by Rob Rosen
“There were men before the war, but no one who knows me now.”
“How did you know about me?”
Stan stepped into the room, shoving the cleaning kit over so he could sit on the bed. “I wasn’t sure. I thought I saw you looking at my ass once. Mostly, I hoped, because you’re too damned good-looking to waste on women.” He leaned over and kissed Yakov, holding onto his head.
Yakov didn’t turn away this time. He let the kiss go on for a few seconds, then broke it off. “Get up.”
Stan stood up. At least Yakov hadn’t told him to get out.
Yakov stood as well. He put the rifle and cleaning kit under the bed, then pulled Stan’s coat off and threw it in the corner. He unbuttoned Stan’s shirt, raking his fingernails through blond chest hair, making Stan shiver. When he bent his head to suck on a nipple, one arm tightening around Stan’s waist, Stan audibly exhaled.
The shirt hit the floor, then the belt and trousers, until Stan stood naked in the middle of the small, age-beaten room. Yakov walked around him, looking, not speaking. Stan bit his lip to keep from making a smart comment that would get him kicked out.
On his second time around, Yakov came up behind Stan and just stood there, breathing against the back of his neck. Stan shivered again. When Yakov licked him, Stan pushed his bare ass back against the rough cloth of Yakov’s trousers, reaching backward for Yakov’s hands. But Yakov pulled his hands free, moving up Stan’s chest, scraping his fingernails through the hair again before rubbing over hard nipples.
Stan moaned and writhed, trying to turn into Yakov’s arms to face him, but Yakov held onto him even more tightly.
“No.” And then he let go and stepped away.
“No, wait!” Stan turned around, ready to beg.
Yakov was unbuttoning his shirt. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” He threw his shirt on the bed and unzipped his trousers. “Unless you’re not interested.”
Stan slapped his hands onto the wall so hard his palms stung. There was a soft thump as trousers landed on the bed, then Yakov’s arms were back around him again, his chest warm against Stan’s back, his cock hot and rigid, rubbing between Stan’s asscheeks. “Oh god,” Stan moaned. He shifted his hips back, but didn’t spread his legs. Did Yakov have anything: lotion, oil, petroleum jelly?
Yakov turned away and Stan heard him spit. Damn, this was going to hurt—but Yakov didn’t try to penetrate him. Instead, he slipped his cock between Stan’s legs, then nudged Stan’s feet closer together.
Yakov’s cock slid back and forth across that sensitive patch of skin, nudging Stan’s balls with every forward thrust. Stan’s hands curled into fists against the wall and he tilted his hips for a better angle. When he grabbed his own cock and started stroking, Yakov pulled his hand away. “Keep them on the wall,” he muttered.
Stan whined a little, but did as he was told. Yakov would take care of him. He hoped.
Every few thrusts, Yakov stopped to wipe the leaking head of his cock over the area he was probing. Then he started all over again. Soon the spot was slick enough that he didn’t need to stop. He held on to Stan’s hips and rocked against him.
Stan pushed back against the heat of Yakov’s crotch, grinding against the wiry hair there. He could wait for Yakov to take pity on his state and jerk him off; he wasn’t going to beg this time—okay, yes, he was. “Yakov,” he said, but before he could say “please,” Yakov shoved two fingers into Stan’s mouth. There was that gun oil smell again, and taste, too. Stan’s hips jerked as his cock got even harder. He moaned around the fingers as he sucked on them, then whined when Yakov finally—thank god!—moved his other hand from Stan’s hip to his cock.
Yakov didn’t move that hand; he let Stan push into it, then pull back, his thighs still tight around Yakov’s prick, pushing forward again and again, until Stan was dizzy with sensation. When Stan fell against the wall, panting, so close to the end, Yakov took over. The fingers in Stan’s mouth and the hand on his cock moved together, the prick still rubbing beneath his balls, going faster and faster until he heard the grunt, an explosion of breath on his shoulder, then warm wetness spreading between his thighs. He barely kept from biting the fingers in his mouth when he climaxed, finally sagging against the wall. He reached back until he got a hand on Yakov’s waist, pulling him tight against his body.
