The Sleeping Iron-Tiger [Victoire]

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

Location:[/b] Paris, France.
Time:[/b] 2033hrs (8:33pm)
Weather:[/b] Cold & Breezy, rain clouds on the dark horizon.

Paris! The streets were decadent with life once again, as the Nazis’ foothold in France had tightened with an iron grip. Swastika banners were draped from building to building, with the occasional Wehrmacht soldier patrolling the sidewalk and the frequent Einsatzgruppen roadblock, where papers and heavy duty vehicles were given the once over. Yes, Paris was seemingly looking more and more like Berlin or Munich, the only real differential difference being the smell? It was an odd observation to pick out, never mind the fact the language, people and food were completely different; entire cultural difference. No, Sturmbannführer Wolfram noted how the smell was unique between the two cities; France seemed to have an heir of alcohol, whereas Berlin had an heir of smoke - dirt? It was a subtle difference and an uncanny comparison to make, but nonetheless, it was something the Sturmbannführer couldn’t help but pick up on every time.

The Abwehr had provided Sturmbannführer Wolfram with significant intelligence on partisan activity operating within France. This wasn’t in regard to the French-Freedom-Fights, the French Resistance, but Slavic triarchs and possible British SOE agents helping these Eastern European bastards. The Sturmbannführer couldn’t imagine why the Slavs were operating in France, but he figured the British SOE were helping them pass off as Germans, therefore gaining valued intelligence. It was known that the British SOE operated throughout France predominately and the Slavic scum made good pass-off look-a-likes for your average German male; perhaps not Aryan decent mind you. It was word that the British SOE were using these Slavic imbeciles to infiltrate German lines, recruiting additional agents per say. Slavic ones.

The Abwehr’s report had detailed a key target to interrogate, Victoire Beaudoin. To cut the story short, summarising the five page report on the female, she had opened her mouth once too many times and with ears to each and every wall of Paris, it wasn’t long until she was overheard. It was ironic on how many agencies her report had passed through before it landed on Wolfram’s desk; Gestapo, Abwehr and even the Sûreté Nationale for criminal records on the French woman. All proved to be conclusive at the end however and a brief on who she was seemed to be the only information provided; that and the fact she was most presumably in conjunction with Slavic partisans operating in Paris. If so, she had a lot of information both the Sturmbannführer and Gestapo would adore to get their mittens on.

Usually Nazi agents on the field would have acquired these orders, the orders to interrogate stealthily if necessary, as to not attract attention or suspicion amongst the people. Luckily for the Sturmbannführer, he got the assignment and the French-Nazi agents who had accumulated information on Victoire for the Abwehr had spent an entire week’s surveillance on her; she must have been important for such resource and time to be spent watching her. Usually surveillances on small breaks were only a day or two max, before an initial plan would be executed. It had taken far longer with this female and Sturmbannführer Wolfram deviously grinned to himself, finally feeling as if he were one step closer to tracing down the partisan organisation that had murdered his son during the Munich Riots.

Sat silently in the living room, engulfed by darkness and facing the main doorway, Sturmbannführer Wolfram drew an ivory cigarette holder to his lips and fitted a stick of tobacco into the holder. With a flint of light to his zippo lighter, the Sturmbannführer rolled the flame across the end of his cigarette; a mean scouring look stamped across his face, as his features glowed in the dim orange flame light, sucking against the ivory pipe holding his cigarette to ignite the tobacco, before extinguishing the flame with a bellowing exhale of smoke. Sliding the zippo lighter back into his chest pocket, the Sturmbannführer crossed his legs and sat back comfortably in the armchair, the faint dim glow of his cigarette dwindling in the corner of the dark room.

Flicking his ash carelessly onto the floor, he recited on how he gained entry to the small apartment in Monmartre; it was too risky to use the entrance and alarm any undercover partisan sympathisers on who he was looking for or even where he was going. No, he was undercover on this rare assignment and careful. He wore a casual set of clothing; loose white shirt, trousers & trouser straps, laced shoes and even a flat-cap to conceal his golden blonde hair. To conceal his scar and red tainted iris, he even wore a thin steel rimmed pair of shades, which ironically looked more conspicuous than otherwise, being nightfall and the likes. With a leather pair of gloved hands, he easily gained access through a lower window at the back of the building downstairs, surpassing the reception unnoticed and sneakily. Sturmbannführer Wolfram had the woman’s address written on a piece of paper and even memorized it, it barely took two minutes until he stumbled across her apartment number on an upper floor.

Using his boot knife, he was able to latch the tip of his blade between the gap of the door and pry back the main lock too easily. Unlocking the ‘chain-bolt’ from the inside proved a little more difficult however, but the Sturmbannführer made quick work of breaking the chain’s screw-in with a firm muffled shove on the door, that was again uncannily accompanied with a loud cough. Once inside, he fixed the chain-latch back onto the wall as to not alarm his suspect when entering, before checking the apartment out with a quick sweep of room to room. He even had time for a drink in between, going through her unopened post on the inside doormat.

Now the waiting game was on and the Sturmbannführer sat idly quiet in the corner of the room, looking like a possessed husband waiting for his wife or daughter to return home, smoking a cigarette, dressed loosely in casual wear as if he’d been waiting up all night. He would have loved to have worn his uniform for this occasion, but the risks of being noticed entering the building, let alone the apartment, would have been far too high and the least he needed was someone tipping the young woman off to his presence.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

In the nightmare of the dark, all the dogs of Europe bark.

A pair of black, high heels clicked against the gravel pavement of the cold, dark Parisian secret passageways (of which the Germans knew not yet to pervade, not in the open, shameless and free way they had decided to pervade her country) with almost rhythmic delight as the young woman made her way quickly towards the garret she lodged in Montmartre – as though she was too eager to meet her demise. The raindrops travelling across the length of the dead leaves fallen on the ground and unto the roads, wetting the already slippery pavement, fairly demonstrated it had been previously drizzling, the grim clouds scudding across the darkened firmament and presently hovering above her with an ominous stare only served to aggravate the surrounding grim atmosphere that bitter autumn’s evening.

She was outdoors past her curfew, and while it had been made painfully unambiguous that any civilian caught out of the strict curfew of 6 p.m. without Ausweis would be treated accordingly (and they would not be exactly served Apfelstrudels, now, would they?), she still ignored this rule in a most ignorant and perhaps childish of ways, placing her life in jeopardy in the not strange occasion she would have been arrested on that account; she often did so, and the reason for such complete and scornful disregard to this rule was her fierce but also proud spirit refusing to obey the bird of prey’s commands, those ridiculous orders, as though they owned France. She had been humiliated upon her country being invaded by the German forces and now had to withstand such personal restriction imposed from a third party? Of course, Victoire was such a reckless creature, as she knew the dangers of her actions, and often even wished she were arrested for the purposes of being of importance. Having once belonged to the famous elite circles of good French society, she had lost her family, lost her self-importance, self-assurance, and rendered a poor civilian just like all the others, eating from a roll of bread which had been saved the past few weeks, some old potatoes and, if she were lucky, marmalade. The times were naturally hard, but Victoire made them even harder for herself.

Be that as it were, she had avoided capture ever since the occupation of 1940, that is until the underground pub she had been working on was ambushed by the SS forces a fortnight ago – she recalled that night with rage, bitterness and a desire for revenge. How she had survived through the attack was not so much of a miracle for, firstly, she did not believe in miracles and, secondly, she was certain the SS officer who had offered her a delightful piece of ‘Apfelstrudel’ had plans for her most certainly. His animalistic low grumble lingered in her mind, pierced the length of her very being and never parted with her throughout the day, this being a nuisance notwithstanding, for it was not within her power to dispel his voice or forget his actions. It was the way he had told her, “Go, go run to your home” that let her know he was not finished with her, and indeed he was not. Pulling the black trench coat around her tightly, she stopped walking and looked sideways; walking slowly towards the exit way of the narrow alley between the two buildings, whose windows and shutters were closed due to regulations, she peeked her head towards the main road, silent in its desertion, despite the fact German soldiers were patrolling them and were probably to be found a few metres in the distance.

