Right Where It Belongs

[Dirk Riedel]

Country: Tripoli, Africa
Current Time: 11:15, June 1941
Weather Conditions: Bloody toasty, innit!



Hunger is impatient and fierce; hunger does not await or tolerate; it is not mild or kind. It does not insist on a different way; it is not stoppable or unavoidable; it does not rejoice at failure, but rejoices with triumph. Hunger crushes all things, desecrates all things, shames all things, rages all things.

It would not have been. It should not have been. But it was. Even the Libyan sun, with its scorching and merciless golden gown, its undying flaming embers that lay despair and fate upon the mortals that came and went with each breath she took, did not foresee, could not preempt the moments that began to unfold like little drops of water trickling slowly across the dry, patched leaves of the grass in that small land of oasis, one drop falling after drop alongside that narrow declivity, until, having intertwined, it formed a waterfall and rushed directly to the lake into a blended mixture of purity that washed down sin and fate aside, disregarding the laws as had been dictated by forces that were out of anyone’s reach, or perhaps it had been those very forces that had prodded those strange incidences into their lives so that these had created, one after the other, the unpredictable, temperate chain of events that led from calamity to disaster, from humidity to violence and destruction, a moment’s caress, but followed with claws extended, teeth bared and hackles raised, eyes narrowed upon the sudden aversion, the raw savagery unprecedented in human form, and nature bowed at such aggression for never had she witnessed before all such raw power held within two of her children that should have embraced one another as being of the same skin and essence, but which only bit and chewed on each other’s throats, drawing blood, spitting flesh, snapping bones, and dominance reigned with her regal gown, laughing manically and with no less a sadistic glare as they ate one another upon her feet, wolves on a cage, inside that pit, and the steel, iron bars that kept them prisoners to their own divine, obscure flaws, the flames from hell that thickened and surrounded them with the biting force of condemnation, wretched salvation that would never be theirs, and the forest’s wildfire that scorched the dishevelled fur, burned the flesh and threatened to char them to the marrow until the only thing left of them were bones and ashes, but little did they think of such insignificance as claws scratched against one another’s faces; pare her, stab him, feel her, heal him, spread like a cancer inside her, a parasite that squirmed within his viscera, and with the base of their tails raised as the tip lay dropped, and teeth pulled apart at the flesh, the hunger for meat, eyes narrowed to slits and fangs biting at the wounds, the fire that burned them searing the skin, and it blackened, but there was nothing, nothing, but open wounds, lacerations, scars and damaged skin, and he could have snatched her from her head, strong fingers yanking her hair, and drowned her. To feed from her, crush her and hold her captive within his very own palm until she, left defaced and made worthless, lay destroyed in his hand, half her body digested and with her breastbone snapped, the tissues broken, and everything inside her left rotten and empty upon feasting on her flesh; but the fight was not yet lost, and the paws birthed blood along his face as the talons dug deep into his skin and twisted the injury – a whimper – and aggressive growling, endorphin channeled throughout their future corpses, and the promise of cruelty and death. A short bark. A howl. And with a final movement, she ripped apart his neck, but not before he had stuck his fangs into her heart, and thus they bled to their demise.

That should never have happened. She should have never crossed paths with him to begin with, and he should have continued with his pitiful, hopeless life, as she had called it, bound by the same shackles until he were to either burst into an explosion in the air or return to Stuttgart where he were to continue with his life, be conveniently married and live a life filled with promises of luxury and splendour, empty sentiments, assorted vanities and self-prominence, and she? She would have dropped to the ground through the haze of bullets, or had she survived Africa would have returned to her brother, unable to feel for any other man, lost in the gut-wrenching clutch of combat and warfare, in her guilt and occasional self-loathing, before she would find her place amongst warriors again, in that empty, pitiful, hopeless state, unable to truly reach out to her soldiers and speak of the truth to them, embrace them in her real capacity but always force herself into determined silence, her throat constricting, a knot tied within that almost choked her, and she could never tell, for she were to perish in some god-forsaken land of Europe, and who were to know what should have happened to Friederike Woltermann? No one should hear of her again, lost in time she would be, amidst the rest of the corpses in that blooded pile of sacrificed humanity, another one of those fallen in battle, and easily forgotten. She knew it to the depth of her soul. She knew she should have never attended that social reception, brotherly love be damned.

“Wer ist dieser Brief davon?” she had curiously asked Alfred Gartman, the platoon resting in the shade which the half-track provided, against which they lay, drinking beer and eating from the canned beef offered to the troops that scorching April’s morning. She had not received any letters from Julian, but she very well knew not to expect any regularly considering her brother’s situation and the difficulties he had to suffer in order to make sure he wrote to her with explanations on their family’s situation, and also did not neglect to write to their mother twice each time, as well: one letter was from Julian, who fought with the armed forces in the Western front, the other from Friederike, who had unfortunately been dispatched to a factory in Silesia to make a living and had made a rather favourable acquaintance with a circle of officers from the Schutzstaffel who made sure she was never subjected to any form of danger if any such incident were to arise. Lies, lies, lies.

“Es ist von meiner Schwester, Herr Leutnant,” the young man responded happily, diverting his eyes from the letter to his superior.

She lowered her glance, but looked at nowhere in particular for a moment or two, before she sighed wearily (with a hint of frustration which the others could not register) and took another sip from the beer bottle. She listened to Gartman speak fondly of his sister and as he recounted distant tales of the past something tugged at her heart and she pressed her lips, slightly narrowing her eyes as a part of her mind travelled to memories resurfacing to the front of a time she still, in feminine form, would be with her brother some warm May’s morning, teaching him how to drive the motorcycle after her father had first taught her how to do so, the arguments shared when he did not respond to her teachings effectively; she had called him a useless milksop, barked at him loudly and furiously demanded of him to stay focused and pay attention, angrily jeered how his vacuous mind was too busy analyzing Schiller’s ‘Intrigue and Love’ than learn to remove the choke cable. He had yelped that she was being too demanding and exercised unnecessary pressure upon him, sarcastically claimed that he did not plan to become a stupid engineer to begin with, and demanded to leave him alone. Of course, as may be expected, her reaction was nothing short of controlled and so the next few moments had found her slapping and kicking him around, the young boy yanking her from the hair, his cries blended in her growling, and then she snatched him from his neck and forced him to lie next to the tyres as she threatened to squeeze his little head into the engine and use him as makeshift reserve oil. At that time, Lara had burst out of the house, flour smeared along her apron, and with a strict glare she commandingly barked what on earth was all that noise about. Friederike had no other choice but to let go of Julian, the boy immediately striding with clenched fists back to the house and, huffing, ran up the staircase, entered his bedroom and slammed the door shut. A very fuming Friederike was ordered by her revolted mother to hang out the washing to dry, an angry Lara returned to the kitchen and their father stood in the yard, taking a small break from his work, cleaning his hands with a white linen cloth, and laughing.