They stood like that for a few minutes until Yakov pulled away—always pulling away. But then he was back with a cold, wet cloth that he tossed to Stan. Stan shivered as he wiped off his stomach and cock, thighs and ass. Yakov rinsed out the cloth in a bowl of water and did his own quick cleanup before getting dressed. “It’s late.” He put the rifle back together as Stan found his shirt and trousers and also got dressed.
“I thought…” Stan looked at the bed. “But it’s really too small. For two, I mean.”
“We’ll fit. You’d better not snore.” Yakov loaded the rifle and a pistol he took from his coat pocket and set them on the floor within easy reach. “You’ll have to sleep next to the wall.”
“I can do that,” Stan told him.
The next morning, Stan yawned and stretched, then looked over at Yakov. “What will you do after the war?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Are you wealthy, with no need to work?”
“No.”
“Then you must have some plans. You’re only, what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”
Yakov looked up. “I’m twenty.”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought you were older. Than me, I mean.” Yakov scoffed.
“But that just means that you have even more years after this is over.”
“It’s not going to be over. Not for me.”
“But you’re holding them off. You can keep doing that—”
“For another few weeks, maybe a month. At some point, we’ll run out of ammo or food, then they’ll drive us out and put us on the trains. The best I can hope for is a bullet in my head.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He rested his chin in the space between Yakov’s shoulder and neck. “Some people have gotten out.”
“They got out of the ghetto. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”
“But it’s possible.”
“I suppose.”
“So then, what will you do when this is all over?”
Yakov just shook his head. “You tell me. What will you do? Go back to your cows?”
Stan smiled. “It was a good life. Up with the sun, take care of chores, then a huge breakfast. And in the afternoon, a roll in the hay with the stable hand.”
Yakov turned his head to look at him. “Have you ever had any shame?”
“None at all.”
“God, I hate it when you make jokes.”
“Why? What’s wrong with a little humor to bring some light into the darkness? Channa told me that’s what you Jews do.”
“You’re not a Jew. And when did you start chatting with Channa?”
“When she and Ruthie were repairing my uniform. That granddaughter of hers is a whiz with a needle and thread. They enjoy my little jokes. But every time I do it, you look like I just read out an obituary.”
“Maybe I don’t find your little jokes funny.”
Stan just looked at him, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll figure you out one of these days.”
May 14, 1943
“You’re good for him,” Channa said. “He’s not as bitter as he was.”
“Good god,” Stan said, sputtering and blinking for effect, making Ruthie laugh. “What on earth was he like before?”
Channa laughed and shook her head. “Ruthie, go fetch some more water.”
Ruthie hopped off the stool and left the room. Channa’s expression sobered. “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I know you’re not spending all your time discussing battle plans.”
Stan forced himself to look at her, even though hi
s face was burning up.
She went on. “I don’t understand it. I didn’t know men could court each other. But I’m glad you are. You make him happy, and I hope he makes you happy, too.”
“He does.”
“Then I know you have God’s blessing. I pray he keeps you both safe.”
May 16, 1943
“You come in and out through the sewers.”
“Yes.”
Yakov tapped his fingers on the windowsill as he looked down into a courtyard, where Ruthie was playing hopscotch with some of the other children.
Stan sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. But if I tried to take the children out, we wouldn’t get twenty feet past the walls. There are no children left in this part of the city, just the ones in this ghetto. The Germans would know where they came from and they’d take them. The only reason I can get to and from the entrance is the uniform and the forged papers.” He moved in front of Yakov, forcing his way into Yakov’s line of sight. “If I could get them out, I would. You know that.”
“I know.” Yakov looked at him. “I know. But I want to see for myself.”
“All right.”