She dared not put up an appearance in the main road, certainly, but turned backwards and sneaked inside an even more narrow pathway (that was less of a pathway and more of a hole) situated vertically on the alley she was presently walking across, the sound of her heels echoing around the brick walls, and almost caught her breath with a gasp, taken aback as a pack of stray dogs started barking somewhere wildly out of a sudden, soon followed by the sound of Germans laughing and speaking quickly in their language – placing her hand on her heart to calm her pulse from this brutal awakening of the street silence she had been accustomed to (and it was not so much fear but exhilaration that increased her heart rate), she smiled to herself bitterly, and then continued her way, her hands touching and supporting herself against the brick wall as she stared into the small opening that offered access to another road.

She knew it was the Rue Durantin that led to the Hôtel Bonséjour of Montmartre in which many Germans slept, a fact that only served to furiously remind her how prestigious buildings such as the Palais du Luxembourg, the Hôtel Meurice and Hôtel Lutetia had been taken over by the German military forces. The economic depression had unquestionably profound effects in the Parisian district she lived in at this point in her life, but the occupation of 1940 had not been the only event to cause blood spill in the streets; she remembered the 1937 Stavinsky Affair, a corruption scandal in the Radical Socialist government that had brought about blood-spattered riots in the Parisian streets by right-wing extremists, primarily royalists, and how distraught her father had been at that time. Now, however, her mind was resolutely fixed upon the task of getting safely to her home as she quickly removed her shoes and held them in her hands while she allowed the street shadows to embrace her as she crossed the main road, her bare feet scampering through the rough, gravel road in which no cars, no people, no shop lights were to be witnessed aside from the lamp posts, although she managed to stay distant to them.

She finally arrived in the Rue Ravignan undetected, and from then on reached her apartment in Rue de la Vieuville, not far from the Place de Abbesses, in which she often liked to resort to whenever she wanted to clear her mind away from the stress of her situation – which was rather often, truth be told. The building was grey and she noticed all of the windows shut as she sneakily entered from the back door, traipsed up the wooden ladder and soon found herself within the building, making her way towards her door, smiling to herself for yet another successful time of avoiding capture; and, certainly, she had a feeling that, given her elite background and considerable beauty, no German soldier would shoot her coldly on the spot but rather take her to a private office for a thorough interrogation – it would conclusively not be a pleasant experience, but she would be at a better end rather than those impoverished, poor-looking beggars and ruffians found themselves in. Shuffling with her bare feet across the narrow hallway, she unbuttoned her trench coat slowly and thought of how she had finished earlier at the underground pub tonight, considering the show usually lasted until early midnight; the owner would provide the partisans with a place to sleep in underground and at dawn they would return to their normal lives upstairs. She grabbed the keys from her pocket and unlocked the door, the coat and shoes on her hand.

The door creaked open, and everything went cold.

She realized something was wrong from the minute she stepped in, her eyes piercing through the darkness as she threw the coat on the chair by the door’s side and the black shoes on the floor in an equally careless manner. The smile wiping off her face on the spot, she remained calm as she stood against the door and used her weight to close it. There, by the window’s corner, embraced by the darkness of shadows and drinking with himself, stood what she believed was a carnivore, a bird of prey, a dangerous human being who threatened her own being and who resembled a serpent. She was not completely surprised – after the events with the SS she had only assumed it was a matter of time before something like this happened, but this subconscious knowledge had remained unexamined by her. She crossed her arms and remained in her position, her body curving backwards against the door, with the slightly above knee-length, coal-black dress embracing her feminine curves almost with religious care and journeying up her bodice to form a cleavage as would warrant her the classification of a dame rather than a courtesan, her by contrast milk-white skin glowing in the darkness and welcoming the curtain of raven, wavy long hair falling upon her shoulders like an oilfield, curvaceous lips painted a shade of deep scarlet as a pair of calculating and shrewd steel-gray, ice-blue eyes glinted amidst the pitch-blackness into the man’s loathsome appearance. She said nothing, for there was nothing to be said.

Her apartment was only a cold, poor garret but she had at least managed to somehow balance her present underprivileged condition by making use of old possessions she had from her previous life as an aristocrat, a bottle of Lafite, some lace material, fancy dresses and general garments, an expensive tablecloth from Switzerland and some china from Italy. A Cezanne painting was hanging from the wall, ironically above the man’s head, sat as he was upon a patched armchair, waiting for her. She stood there in silence for moments on end, staring at him openly, her mind racing but her body numb, and though her heart rate had increased distinguishably, on the outside she appeared perfectly calm, cold and collected. She watched him take a drag from his cigarette, the light giving a clue as to his imposing features, but then it was out again, and he once more vanished in the darkness. A mystery – a carnivorous mystery.

“Sollte ich geehrt werden?” she finally broke the silence in a slow, deep and careful tone, speaking in his language in a perfect Berlin accent, reasoned back to her grandmother hailing from the dictator’s land and Victoire having once been a lover of their culture – but not anymore. She knew she was dealing with a superior, it was apparent in his haughty exterior from his dim outline. She allowed the question to linger in the air, when she suddenly moved sideways and switched on the light from a small lamp on a small side table against the wall, the room only slightly illuminated by the dim orange light. Eventually revealed to her, he was as imposing and ominous as the darkness had told her about him. “Ich hoffe, dass Sie sich zu einem Obstkuchen halfen?” she asked him, and though her voice was perfectly cold and natural, a mocking touch was perceivable beneath the façade of forbearance.

Then she slowly moved towards the kitchen, and when she came back she was holding a glass of wine in her hands – returning in her previous position, that of a potential victim, against the door, she took a sip from her glass, placed it on the side table, and then lit a cigarette. Curving backwards once more, she took a deep drag as though to prepare herself for what she knew was to come, and stared at him overtly, softly blowing the fume, which dissolved into the room’s now thick atmosphere. These moments seemed to last forever, but it had indeed been only a few minutes. “Ich nehme das an, als von jedem dummen in jedem Film gezeigten Charakter geschehen würde, würde ein guter Moment sein, um zu fragen, warum Sie hier sind,” she spoke. “Aber ich nicht,” she assured him in a razor-sharp tone, her eyes piercing on his face, looking at him in a determinedly unblinking manner. “Ich weiß, warum Sie hier sind.”

And then, her free hand made its way on the rim of her dress, slowly raising the material up the curve of her leg, revealing the skin that was not a fortnight ago tortured from that SS brute, her hand pulling it upwards while her eyes stared not at him any longer but the Cezanne painting as she relived through that night, long and thin fingers clutching the black dress and raising it as high until she reached her thigh, where he could finally see the large wound across the skin, a sweet gift from the other SS carnivore whose name she did not know, but ached to discover. A deep red line covered most of the thigh ever since he had plunged the knife into her flesh, twisted it inside, and then trying to ‘cure’ it with burning alcohol that only served to deteriorate the stabbing. Then, she returned her stare back at him, cold and bitter, but also knowing of the purpose of his visit.

She wondered not how on earth he had managed to stealthily gain access within her apartment, it was not difficult even for less accomplished criminals – for that were Germans in her eyes at this point, criminals. She breathed evenly as she kept her dress pulled high, looking at him with resentment as though he had caused such inhuman behaviour which, in her view, he had. He was part of them, was he not? A superior, possibly, and one she knew was not going to care, but as rage engulfed her mind and seized her body, she wished to make very clear she was prepared for whatever interrogation he wished to complete, be it civilized or otherwise, and how she was not going to cower in fear like a weak little woman. “Ich weiß, dass mir die letzte Woche gefolgt worden ist. Ich konnte am deutschen Gestank um mich die ganze Zeit riechen,” she said, as a sardonic smile was etched across her lips. “Sie wollen Information über den französischen Widerstand,” she said sharply, her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows slightly furrowed, “und mich …” – her knuckles whitened from the pressure against the black cloth, a result from her growing rage – “… nicht …” – a hateful glare embraced her refined features – “… es Ihnen geben,” she finished the sentence, her teeth gritted, until she finally released the dress to its proper length, and carelessly walked back into the kitchen, smoking. “Jetzt … wie steht's mit diesem Obstkuchen?”


And the living nations wait, each sequestered in its hate.




♠ Translation ♠

Should I be honoured?

I hope you helped yourself to some pie?

I suppose this, as would happen from any stupid character shown in every movie, would be a good moment to ask why you are here. But I won’t. I know why you’re here.

I know I have been followed the past week. I could smell the German stench around me all the time.

You want information on the French resistance and I … won’t … give it to you.

Now … how about that pie?