All in all, just another normal day in the Woltermann household.

“ … und haben sie alle Offiziere eingeladen, sind Sie das Gehen, Herr Leutnant?” Mathias Plesner asked, and the small smile formerly etched across Dirk’s lips vanished on the spot as she looked back at her soldiers, the discussion having changed subjects quite as effortlessly so.

“Zum Empfang?” she asked, frowning.

“Ja, es wird ein großes Sammeln sein, ich hörte, die Siege im Nördlichen Afrika zu feiern. Der Brigadegeneral wird dort auch sein.”

“Zweifellos für den Alkohol,” Jürgen scoffed, and the others laughed heartily.

“Werden Sie gehen, Herr Leutnant?” Alfred asked Dirk curiously, and the rest of them turned their attention to their superior with the same amount of interest.

Dirk furrowed her eyebrows, and raised her bottle once more, appearing for a moment thoughtful. But then she snorted. “Nein,” she simply scoffed, and raised the bottle to her mouth and closed her eyes as she drank from the beer.

And yet again, she could have avoided him.

Her eyes flickered at the strong lights, and she momentarily blinked. There was too much noise, too many people and, frankly, too many dresses. Yellow and orange blended into one shade and surrounded the room, casting its luminance upon her despite the fact she made an effort to stand in the dimmest part with the intention to appear as unconcerned as she could. The dress, made of black lacework, almost felt unnatural along the feminine shape that was otherwise concealed beneath a military uniform, but even more so was the long, dark blonde hair falling down her shoulders like golden waterfall, in an otherwise shaved, clean-cut head. The waiter passed and she took a glass of wine from the tray, her tall and imposing posture briefly catching his attention as he noticed she was unaccompanied, before he subtly suggested she should better move to the centre; Dirk realized he had gestured so because most of the officers stood in groups and thus was more likely for them to take notice of her, but so ridiculous was the thought that the woman should have wished this that a small snort raised in her throat, suppressing it in the last moment as the man walked away; it would be the same waiter who would later witness with no less a confused expression the woman angrily striding to the door, placing an empty glass of wine on his tray along the way, soon followed by an officer of the Luftwaffe. The shrewd, green eyes of that inscrutable, guarding face observed the crowd and did not notice as her feet slowly motioned closer to better look at the faces of the soldiers discussing animatedly with one another, wondering if there was a chance she could have fleetingly seen any of them before.

“Das ist für Tobruk, meine Freunde,” Oberst Eichstädt raised his glass, and the group surrounding him imitated his gesture.

“Und, natürlich, haben die 88-Mm-Artillerie-Pistolen unsere Leistung außerordentlich verbessert, wir werden im Stande sein, sie aus Cyrenaica innerhalb von ein paar Monat zu zwingen und das komplette Nördliche Afrika mit einigen Offensiven zu sichern, und darauf sichere Versorgungslinien zu unseren Truppen in Palermo zu versichern –” Oberstleutnant Sonnenberg continued the discussion, as at the same time another group appraised Erwin Rommel’s military decisions.

“Er, ist schließlich, der Wüste-Fuchs und wegen seines genialen Offensive-Blicks, wo wir sind, und mehr kommen sollen, Herren!” Hauptmann Oberman announced, and drank in contentment from the red vintage wine, the slow music accompanying the dancing couples in the near distance. In twelve seconds, the pilot will be distracted away from his shameless inattention.

“Ich dachte immer, dass seine instinktiven Entscheidungen findig und inspiriert waren,” Leutnant Arling agreed, and nodded briskly to emphasize his thesis. “Man sollte sich nicht in Kleinigkeiten tatsächlich besonders einmischen, wenn solche großen Gelegenheiten vorn liegen. Das ist nicht eine Frage der Disziplin, Herren, aber bloß, was Clausewitz selbst ein militärisches Genie nannte.”

“... Hauptmann Jäger?” Oberleutnant Sturmer addressed him curiously, looking at him with a slightly wrinkled forehead. “Was denken Sie?”

The Hauptmann arched his eyebrow sharply and shook his head, Sturmer understanding that the superior officer had missed the question when, in truth, the baron had missed the entire conversation, his mind too pre-occupied with accidentally on purpose spilling wine down the cleavages of the Italian ladies in the near distance. Oberleutnant Sturmer did not appear disheartened in the least, and only smiled patiently as he shifted his weight from the right foot on to his left. “Über Rommel, natürlich,” he clarified, to which the other man simply shrugged.

“Oh, er ist ein großer Held, ein militärisches Genie tatsächlich,” he spoke in a low, hoarse growl. “Aber ich bin sicher, dass Rommel auch schätzen würde, irgendwo anders anders zu sein, als dieser gottverlassene shithole eines Kontinents. Entschuldigen Sie mich,” he then added after a moment’s pause during which he yawned theatrically, and stepped away from the group, leaving behind him the stunned officers who were left speechless at such behaviour.

In nine seconds he will turn his head and look at her.

She should have moved back to her former position and not motioned to address the Brigadegeneral’s arrival in the military salute; but perhaps not even moving to the corner would have saved her, she should have never attended the reception in the first place, but now that she was here, at least, she should have smelled the danger and shielded herself. It may have never even come to pass. Just a second before he had turned over his shoulder and glanced upon her figure for the first time Oberleutnant Sturmer would have suddenly approached him and blocked his view.

“Herr Hauptmann, will der Major wissen, welche Gruppe Sie für die folgende Offensive und daran zuteilen werden, welche Höhe die Bomber fliegen werden,” he would have requested, at which the Hauptmann would have snorted with an arrogant scoff, finished his drink and turned around to find the Major. The moment would have been lost. But it so happened that Oberleutnant Sturmer was interrupted at the time he was headed towards Jäger by Hauptmann Oberman, who had wished to discuss with him the next morning’s routines with the troops. Nine …

Jäger was left where he stood, uninterrupted and lone to his own musings, drinking from the wine, and only God could know what thoughts passed from that degenerate mind of his. Yes, the Oberleutnant should have interrupted him. Then the Hauptmann would have never let his gaze absent-mindedly fall upon the woman’s silent posture, and what next followed would have never come to pass; instead, the Hauptmann would have spent a rather boring evening, entertained only by the immoralities his mind weaved, she would have finished her drink and left the room, to return to the barracks. Then, later, Leutnant Riedel might have by coincidence bumped against his frame on the way to the offices some busy May’s morning; the Hauptmann would have narrowed his eyes and taken a step backward, the glare intense and his distaste more than evident through that complacent, furious expression.