But before they got halfway down the alleyway, Yakov stopped. “Do you smell that?”
Stan sniffed at the air, then looked up. “Oh no.”
A plume of smoke billowed up, curling into the sky over the ghetto.
They turned and ran back toward the shouting, toward the smoke, but Channa stopped them at the entrance to Yakov’s building.
“Oh, thank God you’re here. I came to find you to tell you not to come back. They’re burning everything, driving the people out. It’s over.”
Yakov swore. “Then I’ll take out as many as I can—”
“They’ll shoot you on sight. If they see a man like you— young, angry—they’ll know you’re one of the fighters and they’ll kill you on the spot. So you have to get out. Stan, take him with you to the Polish resistance.”
“But you and Ruthie, Sollie…”
“They have Ruthie already, and Sollie’s dead. He took a grenade. The soldiers surrounded him when he wouldn’t raise his hands, then he—” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. Stan swore softly and crossed himself. “He took three Germans with him.”
“God almighty.” Yakov’s voice cracked. “That kid was worth something after all.”
“There’s nothing more you can do here except die, so go. Now.”
“Channa…”
“Go on.”
“No! No, no, no, I’ve got guns, I can distract them while you take the kids out through the sewers or over the wall.” He looked up and down the alley, back and forth, his eyes wide, like he was seeing Germans coming around every corner. “I can buy you time. They’ll run, they always run, and then it’ll—”
She slapped him across the face hard enough to snap his head to the side. “Wake up, Yakov! It’s the end. We all know it. You need to go with Stan now. Leave this place.” She caught his face, stopping him from shaking his head no. “God has given both of you a multitude of gifts. Don’t waste them.”
“Come with us,” Stan said to Channa.
She shook her head. “I need to stay with Ruthie.” She put a hand on each of their heads, closed her eyes and said a few quiet, ancient words. Then she turned and walked toward the dingy hallway.
“Yakov.” Stan grasped Yakov’s arm. “Come on, we have to go.”
“Your memory will be for a blessing,” Yakov called after her. She turned and smiled at him, blew him a kiss, and then Stan was dragging him away.
Stan and Yakov climbed out of the sewer and ran. They ran away from the rumble of trucks and jeeps, from the shouts in German and from the sound of hundreds of pairs of worn shoes walking across rubble. Away from the sound of a train grating and shrieking its way into the rail yard.
They ran until they got to parts of the city where people still lived, peering out from behind their curtains. There they walked as if they had every right to be there. Then they ran again, or hid, waiting for danger to pass, until it was dark.
“Let’s rest here,” Stan said, when they found a house well back from the road. The walls were crumbling, but the roof still covered part of one room. “Tomorrow, I’ll go find Tomasz and the others. They’ll be glad to have your skills, but I should tell them about you first, before you risk going back into town. I’ll see if I can get you some other clothes, because—” He spun around when he heard a high-pitched keening wail, then dropped to his knees next to its source.
Yakov squatted in the rubble of the house, slamming his fists against his head, all the time letting out that ungodly noise. Stan tried to catch his wrists, but Yakov continued to hit himself, pulling at his hair, his mouth open, his face twisted. Every sound out of Yakov’s mouth cut into Stan’s heart, but he gave up on stopping Yakov from hitting himself and just wrapped his arms around him instead, holding on as tightly as he could. If there were patrols along that road, they would be found in minutes, but he didn’t try to quiet Yakov.
Yakov’s wails became sobs, shaking his entire body, making his shoulders jerk and his chest heave. He gasped for breath between each sob, his hands gripping Stan’s back. “They’re dead, they’re all dead. I didn’t do anything, didn’t stop it…”
“You did everything you could.”
“It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.”
Stan waited until the sobs became less frequent, until Yakov’s breathing became more even. Then he cleared a spot amidst the rubble, lowered Yakov to the floor and lay down behind him, wrapping his arms around him again. After Yakov fell asleep, so did Stan.