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

The Sturmbannführer’s nimble and long pale fingers plucked against the plain handcrafted tobacco stick holder, envisaged with a simple pattern carved across the pipe’s main body; spiralling around the entire length of the ivory cigarette holder. Nostrils flared from the exuberance of bellowing smoke being exhaled in one long winded breath and dry smooth lips puckered up against the smooth surface of the ivory’s slipstream mouthpiece. The whole while, his eyes remained fixated on the doorway, an exuberance of adrenaline and apprehension building up inside of his body, his toes curling into a balls against the tight confines of his ice-leather laced shoes and an unquenchable thirst to scratch a theoretical itch of excitement engulfed his every sense and feeling. He was playing the waiting game with an inevitable outcome of confrontation; with such circumstances, he most certainly came prepared for the occasion, even if he had ironically and most uncannily forgotten his coat.

Time seemed to lapse slowly with an unmistakable feeling of being in a time-warp; silence was a rarity to the Sturmbannführer, as he would most frequently have a TFuG.k two way radio transmitter on standby inside of his office and a similar smaller model within his quarters. The operative exchange of words with another human being was always there, asides the use of his molten-black telephone even, but somehow, the silence and feeling of being disconnected from the world just felt bewildering to the man, the dastardly officer; if he wasn’t viable on wavelength communications, then the Sturmbannführer was most commonly acquainting himself with a top-set radio. Sender Gleiwitz radio station was a memorable station to the Sturmbannführer, particularly after the Gleiwitz incident. Most memorable for the fact it reminded Sturmbannführer Wolfram of his time in Poland, during the brass invasion of such a vast and empty country. It was such a place that he lost one faith and grew another. Smiling faintly to himself for a split second, he remembered…

Drawing a breath, his daunting eyes wandered around the room subtly. A soft humming emitting from inside of his throat, as he murmured the faint well known tune of Panzerlied beneath his smoke scorched breath; an intoxication of nicotine dulling his senses, as his faint murmuring - humming - seemed to fill the room with a thousand panzer crew soldiers’ patriotism. Muffled footsteps caused him to go quiet, eyes latched towards the doorway, his tailored ‘old navy’ white shirt crinkled with his apprehensive shuffle into the armchair; his free sparing hand, his only gloved hand, slithered underneath his half unbuttoned shirt and grasped the cold steel to his fearsome concealed Luger beneath his clothing. The Sturmbannführer’s brown flat cap with a big-bond pattern was slanted against the side of his skull, his steel rimmed shades were now hanging from his chest pocket on his loosely open shirt and his black trousers were slightly raised at the ankles from his crossed legs, openly revealing a small poignant boot blade strapped to his left leg. As soon as the significant sound of a key graced metal against the door’s lock, the Sturmbannführer’s gloved hand withdrew the devil’s tail from the tight bonding of his musk leather holster and casually rested the hilt to his pistol against the patched fabric of the chair’s arm. Barrel affixed on the doorway, a demeanour of casual, but deadly intentions alluded the conspicuous silhouette in the corner of the room. The faint glare from his cigarette, illuminating a orange glow, revealing a tight jaw line and perched lips.

The door opened, Victoire Beaudoin entered and the Sturmbannführer grimaced at her beauty. It was one errand to interrogate a being of mutual physicality, but a woman of beauty was a complete differential aspect. The Marquis looking man; dressed in an attire of clothing a Frenchman would wear, began to feel his eyes prosperously wander her outline uncontrollably. A sense of power and naughtiness flooded his bloodstream, as he be-known to her, watched her with a firm stare from the shadows, feeling his eyes travel about her body, padding footsteps into each crease of her clothing and curve of her lustrous body with his affirmative devilish stare. His finger rubbed against the cold rim trigger with a subtle arousal of authority surging his god like demeanour, simply anticipating her knowledge to his presence within her safe haven; the door closed, her body flexed with an reassured feeling of being home free. The Sturmbannführer knew it was past her curfew, that she was a devious minx for rebelling against the Nazi authority; his spectrum report of the week’s surveillance had inclined several curfew breaches within the week alone. A naughty girl she was.

Sucking on his ivory cigarette holder stick, he engulfed an illuminate orange glow about his tight and stern Aryan features; the bellow of smoke drifting wayward with a winded exhale. Notably, she refined to his presence and stiffened. Inclined to an unknown outcome, the Sturmbannführer slid his leather gloved thump against the Luger’s safety catch with a silent ease, the barrel protruding through the dark blanket of inconsolable darkness into her general direction for a clean shot to the torso. He was prepared for the venomous bite she may offer, knowing full well her actions from now on were a cause for concern and quite inevitably, he would choose his own wellbeing over hers. “Sollte ich geehrt werden?” she dryly insulted in a casual tone, moving to a nearby lamp to shed some light on who the perpetrator was; squinting at the lamp’s glow, having been sitting idly in the dark for over an hour or two, he fixated the length of his Luger barrel towards her every move, remaining deathly silent the whole while, with an a gratifying look of having caught the rabbit in the headlights for the briefest of moments; now her sarcastic witty banter ensued, her automotive defence mechanism kicking in.

Pinching the slender ivory pipe from off his lips with his un-wielding and un-gloved free hand, he continued to listen to her rather annoying banter and narcissist manner towards such an opposing threat and inclined man who could have snuffed her life right from out of her feet at any moment, flaunt on right by himself. She acted without cause, a devil’s game to play. After a mouthful of sarcastic abuse, she even felt the need to explain why she knew he was there; followed by an urging want of sympathy to a scar on her thigh. The Sturmbannführer merely slithered his eyes along her milk-skin pale leg, the averting of his attention drifting into arousal once again, the intoxicating lure of lusting thoughts embedded into the back of his mind…

Dragged from the abyss of erotic daydreams the lustrous embrace, he found himself being held in sheer spite, as her dressed draped back down across her pale white leg and her demeanour hardened, followed by a stiff resentful remark he wish he hadn’t heard so soon. She wasn’t going to give him any information? A faintest of grins perked across his dry lips, his body arising from the comfortable position he’d acquainted for the best part of the evening and stood at full length casually. Placing the ivory cigarette stick holder back onto his lips, he swept back his brown sporting flat-cap from off his golden blonde scalp and tossed the headwear backwards onto the warm seat he was once sitting on; in most probably the same fashion she had tossed her own shoes and garment when she first entered. His trousers crinkled and brushed against his skin, as his legs moved outwards in a slow zeroed step, followed by another, generally walking towards the kitchen where she’d busied herself off too regardless to his intentions, regardless to his presence. If she truly knew him, then such a move would not have been made towards a man harbouring such fire, aggression and vengeance towards the inferior swine that had taken his son out of this world.

Stopping three to four foot from the woman’s stature, he extended his arm and quite slowly corkscrewed the end of his cigarette against the kitchen countertop at his side, his eyes glued to the young woman the whole while, his stiff silent treatment undoubtedly raising a few hairs on the back of her neck, as he poignantly kept his velvet black Luger trained squarely at her chest. “Ich möchte einige Fragen, Victoire stellen” he spoke with a casual and soft affirmative tone. Removing the stubbed out cigarette from his ivory cigarette stick holder and carelessly dropping the dog-end of the cigarette onto the floor to continue speaking, as he replaced the ivory stick into his trouser pocket. “Wie Sie auf sie antworten, ist für Sie, um zu entscheiden” he entailed with a long glare, his eyes searching her face for a sign of weakness to perhaps take the easy route and save them both a lot of bother for the night. An option most rarely took without persuasion; whether it be money, leverage or unorthodox techniques.

Gently waving his Luger his pistol towards the seats back in the living room, subtly insinuating for her to move towards the seating area, he smirked wryly and gritted his teeth. “Kommen Sie, setzen Sie sich” he said in a ordering manner, but remained to keep his tone of voice appealing and soft. The ball was now in her court, she had a choice to make and the Sturmbannführer embraced for the latter.


Translations:[/b]

Ich möchte einige Fragen, Victoire stellen.
- I would like to ask a few questions, Victoire.

Wie Sie auf sie antworten, ist für Sie, um zu entscheiden.
- How you answer them, is for you to decide.