“Leutnant. Schenken Sie Aufmerksamkeit nicht, wo Sie angeführt werden?” he would have snapped at the other soldier, grey eyes piercing at green with a threatening touch attuned to that dangerous gleam. She would have recognized the danger of finding herself in the wrong side of a superior-ranked officer, and one who appeared to have such a quick temper, and would have nodded briskly.

“Meine Entschuldigungen, Herr Hauptmann,” she should have responded, snapped her jackboots in a military salute, and quickly strode past him. The Hauptmann, slightly frowning, would have turned over his shoulder and looked at her direction as she was walking away, something momentarily bothering him and tugging at his mind, before he would have scoffed and strode away to his duties.

But then, what if she was striding to the offices furiously, as would most likely be the case considering her usual intolerant and iron-forged attitude, her wrath birthed from a failure in the machinery and further augmented by the fact Uhlmann, the engineer, was completely incapable of repairing the damage, her fury only ever gaining new heights at the news he should have it repaired within a few day’s time, but not before the offensive to be launched the following day? With clenched fists and tightly pressed lips she would have strode, blinded from the wrath to such an extent that she would not see the man in front of her, and so brutally would collide with the Hauptmann, who would have almost lost his balance. They would both be momentarily surprised at such an unexpected impact, but then naturally his better self should have prevailed at the time that he would have burst into a fit of rage.

“Sind Sie aus Ihrer Meinung, Soldat!” his furious growl would bite her ears, his rabid expression one of disbelief and fury upon such crude lack of attentiveness from the other soldier’s part. “Was zum Teufel tun denken Sie – ”

“Ich habe Zeit dafür nicht, Flieger!” she would have retaliated with an angry scoff, through her blinded anger not even registering his rank but eyes only snapping back at his visage with an equally intolerant glower – and then brushed past him rudely to tend to her duties. Momentarily left stunned and speechless, the Hauptmann would have glared after her, wide-eyed, before he would have reached out his arm and snatched her from the shoulder, pushing her back forcefully, eyes narrowed with the promise of blood written all over his facial features, and as he swallowed from his dry throat his Adam’s apple throbbed, glowering at her hatefully at this astonishing source of discourteous defiance.

“Sie werden wünschen, dass Sie solche Anmerkungen zu sich selbst verlassen hatten … Herr Leutnant,” he would have uttered very slowly through gritted teeth, her eyes widening and the veins popping out in her neck as she stared back at him, until his hand would release her but only for the purpose of locking its deadly hold around her temples to crush her head against the nearby wall, and she would have snatched him from the collar to throw him away, wolves in a cage, the claws that dug at their skin and fangs which tore apart the flesh, inevitably, until he should have realized her deceit once again, and upon such realization lock his fingers around her throat to choke her but not before she lay damaged within his very own palm, defaced and ravaged, and teeth that chewed the flesh –

No!

She should not have been angry. She should have been calm and addressed him with neutrality and respect regardless, for too much was at stake. Standing there, watching her as she walked away, that small frown etched across his face, the Hauptmann would hook a thumb under his belt, not quite understanding what exactly troubled him at that very moment as his eyes lingered upon the spot the soldier had just vacated. Indeed, that was safe enough; that ought to have come to pass. Of course, even days later, the Hauptmann would have been lying in his bed, with his arms stretched underneath his head as a makeshift pillow and staring silently at the ceiling overhead. For some reason he could not sleep, yet he knew not why, which only prolonged his turbulence in that vicious, self-feeding cycle; his mind went over all the issues that could possibly concern him, his pilots, the Geschwaderkommodore, the next morning’s routines, the flight plans and the next offensive but … then he would think of that Leutnant he accidentally fell upon early that morning, and his eyes would faintly narrow at the thought, his eyes bringing forth the Leutnant’s image, and there was something very wrong with it. He could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong with it, but something tugged at his viscera, a sensation that only brought him aggravation, which was precisely why he needed to solve this situation. On the following morning he would set to his duties as usual, but once dusk had embraced the night Libyan firmament he would recline against the chair within his snare and, as the dim yellow glow illuminated part of his face, it drowned another side of him in the depths of darkness as he stood alone in his office and pulled aside the finished stacks of paper with the military typeface and swastika eagles of the Luftwaffe, bringing forth all the files listing the names of the Wehrmacht soldiers, the next few hours spent on tracking down name after name, determination and the aching need to follow his raw instinct rendering him oblivious to physical fatigue, until, finally, grey eyes fell upon the name of Dirk Riedel next to the soldier’s photograph staring at him with the clearest eyes of green.

“Riedel,” the raspy voice would fade slowly into the shadows and meld into them while the Hauptmann allowed his fingers to trace along the name and rest there.

And everything would take its turn in that vicious cycle.

“Herr Leutnant, es gibt einen Hauptmann Jäger außerhalb das mag Sie sehen,” one of the soldiers would, then, have addressed his superior the other night, the platoon enjoying a few beers inside their tent after a victorious offensive. Frowning, the woman would have wondered who on earth this Hauptmann Jäger was but still she would half-heartedly stand up, holding a beer bottle within her palm, the sleeve of her left arm rolled up and with a bandage tightly tied around the bullet wound, and she pulled aside the tent’s drape as she stepped outside, the pilot’s dominant figure standing outside the tent meeting her gaze, the man smoking, with a peaked cap decorating the top of his head. The woman would have had trouble at first but eventually ought to have recognized him, but despite so she would remain silent, and wait for him to address the reasons of his visit. The Hauptmann would have been rather aggravated by the fact he still could not realize precicely what was wrong with the Leutnant and why his mind had wished to seek him out, observing him closely with that thoughtful, contemplative gaze while taking a deep drag from his cigarette. She would have been courteous, of course, but even if such an incident would have passed without any hostility it was inevitable that the woman’s wrath would spread like liquid fire one of those following days once someone by the name of Hauptfeldwebel Kronberg had taken a few of her soldiers to the barracks of the Luftwaffe; incense would drive her to the edge of her tolerance, push her to find the man, curse him, and there would come to the scene Hauptmann Jäger, angered at her intrusion, and the insults shared between them quite unavoidable that scorching April’s morning. She would have lost control, he would have found her behaviour unacceptable, and then teeth were bared, two wolves in a cage, blood smeared along the sand, flesh, and the cry of pain –

No. No, she would not have lost control, she must not have, there was no other way. At the last moment Hauptfeldwebel Kronberg would have prevented the ultimate destruction, tugged at his superior’s shoulder and reasoned with him. The Hauptmann would have let the Leutnant go, and everything would have been salvaged, would it not?