“So you have a heart after all.” Stan ran the pad of his finger over one thick, dark eyebrow, now just visible in the light of dawn.
Yakov sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could tear it out.”
“I’m glad you can’t.” He sat up as well and touched Yakov’s chest, fingertips brushing over the strong heartbeat. Then he stood up. “I’m going to find Tomasz. If everything goes well, I should be back in a few hours, so wait here.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No!” Yakov scrambled to his feet. “I’ll go with you. Or”— he silenced Stan’s objection with a look—”I’ll go off on my own if you think I’ll slow you down. Either way, I’m not going to rot in this ruin waiting for you to come back, when you might not.”
Stan gaped at him. “I’m not going to abandon you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Ah.” Stan nodded. “You have no faith in my ability to survive.”
“No one is lucky all the time.”
“No, but I do better than most.” He smiled and put a hand on Yakov’s cheek. Yakov didn’t pull away. “And now that you’re with me, you’ll have the same luck.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. We’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I feel it.” Stan leaned in, resting his forehead against Yakov’s. “I can’t believe the fates would let us meet only to separate us.”
“Don’t.” Yakov took a step back, out of Stan’s reach.
“But—”
“I shouldn’t have started up with you at all. It’s…you’re…” He made a disgusted sound. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, gesturing between the two of them.
Stan raised his eyebrows. “Where did this moral objection suddenly come from?”
“It’s not a moral objection.” Yakov shook his head. “This… business is a distraction we can’t afford.”
“It’s not a distraction.” Stan took his hand. “It’s a bit of happiness in the middle of a goddamned war. We should be grabbing on to it with both hands.”
“Even if it’s going to end badly, sooner rather than later?”
“Especially if. But it won’t. I told you, we’ll be okay.” He laughed at Yakov’s sour, disbelieving expression. “We will. With my brains and your goo
d looks, there’s nothing we can’t do.”
Yakov rolled his eyes and shook his head again, but he followed Stan out of the house, toward the rising sun.
Upstate New York
June 14, 1962
“Wake up, Yakov, wake up!” Stan shook Yakov gently, then harder, until Yakov woke up with a start.
“What—”
“You were having a nightmare.”
Yakov sat up and let out a breath. “Dammit.”
Stan rubbed Yakov’s back until he felt his heart rate slow down. “Go back to sleep. We’ve got cows to milk in four hours.”
“And a trip into the city after that. Why did you agree to the party?”
“Because Ruthie asked. She threw one for my fortieth birthday; you can’t escape the same fate.”
“My birthday was six months ago.”
“And that’s when she would have had it if she hadn’t just had Channi. Why did you offer to take the boys for the whole summer?”
“Because I had a moment of temporary insanity.”
Stan curled around Yakov’s back, pressing his face into Yakov’s hip. “No, because you wanted to give Ruthie and Alan a break. And because you like having those kids around. So do I.”
“It’s going to be all yelling and feet pounding, dirt and messes and fighting—”
“And you’ll love every minute of it.” He tugged down the waistband of Yakov’s pajama bottoms and sucked on his hip. “You know, this is the last night we won’t have to be quiet for the next couple of months.”
Yakov pushed his fingers into Stan’s hair, rubbing his scalp. “I won’t be able to get back to sleep now anyway.” He pulled off his pajamas and threw them onto the nightstand, while Stan did the same. Then Yakov pressed Stan down on the bed and lay on top of him, Stan’s few extra pounds providing the padding for Yakov’s still-lean frame. They shared a long kiss, their tongues mapping mouths they’d known for twenty years. No more furtive groping when they had a few minutes away from their fellow resistance fighters, no more of the necessary celibacy of the refugee centers after the war. In their own home, their own bed, they could take their time: a slow, smooth slide of skin against skin, tongue against tongue, hands clasping, releasing, holding tight; Stan’s gasp when Yakov took him in his mouth; his cry when Yakov drained him.