Kommen Sie, setzen Sie sich.
- Come, sit down.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

A narcotic essence consumed the cold garret as she stood against the door, silent and motionless, looking at the older man as though he were an ungodly being who had trespassed upon her personal territory to claim her very soul. From the first moment she observed the Luger pointing at her chest, right through her heart, and aiming to steal her away from this world and end her life in such abrupt and brutal fashion, and yet the first thought she primarily had was how lethally beautiful that weapon was – as lethally beautiful as its owner. The Luger’s deadly coal-black curves could be paralleled to the feminine curvaceous crescents across her raven dress, the thin but graceful arcade of her crimson lips, or the limber convexity of her pale neck as she stared at him with her head resting back against the metallic door. The knowledge of his deadly intentions was a burden enough without Victoire pressuring her fortune – or misfortune – to act against her better common sense. But then, she did not possess common sense, did she? Her provocative nature, her uncanny capability to always pursue the extreme and extravagant, her hateful and wild spirit, proud and fierce, but also pitifully fallible and mortal, were thirsty to feel, feed from the grapes until her throat was dry, until her soul was fulfilled from the spiritual and emotional famine she had lived through her early years: ignored and neglected by a father who blamed her for his son’s untimely death of typhus, falsely adored by a mother who only moderately attempted to show the remotest sign of affection, and forced to live a life of Viennese waltzes, linen dresses and expensive porcelain without having the opportunity to feel the reality of hardship, she embraced the almost tantalizing call of danger.

Now she, however, understood. She understood the obsession for the dissemination of the Aryan race and, ironically, she would have been the first to proclaim a disciple of this new form of religion – a religion of sensualists such as she were, who professed adoration of everything beautiful and aesthetic – had she not resented the Germans with all her heart for invading her country and claiming the lives of her people; and despite such revulsion, it was beyond her capacity not to admire grandeur as she was staring at it in the face. The casual expression, the strong jaw line, the characteristic curvature of his upper dry lips, the rough angles of his face, the pale-blonde hair with those ghostly, eldritch steel-blue eyes – the coldest eyes she had ever seen in her life – piercing through her own ice-gray. He looked so … German. He appeared commanding and imposing enough without his military uniform to give Victoire the impression wearing it must be offering him an essence of fearfulness inflicted upon the soldiers under his orders, but an essence also bearing utmost respect, as was the case with truly charismatic leaders. She found it sardonic how the Führer was, to her, a complete and utter idiot who had managed to lure the German crowds into his webs by messianic, passionate speeches offering solutions to the economic depression and the country’s humiliating post-war situation, while in truth the successful annexation of Western and Eastern Europe had been a result of more accomplished, gifted and masterly military commanders.

Amidst the poisonous silence, she noticed a glow in his left eye which almost bore a crimson shade, or perhaps it was a trick of her eyes due to the dim lighting and the rather inconvenient situation of being pointed at one’s heart with a Luger. When she entered the kitchen a second time, her intention was naturally not to offer him some pie as she had sarcastically told him, but get herself the whole Lafite bottle to drink, for one glass was simply not enough, knowing what was to come. She had her own pistol secretly stashed within her apartment (which she had stolen from a German soldier a few years ago) but what good would it offer to her? He had a Luger, and the knife overtly placed within his boot, and he was of course a military figure and she but a mere showgirl – the idea was completely ridiculous. And perhaps … perhaps she wanted to die, or at least experience the adrenaline rushing through the veins of her body at the prospect of death, so sudden and yet so inevitable. She heard footsteps from behind and, soon enough, she realized he was standing only a few feet away from her, but did not turn around to look at him just yet, busying herself in pulling the bottle from the fridge, her hand tightly wheeled around the circular edge, feeling its coldness rush through her skin, but the shiver she experienced was not from the bottle of wine but his stiff and silent treatment of hers. Knowing it was within his power to shoot her any moment he wished, and yet for these plain moments keeping her back turned against him provocatively, it was not simply dangerous. They had left danger a few moments ago, and stepped unto the call for submission.

She slowly turned around, holding the pomegranate-coloured bottle in her hand, and approached him with careful, sedate steps on her way to the kitchen door with the intention of complying to his appealing request; and as she came closer, she turned her head over her shoulder to look at him sideways, and her face lit up at the full scale of such overflowing dominance, his self-evident superior intelligence and formidable quality, and then she noticed for the first time the red tint and the scar across the left eye, carved in his flesh vertically, and could not help but feel intimidated by his presence. He was the devil, for, after all, was the devil not the brightest star in the sky? Was he not an alluring creature that craftily led the victims into his webs carefully, slowly? She would cower not in fear or show him emotional weakness, she was determined not to, but she was only a simple, poor woman living in a cold garret in occupied Paris. She stared at him straightforwardly, her figure turning sideways to face him properly, his breathing tingling her forehead, her expression curious as she slightly narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her forehead while examining his face silently at such airless proximity, her lips half-open and half-closed just when her steel-gray eyes pierced upon his glacial blues, surveyed him with intrigue and profound interest, as though for the moment paralyzed – here stood a man who had suffered and who yet made suffer; a man who complied to his country’s rules, and who wished to send millions to their untimely deaths in brutal fashion. And he only liked to ask her a few questions … “Natürlich tun Sie,” she said in a soft voice, and then a small smile was etched across her lips that was neither sardonic nor arrogant; a complete contrast to her behaviour so far, it was simple and innocent (in turn a complete contrast to her soul, which was not simple and innocent), and even slightly bitter because she was taking a jab at her own self, not him.

She then turned her face around and walked back into the living room, sitting herself upon the couch as she took a sip from the bottle and then placed it on the wooden coffee table. The painting of Diego Velázquez, ‘Venus at her Mirror’, was hanging in the wall above her in all of its glory: with her back to the viewer, the goddess of love, beauty and fertility was leisurely reclining on the folds of her grey bed sheets which accentuated her all-embracing curves, and gazing into a mirror held by her son, Cupid, a mirror with interweaving pink silk ribbons curling over its frame – a depiction of self-absorbed beauty, beauty accompanying attraction, attraction spawning danger, danger rewarding submission, to the ultimate destruction. It was one of her favourite paintings; and in the corner, Raphael’s portrait of the Archangel Michael’s victory over Satan stood tall and proud. These were paintings she had saved the last minute during the occupation and having been obliged to leave her house, she had placed her life in jeopardy to save these fine replicas of artwork, amongst other possessions. She stood quiet in the dim light, smoking from her cigarette, and waiting for him. Once she heard footsteps approaching, she said, “Sehend, wie Sie scheinen, meinen Namen zu wissen, würde das für dieses … Gespräch für mich passend sein, Ihrig zu wissen. Würde es nicht?” and turned to look at him once more as he stood in the doorway, tall and proud, and direful.



♠ Translation ♠

Of course you do.

Seeing how you appear to know my name, it would be appropriate for this … conversation for me to know yours. Would it not?

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

Holding the Luger pistol with such a callous grip, Sturmbannführer Wolfram began to feel his fingers tingle from the incomprehensible and horrible sensation of pins and needles emerging at the fingertips and travelling back across the palm of his hand. The aggression was building up inside of him, this was perhaps the last and only link to the Slavic bastards who murdered his son and many other innocent people in Munich on that eventful and unforgettable day; the Munich Riots they called it, an utter waste of good life he called it and there she stood, bold as brass and clear as day, but she was a woman and Sturmbannführer Wolfram couldn’t say he’d been in this predicament before. Gun pointed, questions to ask, aggression to match the demeanour he poised with his pumped out chest and tall stature, hoarse deep voice to boot. She shouldn’t be any different than the scum he dealt with in the Ghetto, but somehow, she was and the Sturmbannführer deep down felt a little thrilled by this new standard, just seemed an utter waste to ruin such beauty before himself. Her face may never look the same again…

Twisting his body as she walked on by, the Sturmbannführer tensed defensively at the close proximity she waded between their personal space, momentarily invading the safe distance between the two they harboured. His eyes wandering over her slender figure as she moved on by with such grace beneath her toes, before taking a seat as he kindly requested. The Luger’s presence remained firm the whole while, his arm stiff and flexed with a deathly grip on the pistol as he watched her with an affirm stare from beneath the flat-cap he wore, a shadowed veil cast over his eyes from the appropriate dim lighting. Her words sounded the room with a slim prosper of life still existent, he had no intentions of leaving her alive when he was done with her and she hadn’t even begun to answer his gruelling questions as of yet; he had many tactics amid his mind to exert however, he was sure she’d be talking.