But then, what if that time should have arisen weeks later when some Major of the Luftwaffe had decided that the training practice of the 2nd Schwarm of the 3rd Staffel would take place in the same area the Leutnant had marked as Wehrmacht territory for the training of the Nebelwerfer 40? Oh, indeed, she would have for the first and only time resolved to appear in her feminine form, the visit to the Major’s office brief and uncomplicated. She would step outdoors and look around her, the voice of typewriters attacking her from left, right and centre. The steady tapping of the typewriters would have mixed with the demanding ringing of the phones and he would growl at the noises at the time he would walk outside his office, allowing his secretary a brief glance just to raise the case of cigarettes in his other hand to denote to her over the commotion that he would be back after a cigarette in case anyone would be asking for him. And it would be just as he had begun to step along the corridor that his eyes would have fallen upon the woman. And it was as she had seen the pilot’s figure standing in the near distance that she would freeze on the spot. She would rush to the side and alongside the line of secretaries, refusing to even wheel her head around and take another glimpse of the man, whose eyes would immediately flash with strange recognition, her feet rushing her away and eyes widening in strengthened agony, her stress only ever accentuated as she attempted to make out a shorter route for the exit door, her hand already outreached to grasp the door handle and barely containing herself from the good, old run – when, suddenly, she would have been pulled backwards with force, her head turning around against her will to gaze into the Hauptmann’s eyes.

No, she would not have chanced on the Hauptmann, she would have been careful enough! They would have never met in that corridor. The Hauptmann would have stepped out of his office; in five seconds he would have seen her. Five, four, three, two – suddenly, Oberleutnant Wahler should have blocked his view, a solemn expression on his tired face, to announce how the Major had assigned a different mechanic for the fighters, Langhorst, who was to replace Kreutzer in his duties. Fuming, the Hauptmann would have been too engrossed to bark his complaints to Wahler rather than notice the woman in the distance striding along the corner and turning the door handle to leave.

But nature could not be fought, so then what if the woman would finally stop while walking along the hangar on her way to the exit, her eyes having caught a interesting outline in the near distance until she would eventually yield and slowly walk closer to the fighter, to admire the coal-black stallion painted on the metallic surface, memories of her childhood soaring through her mind, her green eyes absorbed into that sensation as she forgot about the time and place, her fingers outreaching to trace the horse’s beautiful shape, its graceful head, the tall, strong legs and proud stance.

“Der Holsteiner. Großartig, ist nicht es?”

A strong hand would, then, have reached out to touch the metallic form, resting in the short distance next to her, and the woman’s head would have jerked suddenly to the side, blinking for a fleeting moment as her senses were abruptly brought back to earth. Turning around in confusion, her eyes would have widened in astonishment to meet his gaze, and his calm, complacent tone would morph into confusion and interest.

“Kenne ich Sie?” he would then ask curiously, narrowing his eyes, and his mind racing viciously upon the pieces of the puzzle slowly placed in their according positions. He did not even know her name, and yet, strangely enough, he felt as if they had known each other forever.

“Nein,” her resolute, point-blank response would be, and without further delay the woman would hurry to stride past him along the hangar’s large, wide corridor towards the exit, but alas, a hand had latched onto her shoulder and pulled her back.

Yes, it was hopeless, wasn’t it?

She would always move ahead, and he would follow. Her feet would lead her towards paths that created distance from him, and always the distance would be diminished with each step he took closer to her. Always being pulled back. She could run, he would pursue. She could breathe, he would exhale. Drink, but he would taste, and eat, but he would be the one to swallow. What a rotten, sad and fulfilling state to live in, when anything else was rendered worthless so that any effort to salvage pride and return to that former existence seemed as ridiculous as attempting to fight against the current during a thunderstorm. The road was difficult and bleak, laden with burdens at her feet, the forest deeply forbidding and mystical, encasing her secrets and dark intentions within the trunks of trees, underneath the grass, bushes and stray branches suddenly blocking her path, their thorns scratching against the bared flesh of her back and drawing blood. They cut the skin, and behind her she heard a groan. She could turn around and see his face distorted in anguish even if no wounds had lacerated him, and as her green eyes further bore into his grey abyss, the more the thorns slashed against her flesh the more he clenched his fist in pain. She looked at him curiously, and once she understood, she turned away and pulled the branches aside as she made way, guiding him through the darkness. She did not promise the vanquishing of pain or any amount of relief; if anything, ache and suffering would only escalate the deeper they walked along that road, and more blood were to be drawn, nails dug to the skin to denote agony and wretchedness. But what she did promise was to bleed along with him, to feel the same throbbing torment. Thus they set on their journey across the forest, she led, and he followed. She knew he was not lost for, even though he stood a few metres in the distance, she could hear his breath as clearly as if he was breathing next to her ear, his shadow caressing her form, and the hunter trusted the prey which, bathing in the moonlight, learned how to yield to the hunter at its own will. One could forbid the Libyan sun from burning their skin and they could tell the tides from turning, the moon from fading away and growing again each month …

But does that truly accomplish anything?

The music echoed around the four walls, and she drank from the wine. Eight … seven… He replaced the empty glass with a new one and gazed around the room. Six … Five … The noise was loud and animated as the officers engaged themselves in detailed conversations, about the situation in Africa, about Rommel, or Italian food, and a few of them danced with the ladies at the soft melody playing in the room. Four … Her fingers remained around the glass’s rim, eyes that gazed after the Brigadegeneral and a sense of fulfillment rushing through her viscera as she snapped at a precise salute. Three … Two … He saluted the officer sharply, a sense of contentment and pride spreading throughout his insides, his eyes fixed upon the other man’s posture, and slowly travelling along the small crowd of soldiers surrounding him, all of them having addressed the superior in the same manner. One … A single motion was required, only the smallest motion of his head …

Zero.

