnie. He’d always wondered what that sort of was like, the pain of labor. Minnie had said she’d felt close to death, during those tense moments. And then, it had all been over. She’d been holding Brett in her arms.
In that moment, suddenly, Manstein had flipped the switch back. He raised his eyebrow to the sky, assessing the situation. Then he stomped toward the soldier and spoke harsh words to him, gesturing toward Julie. The soldier nodded curtly and turned toward Julie, then pulled her up from her slumped-over position in the small chair.
Peter watched as they took her away. Where were they taking her? His heart jolted in his chest. He couldn’t live without her. He couldn’t. “Julie!” he screamed. B
ut she was gone. He could hear her feet dragging down the dirt hallway as the soldier pulled her along. “What are you going to do to her?” he howled at Manstein. “WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?”
He was no longer worried about himself. He could die; anything could happen. But he couldn’t allow anything to happen to Julie. Was she strong enough to endure this?
Manstein lumbered forward. “I don’t have time for this,” he blurted. He spat on the ground, and with that, his sweetness was gone. Then he disappeared down the hallway.
Peter scrambled up from the mattress, feeling the blood drip down his back from where the mattress had punctured his skin. He felt tears form, hot, in his eyes. From somewhere down the hall, in a sort of dreamy haze, he heard the screams: Julie’s screams. They were different from anything he’d ever heard, so animalistic. They represented real, incoherent pain. He began to shake with anger. He started pounding at the wall of the cell, feeling bruises begin to form on his hand. “AHHHHH.” His howls joined with hers in a strange, disconcerting duet. “AHHH. STOP TORTURING HER! TAKE ME! TAKE ME!”
The locked door burst open behind him once more. The younger soldier from earlier grabbed him by the neck and pushed him against the wall, choking him until his screaming subsided. “STOP.” The single syllable was harsh, jagged.
As the oxygen left Peter’s lungs, darkness formed over his eyes. The pain flew away; the howling from down the hall halted. He felt himself collapse onto the floor.
And that was all.
CHAPTER 8
Peter awoke without any comprehension of the time, the day. It seemed he could have been sleeping for an eternity. What year was it? He blinked, eyeing the room around him. He’d been taken to a different cell, he knew that much. This cell was smaller, with a single cot leaning against the wall. He shivered, standing up from the flat mattress. He could feel dried blood caked on his back from the torture, and remembered the terror he’d experienced. He remembered pounding on the stone wall as Julie screamed down the hall. He wondered if they’d killed her. He wondered if he’d ever know.
He paced the room, maintaining a route, back and forth from wall to wall. If Julie was really gone—and he had no reason to think that she was still around, after all—then he felt no devotion to the mission any longer. Everything was off kilter. He didn’t give a fuck about going to Oradour-sur-Glane and carrying out Applegate’s mission. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and take it all back.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps down the hall. Someone was coming. He leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He wanted to look angry, to look tough. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
The soldier on the other side of the door was a bit scrawny. His blond hair and his small blue eyes created a portrait of the perfect Arian baby. The soldier nodded curtly at Peter as he placed a small plate down on the ground. Peter made no motion toward him as he shut the door, returning him to darkness.
Peter walked toward the meager piece of bread, the small cup of water. He felt an emptiness in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten in something like two days by that point, he calculated. He wanted to eat, but he didn’t want to give his captors the satisfaction. If he died in captivity, they wouldn’t be able to get any information out of him. If he died, he was safe.
Just then, however, he heard another door open, then close—the sound of the soldier entering the cell next to his, it seemed, and tapping a plate on the ground. Peter’s ears perked up, trying to hear who was on the other side of the wall through the chinks between the stones. Another prisoner? He tried not to get his hopes up. The soldier left, then, and Peter didn’t hear another sound from the adjacent room. He pictured the two of them—this mysterious captive and him, standing far back against the wall, staring at the only piece of food that would allow them to live on in this terrible hellhole.
Finally, Peter heard the person take a single small step forward. Peter matched this step, as well. He listened closely for a minute before he heard the person taking one more step. He followed. He felt his blood pressure rise. He could nearly feel the weight of the person behind the dark stone wall.
Unable to handle his curiosity, he leaned toward the wall and scratched at it with his fingernail. A bit of dirt collected beneath it, creating a muddy half-moon. “Hey,” he whispered. “Is anyone there?”
Peter waited. He listened as the person crept forward. He held his breath, hoping. Hoping.
Finally, he heard the words. “Peter. Is that you?”
Julie.