Walking towards the seating area with a slow daunting movement, he listened to her once again questioning him, this time on a more personal agenda - his name? A coiled grin formed at either end of his lips with a gradual rise and a notion of fowl play amidst his mind. “Sturmbannführer Wolfram” he answered quite honestly and openly, the anger concealed quite well this time, but the vice-like grip on the Luger pistol seem to give it all away. “Victoire Beaudoin” he said with a statement of her name, his tongue lisping the syllables in distaste, his eyes fixating to her beautiful young face, taking a step closer with every passing moment he spoke. “Vater hat eingesperrt” he fetched from his drying mouth, “Ihre Mutter und Ihr Bruder sind tot” he continued with little mercy as to revealing that he’d done some homework on her, perhaps psychologically breaking her down, so she wouldn’t lie when it came to his questions; he knew who she was, who she fought to keep concealed. “Keine Eltern, keine Geschwister, um mich auch zu drehen, verstehe ich, warum Sie sich dem Widerstand zuwandten. Die Deutschen, die in Frankreich einfallen, nahmen, was wenig Sie übrighatten, hat es wirklich Sinn, Victoire” he said with certain understanding, feeling as if he had worked her out, accomplished a milestone in knowing the foundations in which she was built, so he could ultimately take her straight back down.

(OOC: You said you sat down in the last paragraph of your post, but then you was standing? So I’m assuming you’re still sitting - let me know if I’m wrong)

Stopping just in front of Victoire, he placed his un-gloved hand underneath her jaw and curled his fingers up against her jaw-line with a soft touch, lifting her head to face him. His eyes bore holes through the back of her skull, his left eye - a crimson red - was sorely apparent now from beneath the shadow of his flat-cap and so was his devious grin. Slowly bringing the barrel of his Luger pistol up to her face, he brushed the cold black steel of it over her soft plump moist lips, admiring her beautiful face, but hoping at the same time that he scared her half to death with this threatening gesture. “Aber... Sie nahmen, was wenig ich von mir hatte, und wenn Sie zu meinen Fragen nicht zusammenarbeiten, werde ich dazu betrübt, was ich gezwungen werde zu tun. Wird das verstanden?” gripping at her jaw noticeably tighter now, he watched his fingertips press into her skin and draped the cold steel of the Luger pistol’s barrel from off her lips with a slow sluggish drag that extended along her chin. Smirking, he shoved her head away by her jaw and took a step back, removing the gentleman’s flat-cap attire from off his head, revealing his short blonde hair within the dim light of the room, throwing the headwear off onto a nearby chair to his side; his crumpled white shirt crinkling as he swung his arm outwards.

The next move was unorthodox though, unexpected, as he slid the Luger pistol back under his half buttoned shirt and into it’s holster once more, but he figured it wouldn’t stay that way for long. “Welcher Widerstand triarch Sie werden auch angegrenzt?” The first question had been asked and it was a simple one, who was she associated with? There were many ‘Triarchs’ within a formidable and grouped resistance, she just needed to tell him what one. His arms folding as he awaited to be answered, remaining standing a mere two foot away from her, maybe less, but by any standard he was close enough to say the least and wasn’t about to leave anytime soon.


Translations:[/b]

Vater hat eingesperrt
- Father's imprisoned

Ihre Mutter und Ihr Bruder sind tot
- Your mother and your brother are dead

Keine Eltern, keine Geschwister, um mich auch zu drehen, verstehe ich, warum Sie sich dem Widerstand zuwandten. Die Deutschen, die in Frankreich einfallen, nahmen, was wenig Sie übrighatten, hat es wirklich Sinn, Victoire.
- No parents, no siblings to turn too, I understand why you turned to the resistance. The Germans invading France took what little you had left, it does make sense, Victoire.

Aber... Sie nahmen, was wenig ich von mir hatte, und wenn Sie zu meinen Fragen nicht zusammenarbeiten, werde ich dazu betrübt, was ich gezwungen werde zu tun. Wird das verstanden?
- But... You took what little I had from me and if you don't cooperate to my questions, I will be saddened to what I will be forced to do. Is that understood?

Welcher Widerstand triarch Sie werden auch angegrenzt?
- What resistance triarch are you adjoined too?

[Victoire Beaudoin]

(OOC: Yes, Victoire is still sitting down.)


The young woman stared at the ominous sight before her with a curious but also secretly fearful glint in her ice-gray, steel blue eyes as she waited for him in the darkness, feeling him looming closer, the velvety texture of his stark voice enveloping her outline as he pronounced his name – a wolf he was, indeed, and she could not help but admire the strength and raw power which stemmed from this name, and as expressed by his very presence. He was merciless in his desire to bring her down, spelling out pieces of information he held about her one after the other, slowly, unhurriedly, as though his foot was only an inch away from crushing over the small animal that lay defenseless on the floor, and gently stepping on it with his boots with each step he took, in an almost achingly slow means of cruelty, rather than destroying it on the spot. This is how the woman felt at the moment, and the closer the man walked, the more intimate and penetrative his words became. A sneer crossed the corner of her faded coral red lips at the mention of her family; did the man really think that he would have any effect on her by speaking of these events? Her brother had died of typhus and her mother had perished a few years later in an accident when the girl was so very young, spending her years with a father who had never loved her and had always preferred to focus on his work as an ambassador rather than pay any attention to her, why should she really care?

On the other hand, she could feel a small jab on her insides when these events were spoken still, feeling minimally inconvenienced by their reminiscence, although she was not surprised in the slightest he should have acquired such information on her. But this mild tone that coated his words with a touch of understanding only pierced through her entire length with a ringing force, for she, having become alienated to this cold environment, had rather turned to her country, the only thing she could adore and be inspired from – and the fact he not only realized her intentions but also interpreted her heart almost unnerved her, a forbidding expression momentarily surfacing through her facial features for a moment or two as he uttered those words, before vanishing quickly beneath a façade of calmness and tolerance.

Her eyebrows faintly curved over her eyes when the Sturmbannführer said she had taken something from him, immediately realizing some great misunderstanding had chanced upon her threshold, and yet she had no time to further contemplate on this, as in the next moment the man’s fingers softly touched her jaw and pressed on it, with gentle force making the woman raise her head higher to properly look at him straight in his eyes, her skin shuddering under his touch, and her heart skipping a beat upon the shadowy blood-red glint of his left eye. Was he really the devil who had come to claim her soul and possess her in whichever way he desired? He certainly could not have been a mere figment of her imagination, but if he indeed were a fiendish, otherworldly creature whose wrath she were to brave, never before had her eyes beheld a living being of such arresting countenance, his figure powerful and bleak, forbidding but at the same time demanding of her to yield, his features brutal but also strangely silken, ready to unleash their raw savagery upon her weakened form whether she submitted or not, for this was his will. The weapon’s cold steel tenderly brushed against the length of her roseate lips that slightly parted at the touch, and her eyes widened as she stared at back at the man.

She could plainly see what he was capable of, and everything signalled menace for her – from his cold eyes down to the threatening movements executed with sharp precision, and her heart was beating wildly against her ribcage as she stared up at him. That fear did not for a moment fade even as he pulled the gun away, for the woman knew he was just as likely to force it against her temple and end her life in no time and with no scruples, but through her absolute horror, that inner anguish that ate her alive and chewed on her viscera she could not surrender. Pride, Victoire, is all you have, she thought desperately, in her vain effort to hold on to something as abstract as a notion. Without pride you are nothing! Her eyes gleamed in the darkness as she gazed back at the man and only remained silent as he posed his question. For a few moments she was too speechless and fear alone utterly numbed her capacity to speak and stiffened the muscles of her face. When she could finally speak, her throat felt considerably dry. “Wollen Sie dass ich bitte? Ist das was Sie wollen?” she whispered, her tone low but hoarse. “Sind ich wenig rote Reitmotorhaube und Sie der große schlechte Wolf? Fühlen Sie sich stark, wenn Sie jemanden schwächer zähmen als Sie? Aber wenn Sie vorhaben, mich herunterzuschlucken, muss ich Sie warnen – ich bin schwerverdaulich.”

She knew the grave danger she was placing herself, and perhaps it was the vanity of youth – expressed in pride – and her lack of wisdom which made her act in this way, but the woman, though frozen in place, stared at him with open defiance. It was not bravery, no. Perhaps it was even foolishness – most likely so, neither did she feel courageous, but as she kept telling herself: she only had her dignity to consider, after all. “Ich bedauere sehr, aber es scheint dass ich Sie wirklich schließlich muss betrüben,” she told him slowly, and her eyes glinted brightly as she stared at his imposing figure standing so very close to her, ready to inflict damage upon her any given moment. “Wenn ich nicht spreche, sind Sie dabei, mich zu töten. Wenn ich tue, töten Sie mich wieder, und wenn Sie nicht tun, tut der Widerstand,” she simply said in a quiet voice, her tone matter-of-fact and unassuming. “Wie Sie sehen, habe ich keine bessere Wahl wirklich, so ist das einzige Ding, das verlassen ist, zu tun, wählen die Seite, die zu mir am angenehmsten ist, dafür zu sterben. Nun … Sie kann anfangen mich Mittagessen kaufend,” she proposed, and a smile rose in the corner of her lips, eyes alight with fear and anticipation.