*

The merciless Libyan sun tugged at the black lacework as she stood with her frame against the wall, fingers looped tightly around a tobacco roll and smoking, the blonde hair tied up in a tight ponytail, her posture appearing mostly contemplative and lost in thought as she stood outside the building that warm June’s morning, and it was as simple as that, really. Trouble, oh yes, he was in trouble, but why must she be the one to tend to it? Did she owe him anything, to begin with, and if she did had she not already paid for whatever service he had offered her? And had she, after all, not been quite final in her tone as she had addressed him the previous day, the man bound within that pathetic little territory of his in the underground prison, had she not made it painfully, abundantly clear that she no longer had anything to do with him? She snorted, and breathed a drag from the cigarette while green eyes gazed at the space in front of her and yet at nowhere in particular, unable to focus upon the figures even as they distantly moved about, soldiers tending to their duties and other personnel performing their assigned tasks, commands being ordered, the noises all drowned out of her reverie as she simply stood there in her quietude, and it was so very calm and even peaceful, her frame relaxing against the stone wall and with an unemotional, composed expression that suggested she was in control of the situation, even if she was still questioning herself, her motives, her own wretched inability to throw that dress into the Mediterranean Sea and watch it slowly float away with the current, to be lost forever into the depths whence it should never be found again, together with the wig, together with everything that these equalled – his presence, his existence, his vitriolic glare. Indeed, why did she have to find the man? Everyone would tend to their business, the Hauptmann would be appropriately punished for all of his wrongdoings, the Hauptfeldwebel were to return to his daily cares and she would be left unbothered by the pilot’s arrogance.

Everything would go back to normal.

Only … it would not, now would it? Her anger may have evaporated but her guilt had not – oh, how ridiculous! If he did not deserve to be punished for that incidence then the punishment would have most certainly be served on account of his persistent torture of her, one way or another he was going to receive the penalties for his own vile nature. She had not slept a day. Ever since his foul game had begun and his toying around upon discovering her secret she had not slept a day in months, her sleep only ever a few hour’s pitiful rest, but what physical rest was fulfilling when the mind was never given a reprieve? She had lost her sleep, her peace of mind, relative and often quavering as it had been, and would have happily pointed the rifle against his scalp and pulled the trigger. Yes, she was now persuaded she had uselessly bothered to take the trouble and change forms, that she ought to return to the Wehrmacht barracks and continue with her tasks.

The sun beamed upon her hair and played around her hair as she sat up straight, and breathed in deeply from the cigarette, eyes of viridian green gleaming with a characteristic self-mockery, a smirk etching across her lips as her eyes fell upon the distance ahead of her. With a self-mocking snort, she let the cigarette drop to the ground, where she extinguished it with her foot. Then, without further ado did she turn around and entered the building.

“Kronberg. Können wir sprechen?”



Translation

Who is this letter from?

It is from my sister, Herr Leutnant.

… and they have invited all the commissioned officers, are you going, Herr Leutnant.

To the reception?

Yes, it will be a large gathering, I heard, to celebrate the victories in North Africa. The Brigadegeneral will be there, also.

No doubt for the booze.

Will you go, Herr Leutnant?

This is for Tobruk, my friends.

And, of course, the 88 mm artillery guns have greatly improved our performance, we will be able to force them out of Cyrenaica within a few month’s time and secure the entire North Africa with a few offensives, and thence guarantee safe supply lines to our troops in Palermo -

He is, after all, the Desert Fox and due to his ingenious offensives look where we are, and more is to come, gentlemen.

I always thought his instinctive decisions were resourceful and inspired. One should not meddle in trifles, indeed, especially when such great opportunities lie ahead. This is not a question of discipline, gentlemen, but merely what Clausewitz himself called a military genius.

Hauptmann Jäger? What do you think?

About Rommel, of course.

Oh, he is a big hero, a military genius, indeed. But I’m sure that Rommel, too, would appreciate being anywhere else other than this godforsaken shithole of a continent. Excuse me.

Herr Hauptmann, the Major wants to know which group you will assign for the next offensive and at what height the bombers will fly.

Leutnant. Are you not paying attention where you’re headed?

My apologies, Herr Hauptmann.

Are you out of your mind, soldier! What the hell do you think –

I don’t have time for this, flyboy!

You’ll be wishing you had left such comments to yourself … Herr Leutnant.

Herr Leutnant, there is a Hauptmann Jäger outside that wishes to see you.

The Holsteiner. Magnificent, isn’t it?

Do I know you?

Kronberg. Can we talk?

[Rolf Jäger]

Tiny particles of dust floated along the golden shafts of sunlight sifting through the windows of the building, causing the atmosphere to adopt an almost ethereal, soft quality. Hauptfeldwebel Kronberg settled into drawing in this sensation, the man choosing to ignore the fact that the air felt oppressingly warm and stale at the same time. Instead he breathed out slowly as he sat on the edge of one of the beds, feeling momentarily safe and comforted within the confines of the nearly empty room. Libya was like a brutal, raging beast, out to kill anyone daring enough to imagine that they could survive her scorching wrath, but her talons could not reach Walter Kronberg here in his shelter and he was momentarily safe from her ferocity. He could almost convince himself that he was back in Germany instead, just a mere train trip away from Karlsruhe. If he merely chose so, he could lose himself in the bustle of a busy train station, the exhilarating tingle of returning back home tickling at the bottom of his stomach as he would board the train and watch the scenery slowly grow more familiar, with lush trees of green and vast fields of wind-swept grass flashing by the window. The images had become so vivid in the man's mind as to draw a silent smile upon his lips and he allowed the illusion to last for a few seconds more, before it was broken by an abrupt storm of laughter carrying from the other side of the room. Other members of the Luftwaffe were still lingering in the barracks, having been granted brief leave or sent to rest in the relative luxury the barracks offered in contrast to sleeping in a tent. Some of them, like Kronberg, were here to tend to other duties and the Hauptfeldwebel had only a brief moment to spend as he chose. He merely wanted to sit still for a moment, away from the scorch of the sun and the constant clamor of too many people, sitting on one of the wooden cots with a few wrinkled papers in his hand.