His heart leapt into his throat. How had she survived? He couldn’t find the right words. “Did they torture you? Are you all right?” He bit his lip, feeling dizzy.
“I’m all right, Peter. Peter … I thought surely you were dead. Your face. It was so pale. It was like all the life went out of you.”
“I’m all right, Julie. I’m all right.” He longed to hold her, to tell her they were going to escape these Nazi brutes. They were going to get out of here. He longed to hold her hand and walk along the Bay. He longed to tell her everything about his life, about every feeling he’d ever had. He held his tongue. “What did they do to you?”
“It doesn’t matter. What do you think went wrong? Why do you think they captured us? Did they see the car? Did they know we stole it?”
“I guess that could be it. I did think of that,” Peter murmured. He was very wary of saying too much. He tried to listen for any footfalls outside the room. He thought they were alone. “I’m so sorry for getting you into this mess, for stealing the car. I wouldn’t have done this if I knew—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No. Listen. I think—I think I felt like I was outside of time. Like I was free from the repercussions of what we’re doing. I’m so sorry.”
Julie was quiet. Peter knew it didn’t matter that he’d apologized; nothing mattered. They were stuck, then. A great stone wall separated them, and their whispers were muffled, like they were whispering through time.
“It still doesn’t make sense. I don’t think the car is why we were captured, Peter,” Julie murmured. “I think they know something. What tipped the Vichy and the Germans off? They know that we’re up to something. That’s why they tortured us.”
Peter swallowed slowly, feeling the swelling bite marks on his tongue. He wondered what state Julie was in; he didn’t want to imagine it. In his head, she was still ripe and beautiful, the woman he’d met all those months before.
Julie went on. “I think they know something, yes. Do you think Mandrake told them something? Would he put our lives in danger like this?”
Peter thought about how Mandrake had met them at every phase of their journey thus far. He realized that Mandrake probably knew where they were at that moment. “I don’t know what he would gain. He wants us to finish the mission, remember?”
“Still. We can’t trust anyone except each other,” Julie whispered.
“I know. I know,” Peter said. He slammed his hand against the wall, desperate to eliminate the barrier between them. He longed to see her face, to make sure she was okay.
“Who else could it have been?” Julie said, trying to calm him down.
“Maybe it was just our demeanor, Julie. Maybe I was just too American,” Peter whispered, leaning his head against the cool rock. His hand throbbed.
“I don’t think so, Peter,” Julie said, laughing with nervous energy. “You were wonderful.”
Peter knew she was lying to make him feel better. He knew that his French had been dismal, that no matter how hard he’d tried (which wasn’t so hard, really), he’d never really captured the appropriate French inflections. He sighed. “Well. Remember how we lost track of that couple in New York?”
“Right. Their bags were packed, like they were waiting for us,” Julie said.
“Yeah. It was almost too convenient, like they knew we were watching them. I’m sure they set up a trap for us, to grab their passports.” Peter nodded, trying to buy in
to it. He needed a reason to rely on; he needed a purpose for all the torture, for all the pain he’d experienced.
“It was a trap, after all,” Julie said.
“Are you going to eat this bread?” Peter asked her. He gestured toward his own sad-looking piece of bread, the small glass of water, though he knew she couldn’t see the movement.
“It’s our only sustenance, Peter. We have to stay alive as long as we can. If we can escape—if we can continue with the mission—”
“Fuck the mission, Julie,” Peter said earnestly. “I just want to get out of here. And then I want to go back. I want to take it all back.”
“It’s not an option, Peter. And you know that.”
Peter swallowed. He thought back to their first date, all those weeks before and all those years in the future, when he and Julie had sat together at the French restaurant, eating more than just a chunk of bread. He picked up the small piece and sniffed it. The smell of yeast filled his nose. “You’ll eat with me?” he asked her.
She chuckled on the other side of the wall. “It’s a date, Peter.”
“You aren’t alone, Julie.”
“I know.”
CHAPTER 9
Peter and Julie ate the piece of bread over the course of the following two days. The second piece they received was so moldy, they thought it would be far too detrimental to their stomachs to eat.
Peter sat on his bed and whispered stories to Julie to keep her mind off her hunger. He told her about helping Tori learn to ride her bicycle—all the scabs, all the Band-Aids. She spoke about her best friend growing up, a young girl she’d lost touch with. The scrapes they’d gotten into. They talked about their favorite records, about music that would never reach the ears of the people of this decade, of this century. They laughed through the hunger that gnawed at their stomachs.
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