Translations

Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want?

Am I little red riding hood and you the big bad wolf? Do you feel powerful when you tame someone weaker than you? But if you intend to swallow me down, I must warn you – I’m indigestible.

I’m very sorry, but it seems I do have to sadden you, after all.

If I don’t speak you are going to kill me. If I do, you will kill me again, and if you don’t the resistance will. As you see, I don’t really have any better choice, so the only thing left to do is choose the side that is most pleasant to me to die for. Well … you can start by buying me dinner.

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

Unwinding hands outstretched from the masculine figure of the assailant in her apartment, his neck rolling against the broad flats of his shoulders causing a faint audible cracking noise to flutter into the dormant room’s stale dead-air-space. He was opposing, menacing and stood tall like a piece of stonework, tough enough to face all weathers and climates, but would still be standing astern the earth’s soil a hundred years from now. He was picture perfect, German built and engineered, he was perfect and amidst the minor flaws of his battle worn flesh, he was toughened by what could not kill him and what could not pull this statue from off it’s pivoting pillar a thousand millennia from now. The only lack of detail he didn’t currently possess was the skin that truly determined who he was, what he was and how perfect he was; his uniform was at home, the situation at hand being more of a personal matter, rather than Gestapo or Schutzstaffel fuelled. This was the chance to sniff out the long-lost blood trail to those responsible for the death of his son, like a wolf, unable to leave the scent of prey alone.

Her eyes were widened after his small insinuation with the pistol and clasped hand around her pearly white throat, his question now stood and he waited for the caviar and silver spoon to be produced to the table. A fine starter to his interrogation, find out whom she was working for exactly and then the main course could be brought to the table for his indulgence. Names, relatives, addresses, all the appropriate information that would entail and he would find out what he needed to know, one way or the other. He needed to know, anything and everything would suffice, whatever her skull confined, he would crack and he was quite willing to unravel such methods materially; cracking an egg and dunking his soldiers, the thought made him grin, just purely imagining her skull plummeting against the hard wooden floor or through a wall maybe? Perhaps leaning her head against the skirting boards dressing the floor to the walls and giving her skull a good stomp or two. He was desperate for information, vengeance and uncannily enough, her beauty.

His eyes wandered her luscious small curves and petite figure, her plump lips and defined cheekbones stretched and curled at each distressing emotion she subliminally made behind her tough exterior of will. She was beautiful and Sturmbannführer Wolfram was no fool to the hard given facts sitting before himself. Once again he questioned himself though, the thoughts of torturing her, using her for information any means possible, the brutality or even any mercy he would be bestowing upon her life, beauty and freedom. She was different, she was no petulant fool or vermin, she was more than that and even if she wasn’t pure Aryan or German born, bred, she was a human and as pure as they were going to get outside of the Aryan race. Could he really be responsible for the battering, death, torture of a young woman - a beautiful young woman, whom outside of this war, would have been fine dining and enjoying the luxuries of life, such innocence.

Her first words spoken caused Sturmbannführer Wolfram to faintly tense defensively, did he want her to beg? Could he imagine her posed upon her knees before himself? Hands bound by the knitting of the fingers, bold eyes gazing up at him, begging for mercy as she began to clutch at his legs and offer herself in any means to his service. The thought, was just a thought, a daydream that caused the Sturmbannführer to feel the hairs upon the back of his neck and forearms to raise, the feeling of such power did envelope his senses of judgement, but so did the feeling of having vengeance for his son’s death pride him too, being one step closer to catching the boy’s merciless killers. Monsters he could even consider brothers? For he was one too, was he not?

The young woman’s smarmy remark didn’t go unnoticed, little red-riding-hood, indigestible? Was she making a pun at his surname or was she offering herself to the wolf? A fairytale story he was most familiar with, it was Woflrick’s favourite. Her denial to answering his first question was expected, it did, by all means, clarify to Sturmbannführer Wolfram that she had something to answer, that she had something concealed worthwhile to him. Perhaps her lack of pleading innocence or begging, as he imagined it, let him down. Yet her stubborn will and desire was admirable from such a young petite figure, a miniscule ounce of strength that would oppose a seasoned and veteran dog of war, who felt his patience running thin and his testosterone fuel his veins; for once, the urge was greater than ever and Sturmbannführer Wolfram couldn’t help but feel compelled by her beauty, distracted by his true course of action and judgement clouded by her stern words of defiance. Not even his late wife spoke to him with such a demeanour, for she displayed no competition for being on top. The wolf always came out on top.

Her last spoken words made him grin, she was ready to die, but for those that made her most comfortable? Did she even think she’d have a choice? The Sturmbannführer couldn’t help but laugh under his breath, mockingly clapping his hands together twice as he stared at her, feeling her defiance had to be admired by someone - her only audience being him. “Bravo, Bravo” he said between the mocking clapping he made, his eyes fixated upon her petite little face the whole while. “Das ist das, was die Französen, richtig zujubeln würden? Sie würden Ihnen für Ihren Widerstand gegen die Nazis zujubeln, noch antworten Sie zu ihnen heute Abend auf Frau Beaudoin nicht” he quite simply spoke, pausing ever so briefly to watch her face, his eyes glancing down her chest as he felt the impulse beat deep down within him, the power swell as he opened his mouth to speak once more. “Sie sind zu nur das Antworten zu mir” he slurred out, his eyes lulling over he soft breasts as he trailed the silk smooth plain of her throat up to her face slowly, grinning deviously. Indeed, he did only stand before her as a man tonight, not a Nazi.

Licking his lips he stepped forwards once more, closing the tiny gap he made between them, only having given it so she could breath to answer his first question, his next question perhaps being a little more close to home. “Sie sprechen, als ob Ihr Schicksal nichts als bestimmter Tod, heute Abend, Morgen oder eine Woche ist. Wenn Sie auf meine Fragen Victoire antworten, lasse ich Sie leben” he said softly, raising his hand slowly to stroke against the side of her head, his fingers entwining through her soft long hair as he looked down upon her. “enn Sie auf meine Fragen nicht antworten, verspreche ich nichts als einen sehr unbehaglichen und schmerzhaften Tod” and with that said, he tightened his grip within her hair, knotting his masculine fingers into thick strands of her lengthy waves and tugged her head backwards with enough force to have given her a subtle case of whiplash. “Erzählen Sie mir jetzt, für den arbeiten Sie? Wie ist die Namen Ihrer Partner?” he questioned with a heavy tone, yanking at the knotted strands of her hair once more, poising her for an answer; the feeling of overwhelming strength over her fragile petite figure fuelling his veins, the uncontrollable urge to kiss her lips and ravish her body phasing through the back of his mind as he felt his glazed eyes succumb to her beauty, hardly fighting back the urge as he leant in close, peering into her eyes as if he were searching for the answers she was yet to breathe to him. If she would answer them.


Translations:[/b]

Das ist das, was die Französen, richtig zujubeln würden? Sie würden Ihnen für Ihren Widerstand gegen die Nazis zujubeln, noch antworten Sie zu ihnen heute Abend auf Frau Beaudoin nicht.
- That is what the French would cheer, correct? They would cheer you for your defiance against the Nazis, yet you are not answering to them tonight Ms Beaudoin.

Sie sind zu nur das Antworten zu mir.
- You are but only answering to me.

Sie sprechen, als ob Ihr Schicksal nichts als bestimmter Tod, heute Abend, Morgen oder eine Woche ist. Wenn Sie auf meine Fragen Victoire antworten, lasse ich Sie leben.
- You speak as though your fate is nothing but certain death, tonight, tomorrow or a week's time. If you answer my questions Victoire, I will let you live.

enn Sie auf meine Fragen nicht antworten, verspreche ich nichts als einen sehr unbehaglichen und schmerzhaften Tod.
- If you don't answer my questions, I will promise nothing but a very uncomfortable and painful death.