Recent events had mixed up the chain of command in their Gruppe and new and unwanted duties had been pushed upon Kronberg. He had been always happy to follow commands and give them when he had a clear idea of the things required of him, but recently his mind had felt muddled and things had changed far too foreign and confusing for his tastes. The Gruppe Adjutant, Oberleutnant Wahler, was happily trusting Kronberg with military tasks he was not very familiar with and Kronberg felt he was out of his depth, paddling the dark and unknown waters with frantic and ineffective movements. He was not one to push papers around, but Wahler somehow assumed that Kronberg was apt in such things after having been working so closely with the Gruppenkommandeur for as long time a time as he had. He was a better pilot than a NCO, more comfortable in taking on tasks already familiar to him, leaving the papers and brainwork to Hauptmann Jäger instead. The sudden and simple reminder of the Luftwaffe officer drew a shadow over the stocky man's features and his eyebrows wrinkled as his hand automatically reached up to touch his very recently broken nose. The ache had passed by now and he had discarded the small bandage a few days ago after deciding that it made him look quite ridiculous, but the memories had anything but vanished and they still chose to return to him like a stubborn stray dog, constantly shadowing his soul and snapping at his heels.

He could still distinctly recall the moment he had first met the Hauptmann, the man merely opening the door to glance at him as if he was the most insignificant person in the world, promptly telling the other pilot to disappear from his sight before slamming the door shut once more. Kronberg had simply blinked, for a moment contemplating if he had just been issued a military order and if he should follow it, but then he had been assigned to work with the Hauptmann and this order had been received from a higher authority than Jäger was, so he simply chose to follow the proper chain of command. With a sigh, Walter Kronberg had settled into waiting behind the door, ever obedient and patient, the minutes drawing longer and longer and the amused gazes of other soldiers in the building regarding him each time they passed by. With the stubbornness of a sturdy bulldog, Kronberg had disregarded the ache developing in his legs, ignoring the stares and smirks he received, his heart jumping up to his throat the moment the door had finally opened once more. He had snapped into a precise salute, hiding the grimace instinctively drawn upon his features when he felt blood flowing back into his numb legs and a sense of surprise and amusement had passed over the Hauptmann's eyes upon seeing the other pilot still waiting for him there. He had obviously reached some inner decision in mere seconds, gruffly telling Kronberg to follow him and the Hautptfeldwebel had done just that, trailing after his commanding officer ever since. They had been through various countries, both of their lives hanging by a thread in the several battles they had been in and through those times a curious trust had developed between them. Kronberg was not quite bold enough to call it a friendship, but working as the Hauptmann's wingman had developed some kind of curious bond between them and Kronberg had ever known that would it come to that, Jäger would shield his life with his own.

It had been difficult attempting to follow and conform to the swiftly changing moods of the Hauptmann, but if anyone could tolerate Jäger's sudden bursts of wrath and contempt, it was Kronberg, blessed with an almost inexhaustible source of patience and neutrality as he was. He had learned that the Hauptmann's bark was often worse than his bite and it was merely in his nature to act in the way he did; he could not help it and he certainly did not mean ill by it - at least, not all the time! Kronberg had still flinched away from Jäger's wrath, but it had happened on more of an instinct than anything else. He had grown to trust in the fact that after all the shared battles upon the bullet-infected skies they had flown upon, after all the close-calls and brushes with death that they had both experienced, no matter how fiercely the Hauptmann might have snarled at him, he would have never attacked or harmed his wingman.

That illusion had been crudely broken the moment Hauptmann Jäger had turned against him, his eyes cold and feral as he had directed his scorching wrath upon his wingman, the years of trust and comradeship between them far too easily forgotten as Jäger's fingers had clenched into a merciless fist. He still remembered the dark void inhabiting the Hauptmann's eyes just before Kronberg had lost grasp of his senses with the first fast waves of pain travelling along his face. That glance had still haunted him, eyes of coldest grey wishing nothing else but to see him struck down, the desire for mindless violence burning bright and primal in the irises that recognized no trust, alliance or loyalty. It had only taken the matter of those drawn moments to destroy something that had been built over years and the thought constricted Kronberg's throat, his fingers crushing the two pieces of wrinkled paper violently for a while before he seemed to remember them once more, a weak sense of affection flooding over his face and growing stronger as he remembered the words scrawled upon the papers. It was a letter from home and written a month ago as it might have been, it still brought his family closer to him and Kronberg attempted to settle into those memories once more, attempting to drive away the malicious thoughts with memories from a different, lighter time.

He could recall each meticulously written word included in the letter by heart and the way Gerda curved the lines at the ends of certain letters, each carefully considered sentence bringing him further away from the battles and heat, from the pain and betrayal. Kronberg folded open the two papers once more, reading through the letter for the umpteenth time and smiling at the mention of her fixing up the faulty kitchen windowpane, at all the things their daughter had learned in his absence and how much Gerda worried for him, but trusted him to come back safe and sound. They were small, seemingly unimportant stories, but ones that still held all the significance to Kronberg and he delved into them hungrily, the man seeking solace from the memories of simpler, warmer times in the middle of the constant precariousness that was the war. He could no longer remember the Hauptmann or his own broken nose, his mind momentarily drawn into another existence, just to be disturbed by the feeling of someone's presence near him, that odd sensation further followed by a familiar, sharp voice that shook the Hauptfeldwebel effectively out of his stupor.

Kronberg's eyes flicked at the figure of the black-clad woman, standing nearby as decisive and proud as she always did, her blonde hair neatly drawn into a ponytail behind her neck as she observed Kronberg from under distinctly drawn eyebrows. It was strange how such a commanding atmosphere seemed to take over the mellow, golden feel of the room and something almost militaristic caused the Hauptweldwebel to sharpen up, his attention immediately locked upon Miss Riedel. Kronberg stumbled up, quickly folding the papers and stuffing them inside his pocket, appearing nothing but stunned and nervous by the woman's sudden appearance. His mouth hung open as he stared at Riedel, blinking and trying to understand the reasons behind her unexpected visit, yet his mind was working far too slow to come up with any proper explanations for now. He had almost missed her question in his confusion and the Luftwaffe pilot stared at her in that silent stupor for a while, trying to remember if she had actually requested to speak specifically with him or not. Kronberg's head flicked briefly to the side and his mouth opened and closed for a few more seconds before he finally managed to find his wits for long enough to address her. "Der Hauptmann ist nicht hier," Kronberg explained quickly, clearing his throat when he noticed that his voice had been rendered far too weak and pitiful. He had already made his own, almost automatic conclusion on the purpose of the woman's visit and the stocky pilot shrugged, appearing timid and awkward as he went on. "Er ist für eine Sitzung auch nicht zurzeit verfügbar. Vielleicht, wenn Sie zurückkehren, nach ein paar Tagen werden Sie besseres Glück haben," Kronberg attempted a small smile, but then pain flared over his sore nose and he grimaced, shooting a milder, even apologetic smirk at her. Of course there was no reason for Miss Riedel to come and see him specifically, nor did they really have that too many common things to discuss. The Hauptfeldwebel had no idea of the nature of relationship that existed between the woman and the Hauptmann, and whatever there was, certainly appeared far too complicated for him to make any sense of. There certainly was a connection and not too long time ago Kronberg had attempted to nudge this connection towards a more positive direction, that caring part of him wishing to see both Jäger and Riedel happy and at ease with each other. Now he found himself growing slightly worried over Miss Riedel's safety, instead, for if the Luftwaffe officer could attack Kronberg in such a vicious manner, why would the woman be safe from those sudden bursts of anger, either? Certainly she was strong and decisive enough to openly challenge the Hauptmann, but she was still only a woman and, in Kronberg's opinion, she appeared far too nice to suffer from any violent fate the Hauptmann might bring upon her. He still remembered how Riedel had helped him up after he had been struck down by Jäger and how carefully she had wiped the blood from his face, for some unknown reason blaming herself for the incident.