Erzählen Sie mir jetzt, für den arbeiten Sie? Wie ist die Namen Ihrer Partner?
- Now tell me, who do you work for? What are the names of your associates?

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire looked at the man with suppressed fear in her eyes and fierce boldness through the tautened muscles of her face, but only she could feel the heartbeat rising into a crescendo against her ribcage moment after moment; strangely enough, the room felt considerably more chilly, her pale skin shining in the dim glow of the surrounding darkness, cold to the touch and at any given moment now awaiting for the punishment and torture her mind knew the tall man would subject her to. She could not and was not going to, at any rate, fool herself in terms of the officer’s intentions, thus allowing her heart a second of reprieve into believing he might as well have been only wanting to employ her as means to extract information with regard to the Resistance – eyes widened as they gazed back at him, painfully aware of the wide variety of options he had available within himself to make her suffer.

It was not bravery whatsoever she fancied showing, neither was it a source of true grit; if anything, she could not care less about such behaviour which others deemed as the true fighting spirit of France, or honourable manners in the face of danger. Rather, it was the young woman’s sheer obstinacy of character that made her speak in this way, and which forced her not to cower away in horror but confront the officer, rude though her conduct might have been considered. She knew, after all, that should she have let herself unconditionally capitulate to him – in the same way, one would ironically remark, France had done to Germany – the man would destroy her with his merciless hand, shatter her underneath his jackboots and suffocate the life out of her. He still could, he always could, but there was a great difference between being broken apart due to resistance, or through surrender. Ultimately, she had nothing more or less to hold onto but those shreds of pride and self-worth that prevented her from yielding to him in those moments that he had drawn the Luger across her lips and offered her that cold-hearted, subtle and beautiful warning.

She breathed in calmly still, and observed his facial features ever faintly becoming tense, before his muscles soon relaxed into a self-satisfied, mocking smile and then he laughed cruelly at her, even taking the trouble to give her a brief applause in a pastiche of admiration over what might have been thought of as “courage” but which was only ever the woman’s unpredictable, proud and obdurate character, further remarking with no less a jeer how the French people would applaud her defiance, but the truth was that, at this very moment, she could not have cared any less about them, as it was. Every corner of her being was consumed by his imposing, domineering, and though now he did not exhibit such a trait she could tell he was a man of considerable greed. The woman could very well understand why he deserved the rank of a Sturmbannführer and could even, though it was not much of a conscious thought, see herself offering him all of her trust in the duties and other various military tasks to be employed by him were she his superior commander. She could not draw her gaze away from his eyes, and more often than not focused upon the red tint of his damaged eye, wishing herself to divert her gaze elsewhere, for it was frightening and daunting to see such a fiendish characteristic upon someone who even appeared to have been a rather well-trained demon himself belonging to the deepest floors of Hell – and yet utterly incapacitated of performing something as ridiculously rudimentary as shifting her head, her skin numb with fear, nervous impatience and intrigue.

Her gaze only ever intensified as he slithered his fingers alongside her throat in that small, precise journey of exploration and yearning, feeling his hand surprisingly warm and soft to the touch even if she could tell it was the very brutal, ruthless hand that brought such destruction and slaughter wherever it were to pass from. He remarked that tonight she was only ever answering to him, and she knew it would be so, as she barely leaned a breath closer to him in that small, insignificant gesture of submission to his statement of fact, his grave tone penetrating her mind and piercing it with the sheer ominous solemnness of its underlying forewarning, and she felt drawn closer to him as his fingers slowly travelled across the side of her face at the same time as he, in a dangerously gentle voice, assured her that he were not to murder her in cold blood, that with co-operation came survival, but little did the woman think of such trivialities when his hand suddenly touched her hair, his strong, lean fingers twirling around her dusky locks and pressing against the skin of her head, and her being desired to draw itself closer to him and absorb all of his raw force and coldness into her. He did assure her, still, that inevitable death was to meet her should she fail to answer to his questions and, indeed, fear gripped its icy hands around her heart as she looked at him in a strange combination of fright and gratification. His hold tightened when he suddenly yanked her from the head and caused her surroundings to spin for a second or two, but then her gaze was ever transfixed upon him.

“Das fremdeste Ding geschah. Ich habe vergessen,” she said in a slow, careful tone, and a small smile rose across her lips as she gazed up at him, his face now nearing dangerously closer to hers. “Ich will Ihnen sagen, ich tue wirklich, aber meine Speicherarbeitstricks gegen mich. Es muss diese Taktik von euch sein, um Angst als ein Mittel der vorherrschenden Information auszuüben, die meine Meinung abgestumpft sein muss.” And with that, the hand that was previously hanging down by her side and resting on the sofa outstretched to grasp at the edge of his shirt, her fingers lightly slithering along the rim to touch against the skin, softly digging her nails into his flesh.

“Aber der Reihe nach habe ich meine eigene Frage um zu fragen,” she said softly, and then her fingers suddenly crunched around the rim of his shirt and pulled him even closer to her, inching her face towards the side to whisper in his ear, “Wie duldete Ihre Frau Sie jemals in Deutschland mit diesem ganzen anmaßenden Benehmen von euch? Entweder Sie verlangten spezielle Behandlung oder … der sie aus dem Stein gemacht wurde. Ich hätte Sie nicht geduldet. Sie hätten gebellt, und ich würde Stange Sie kalt, bis Sie folgten und meinen Wünschen bis zu schließlich gehorchten, standen Sie auf meine Füße mich anbetend.” A smile had crept along her lips as her warm breath was tingling his ear, her fingers clasped around the shirt determinedly with a strange source of power that had momentarily been traced in her soul, and she knew the dangers very well, how could she not, but still … still …

“Aber ich würde nicht ohne Gnade sein. Dann würde ich Ihr Gesicht näher ziehen, und ich würde Ihnen … verzeihen, und dann …” she whispered, and her voice briefly trembled as she spoke to him, for perhaps she had truly recognized the sheer magnitude of her situation or, most likely, simply because she had not before felt a man of such strength near her before; “… dann … würde ich Ihnen erlauben, mich zu entehren, weil das das einzige Ding ist, das Sie wissen, wie man tut. Und ich würde es lieben,” she assured him, her tone pleasant and promising, smooth and gentle, and even inviting. “Ich würde das lieben, der das einzige Ding sein würde, das Sie wissen würden, wie man tat.” But then, she let go of him and pulled herself backwards into that small distance between them.

“Froh bin ich nicht Ihre Frau dann,” she remarked, and arched an eyebrow at him, ice-blue eyes staring back at him with a smile.



Translation

The strangest thing happened. I have forgotten. I want to tell you, I really do, but my memory works tricks against me. It must be this tactic of yours to exercise fear as a means of obtaining information that must have numbed my mind.

But in turn I have my own question to ask.

How did your wife ever tolerate you in Germany, with all this over-bearing demeanour of yours? Either you required special treatment or … she was made of stone. I wouldn’t have tolerated you. You would have barked, and I would rod you coldly until you obeyed and submitted to my desires, until, eventually, you stood upon my feet, worshipping me. But I wouldn’t be without mercy. Then I would pull your face closer and I would forgive you … and then … then … I would allow you to dishonour me, because that is the only thing you know how to do. And I’d love it. I’d love that that would be the only thing you would know how to do.

Glad I’m not your wife, then.

[∬: Rafael Z. Wolfram]

The Sturmbannführer’s fingers wriggled against her scalp; his slender, yet long and firm fingers coiling around the thick strands of her blossoming hair with an itching grip that only grew tighter and firmer. Breathlessly, his nostrils flared ever so slightly and his chest uncontrollably pressed against her sudden touch that was trickling along the rim of his ruffled shirt, the feeling of her nails carving patterns against the surface of his skin as if she were idly running her fingers through the sand. Warming, yet hardened touch that twisted something deep within himself like a casket of old memories, an unpacked suitcase of old clothes and the thousandth of scents and smells that clung to the fabrics, yet matured with each passing year they were undeterred from their confines. It was within that instance, that precise moment that the Sturmbannführer felt the single untouched place within himself slowly pride it‘s self open with all the scents, smells and memories whirling through the lobes of his brain in each given gratification they were once stored as memorable moments within his heart…

Her touch. Neither given with any passive warmth, unconditional affection or warming nurture regardless, had for a split second and miniscule passing moment in time, blemished the Sturmbannführer’s heart with a fainted tint of life once more. They were memories, mere memories brought to the surface, depicturing the man he once was, the loving and caring gentleman to whom he devoted his love and loyalty in a world unscathed by turmoil, such petty innocence and sheer ignorance he was once victim too. Love. Nothing else mattered in the world surrounding him, nothing else came into the equation full stop, he was at peace and the tainted viewfinder he looked through for many years, shielded his innocence and self being; that single touch she trailed along the flesh of his skin breathed life into someone or something deep within the pivoting tyrant’s stone masonry like a hot needle. Perhaps it was the desire most of all? The desire to be in love once more, the desire to live a life of innocence and ignorance from the world, the utmost desire to have something he could never have?