Kronberg drew breath deeply, his eyebrows furrowed with this silent concern as he considered simply telling Miss Riedel that it was better if she did not attempt to search the man out, either, that she was safer simply steering clear of him. As the words about the Hauptmann's imprisonment lingered upon his tongue, he suddenly bit down on it and curiously, found himself feeling as if he would betray Jäger by telling the woman that he man was rotting away in jail. But what if she knew about it, already? And why should Kronberg care about attempting to maintain the Hauptmann's face? The man ended up swallowing his words, anyway, and he cleared his throat once more, glancing at his feet and then at the blonde female, suddenly feeling very awkward in the woman's presence, while some of the confusion was brought on by the realization that he still, maybe even involuntarily, held some loyalty towards his commanding officer. "Er ist... durch einige plötzliche Aufgaben zurückgehalten worden, aber ich kann ihm sagen, dass Sie nach ihm suchten," Kronberg promised nimbly, not knowing how to stand or where to put his hands, which was why he shifted his weight from one foot to another and first folded his arms in front of him, next sliding them behind his back and finally allowed them to simply hang nervously by his sides.


Translations:

"Der Hauptmann ist nicht hier."
"The Hauptmann is not here."

"Er ist für eine Sitzung auch nicht zurzeit verfügbar. Vielleicht, wenn Sie zurückkehren, nach ein paar Tagen werden Sie besseres Glück haben."
"He is not currently available for a meeting either. Maybe if you return after a few days, you'll have better luck."

"Er ist... durch einige plötzliche Aufgaben zurückgehalten worden, aber ich kann ihm sagen, dass Sie nach ihm suchten."
"He has been... restrained by some sudden duties, but I can tell him that you were looking for him."

[Dirk Riedel]

The woman registered the Hauptfeldwebel’s surprise upon meeting her there, but she did not appear remotely disheartened by that fact or the man’s being flustered at her unexpected arrival; she found his nervous behaviour quite darling, to begin with, and even more genuine and unassuming – so different to the Hauptmann’s character, it was only a tremendous wonder how such deeply contrasting personalities could tolerate and even co-operate with one another upon the heat of battle when critical decisions must be made and actions be executed. Still, she slightly curved her forehead in confusion once the Hauptfeldwebel announced that the Hauptmann was not presently there, the man having immediately assumed she wished to inquire after Jäger, which may have indeed been the sensible thing to expect … had she not asked to talk with him in the first place. He continued in such a puzzling rejoinder, even pointing out to the fact of his superior being unavailable at the moment on the grounds he had been ‘restrained by sudden duties’, from which he were to apparently be discharged within the next few days. He appeared quite timid and nimble, and not quite confident how to position his hands, and she simply stood there, staring at him with a blank stare, eyes only ever slightly narrowed in an attempt to understand him, momentarily persuaded that, perhaps, this was a little joke on his behalf initiated under the expectation it were to alleviate the strange awkwardness between them after what had passed the last time they had met, on a completely singular circumstance and under grossly dissimilar conditions. She remained quiet for a moment or two, green eyes reflective and contemplative as they glanced back at the stocky man in his Luftwaffe uniform. It was only a moment later that she realized precisely what he was attempting to do, and then could not quite believe how, after such unreasonable and disgraceful treatment, the Hauptfeldwebel still was quite prepared to show such minimal obedience to his superior – and, thus, in that very moment the woman’s appreciation and estimation towards the Hauptfeldwebel increased to as much as it lowered for the Hauptmann.

A small, distinctive enough smile passed the corner of her lips, and it was considerate as it was favourable, understanding but also quietly letting him know such excuses were, really, to no avail. “Kronberg, ich weiß,” she softly spoke, the quality of her smile having morphed into that tone of her voice, and eyes that communicated her knowledge were fixed upon his visage. Erstens ich will mich bei Ihnen persönlich dafür entschuldigen, was geschah und Ihnen erzählen, wie schrecklich ich fand, dass Sie an der Empfangsseite von etwas völlig Irrelevantem mit Ihnen waren. Es hat mich seit den letzten wenigen Tagen belästigt, ich musste zu Ihnen erklären,” she told him, and suddenly her expression altered to one of grave solemnity and the evident indication of guilt and regret. Then, she looked away from him at the next words she knew she must say, the memories resurfacing within the corners of her mind and claiming dominance throughout her every fibre. “Sie waren nicht dort aber … ich hatte eine Rolle darin, ich spielte meine eigene Rolle, die ich bedauerte,” she admitted, and her throat felt dry. “Der Grund der Hauptmann griff Sie an, wurde im Sporn des Moments nicht getan – wenn auch er dafür anfällig ist, ziemlich unvorhersehbar zu sein,” she added thoughtfully. “Aber nein, regte ich Dinge innerhalb seiner Meinung an, absichtlich ist das, und unpassend so wahr,” she confessed, and she turned her face back to him, the expression that met his gaze restrained and almost severe.