Her mouth pursed open soon after and like a lullaby, she coaxed him with her words of having forgotten the answers, despite the compelling urge that she truly did want to tell him of what he sought and needed to know. He didn’t believe her, quite obviously, but her tone and the pitch of her soft gentle voice soothed him into a false sense of security; wanting to believe her, yet leaving him needing more. She was meddling with fire, yet somehow she kept her flesh from being scorned. Like a lump of wet clay, the Sturmbannführer was moulded at her will and shaped by each of her smoothing motions, once again coaxed by her will.

As the moment passed quicker than time it’s self, the Sturmbannführer found himself drawn closer by the gripping fingertips of her nails scratching across his hardened skin to clutch at the ruffled opening of his shirt with a devilish hold. Met with the curvature of her soft, smooth sloping throat within an instance of being hauled forwards, he froze with a mincing anticipation to her actions. Her soft breath enveloped his senses and sent goose-bumps down his forearms and the back of his neck instantly, his lungs exhaling with a riveting shudder, her voice melting through him like hot butter. Her words barely made any knowledgeable sense as she spoke, dazed by the tantalizing aroma of her ruffled hair he continued to clasp between his fingers and the alluding scent she perspired from the pores of her neatly woven pale flesh that laid beneath his nose within that moment. It took a good moment for the Sturmbannführer to realise what she had been saying into his ear, whispering almost, her breath warming down the side of his face and neck she tormented.

Her words slowly became comprehensible. The tantalizing spell she held over him, vaguely began to diminish with every word she lulled to him, the insulting, the psychological mind game that twisted her belief that she knew him for whom he really was. It was then, only then, the Sturmbannführer’s heart clouded over once more and turned to stone; the foolishness of the whole scenario caused him to swallow hard, to feel impellent with his emotions and desires, rather than the just cause he primarily sought for over anything else upon this path of righteousness he walked. The ignorance, how could be so ignorant to have been lulled by her words, her touch and her warmth. Was he losing his own touch? Was he finally feeling the bite? The fatigue of war? Did he truly just adhere for the desire of being at one with someone again? To be confined between the walls of innocence and ignorant bliss, to be viewing the world through a tainted viewfinder once more? Truth be told, he questioned himself hard, why was he feeling compelled by her touch and weakened by her breath? Why…?

Pulling away, she left the Sturmbannführer looking cold and empty. A facial expression that begged disbelief, for not only his own impediment of foolishness and desire, but her words most importantly lulled a string of hurt; yet, she was inevitably right. Who would want to be his wife? He had become a monster, a built machine to perform the duties of the Fatherland’s ethnical cleansing and strive for power to propel the Aryan race forth once more. He had rarely seen his own son the time he was alive and most of all, when he did, his young boy was brutally murdered by - by the likes of her. Had he forgotten momentarily that she was indeed connected to the partisan group that murdered his son? His own selfishness and desires clouding his judgement, when he ought to have been gaining the information he had arrived for? Turmoil. It seemed as if turmoil was all the Sturmbannführer truly knew anymore. Turmoil of emotions, turmoil of war and most of all, the turmoil of whom he used to be and what he had now become.

Like a pressure tank building, the Sturmbannführer’s jaw tightened at the seams and his eyes fixated upon the young woman with the uncontrollable rage that built within his chest. Heart pounding, teeth grinding inside of his mouth, he exuberated the briefest of noises from within his throat that defined his building temper and with a sharp snap of movement, unsoiled by premeditation or any thought whatsoever, his right arm swung outwards from his body and his hand tensed to embrace the impact quickly approaching. The back of his hand smacked against the young woman’s right cheekbone with enough force, that he felt his knuckles gently bruise and his fingers numb from the backhanded slap whipped across her pearly and beautiful face, knocking her head inevitably to the side as his hand carried on through and swept outwards on the departure. By now, his breathing had reached a creped heaving and he fought hard to control his aggression, the brutal might of the proud Aryan inside of him far from being tepid and controlled. How dare she speak of him like that? How dare she speak of his belated wife like that? How dare he… How dare he even think of her as a woman, an innocent bystander caught within the conflict of war, who was by all means, no less than a venomous snake taunting with him truth be told.

Gradually reeling his numb hand back to himself, he caressed his knuckles with his unscathed hand and glared at her with impetuous daunting eyes. “Nein, Sie haben Recht. Sie sind nicht meine Frau” he said bitterly, as if he felt sorry for her, as if he had any remorse for her after what she had just said to him. “Sie sind jedoch an meiner Gnade, und es ist Sie, die abschürfen sollen und mich, nicht anbeten sollen, wie Sie auf meine Füße stehen, aber wie Sie--gekniet werden” pausing, he mirrored his hardened tone by reaching out with both hands, having quickly stepped forwards with a sliding step across the floorboards and hunched both of his hands upon her shoulders vigorously with a hard, vice grip between his fingertips. Hurling her from the sofa, he directed her flowing body down towards the floor in front of himself and spattered out the ruminants of his paused sentence, as if he were proving a point; “gekniet vor mir!” he finished, attempting to subdue any incompliant behaviour of movement her body would have been involuntary making during his forcefulness in throwing her to her knees in front of himself, poising her head up to look at him with one of his hands once more, his fingers coiling up underneath her chin and jaw to force her to face upwards towards himself. “Und dort, auf Ihre Knie, ist, wo Sie schließlich gehören” he insulted, the impulse of power burning through his veins once more, feeling himself tower over her petite self before him.

With the very familiar sweeping motion merely displayed moments before, he throttled the back of his hand once more across her beautiful little face and allowed for his corresponding hand clasping at her throat to loosen and allow for her limp body to slump whichever way it felt like falling and collapsing into. The back of his knuckles once again cracking against her cheekbone, a minor wince erupting from the Sturmbannführer’s eyes from the stinging sensation engulfing his knuckles and numbness dulling his fingers from the impact. He was angry, annoyed with the foolishness of falling prey to her gentle touch and reframed to the monstrous beast who viewed the world through a different tinted shade of glass to the rest of the world. She was a pretentious rodent, venomous snake that needed to be dealt with and he wasn’t about to back down anymore; despite her beauty still haunting him, her lavish body and wet soft lips, he yearned to take her, unfold into a world of ignorant bliss and let himself go, but such feelings were easily suppressed for now, or so he hoped.

Standing over her, he recoiled his numb stinging hand to caress once more and made a stifling grunt noise as he suppressed a laugh. “Erbärmlich” he murmured softly, his eyes glaring upon her the whole while. “Erzählen Sie mir jetzt, was Sie vom Widerstand wissen, nach dem Sie ausgerichtet werden? Arbeiten sie mit den Briten? Unabhängige unterirdische Gemeinschaft?” he spoke with a profound bitter professionalism slowly creeping back in, concealing the aggressive persona still very much burning inside of himself, once again demanding answers for his questions, hoping that perhaps now she would be more inclined to answer them. He had barely started with her yet.



Translations:[/b]

Nein, Sie haben Recht. Sie sind nicht meine Frau.
- No, you're quite right. You are not my wife.

Sie sind jedoch an meiner Gnade, und es ist Sie, die abschürfen sollen und mich, nicht anbeten sollen, wie Sie auf meine Füße stehen, aber wie Sie--gekniet werden
- You are, however, at my mercy and it is you who shall bark and shall be worshipping me, not as you stand upon my feet, but as you're knelt --

gekniet vor mir!
- Knelt before me!

Und dort, auf Ihre Knie, ist, wo Sie schließlich gehören
- And there, upon your knees, is where you ultimately belong

Erbärmlich.
- Pathetic

Erzählen Sie mir jetzt, was Sie vom Widerstand wissen, nach dem Sie ausgerichtet werden? Arbeiten sie mit den Briten? Unabhängige unterirdische Gemeinschaft?
- Now tell me what you know of the resistance you are aligned with? Are they working with the British? Independent underground community?