The woman could not help but relive those moments during which she spoke all those befouling things to Jäger and how much did she regret acting in such an idiotic way! She had been out of her mind at the moment he had dared insinuate how she was using her feminine form for the sole purpose of gaining unfair advantage in a way most unbefitting and debauched for anyone who wished to be considered respectable in modern society. How could she, then, not have reacted in the way she did and, even more so, considering her incapacity is wreaking havoc around his office on account of his crude exploitation that thrived upon his golden seat of nails and arrows, morphed the physical anguish into a verbal assault of such biting force and aching twinge that led him to the edge of his limits and brought forth savagery and the known beast lurking from within and which nudged him to such a spirit of antagonism and warfare that it would have been completely irresponsible for one to claim he should have simply been ‘in control’ of himself. He was not a lifeless log, a rock, a mountain slope or the dead feathers of a scavenged seabird, he was a human being and thus susceptible to the raw power of human emotion, flaw and agony, so that sentiments rushed ahead of him and numbed his better judgement, for who could temper the force of outrage when its flames spread and consumed their spirit? Even the rocks were eaten away by the constant whipping of the sea waves splashing against their stone surface, until they should eventually roll slowly downwards their own declivity and to a watery demise; even the mountain killed its inhabitants whenever it so wished, a break of the ice across the lake, a wildfire, the endless snowstorms or icicles trapping their victims within the dark, unexplored depths of the caves. Then how could he be blamed for being unable to resist that animalistic instinct, the primal reaction, the act of aggression and the call for a brutal arrangement back into the order he had been used to.

“Sie haben ihn noch nicht besuchen sollen, stimmt dass?” she then asked him, but was not really expecting an answer. “Warum Sie sollte,” she muttered, and scoffed while her eyes stared around her and yet nowhere in particular, before she turned to meet Kronberg’s gaze once more. “Ich weiß, was er tat, war unannehmbar, und ich verstehe, dass Sie sehr enttäuscht sein müssen, aber … Leute machen häufig Sachen in der Wut, die sie nie sonst getan hätten,” she explained in a considerate tone, and eyes that glanced back at him with such honesty as her heart offered. “Der Hauptmann hat viele Fehler, aber ich weiß - ich weiß, dass er auf diese Weise nie reagiert hätte. Er meinte es nicht, er wurde nur sehr böse. Sie wissen das,” she reminded him, the Hauptfeldwebel’s words ringing inside her mind, and how strange that reception seemed as if it had belonged to a different year, a long time ago in fact that was now so insignificant and forgotten. “Das war nicht er, Sie sahen es ebenso deutlich, wie ich tat, war er neben seiner Meinung.”

A slight frown crossed her forehead for a second or two as she paused, looking briefly at the floor, and then back at him. “Wenn es irgendjemanden gibt, sollten Sie damit böse sein dann mit mir böse sein, aber das ist es nicht wert, um alles zwischen Ihnen und dem Hauptmann wegzuwerfen. Erinnern Sie sich, als Sie mit solcher Loyalität und Hingabe für ihn einmal sprachen? Das verschwand nicht einfach. Er ist noch dieselbe Person, aber der welche Zweck zu sein ist gegenüber jemandem an ihren besten von Tagen treu, wenn Sie ihnen in ihrem schlechtesten nicht verzeihen können?” she asked him in a soft voice, staring down at him with eyes that were kind and considerate. She was not quite certain why exactly she was speaking in this manner and what made her say these words with regard to Jäger and, most likely, the woman had not even realized herself how true these were, but her face was gentle and genuine, intending nothing else but for the Hauptfeldwebel to show the understanding she could not muster herself.

“Ich werde Entschuldigungen in seinem Interesse nie machen, er muss die Falschkeit seiner Handlungen selbst begreifen, er muss bestraft werden, aber ich denke noch, dass Sie ihn besuchen müssen. Er braucht es wirklich,” she said quietly, and even a hint of brief melancholy passed the green of her eyes as she momentarily looked away; but when those irises transfixed through his own, made of a dark green and with a touch of hazel, they spoke nothing but sentiment and ache. “Er fragte nach Ihnen,” she informed him. “Er wurde betroffen, das war offensichtlich. Und er sah schrecklich aus,” she said, and sighed wearily, before she took a step closer, and her expression changed to one of almost beseech. “Oh, verzeihen Sie ihm, Kronberg,” she whispered in a fervid tone, and eyes that begged of compassion.



Translation

Kronberg, I know.

Firstly, I want to apologize to you personally for what happened and tell you how awful I felt you were at the receiving end of something completely irrelevant with you. It has been bothering me for the past few days, I needed to explain to you.

You were not there but … I had a role in it, I played my own part, which I regretted. The reason the Hauptmann attacked you was not done in the spur of the moment – even though he is prone to being quite unpredictable. But no, I incited things within his mind, intentionally it is true, and inappropriately so.

You have not been to visit him yet, have you? Why should you. I know what he did was unacceptable and I understand you must be very disappointed but … people often do things in anger they would never have otherwise done. The Hauptmann has many flaws but I know – I know he would have never reacted in that way. He didn’t mean it, he only became very angry. You know this. That wasn’t him, you saw it as clearly as I did, he was beside his mind.

If there is anyone you should be angry with then be angry with me, but it is not worth it to throw away everything between you and the Hauptmann. Remember when you spoke with such loyalty and devotion for him once? That did not simply vanish. He still is the same person, but what is the purpose of being loyal to someone at their best of days when you cannot forgive them in their worst?

I will never make excuses on his behalf, he must realize the wrongness of his actions himself, he needs to be punished, but I still think you need to visit him. He really needs it.

He asked about you. He was concerned, it was obvious. And he looked terrible. Oh, forgive him, Kronberg.

[Rolf Jäger]

Kronberg's face flushed red when the woman announced that she was already familiar with the Hauptmann's predicament and a small tug of quite unwarranted fear nudged at his insides when the Hauptfeldwebel felt that he had betrayed the woman's trust in attempting to lead her astray in such a flimsy attempt of lying. The man glanced quickly at his feet and attempted to drive away the signs of his embarrassment, but he could also discern the gentle tone in Miss Riedel's voice, the small smile lingering in the corner of her lips further telling Kronberg that she felt no anger over his small, white lie. The man breathed out slowly, allowing his gaze to carefully rise up and skip over the woman's features in a more confused manner when she confessed feeling guilty over the events that had taken place very recently, leaving Kronberg with a painful reminder of the Hauptmann's wrath. There was something oddly comforting to the woman's presence and even though the aura surrounding her was ever wrought with steeled resolve and unbroken pride, there was a surprising amount of genuine warmth to her presence as well, enough to calm down the timid Hauptfeldwebel and have him stand still and attentive when she further elaborated on her words. He could not understand her explanation, regardless, and the man's eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side as he stared at Miss Riedel. She claimed that she had incited things within the Hauptmann's mind and the gears in the Hauptfeldwebel's head turned slowly, the man now recalling the decisive path Jäger had trailed to reach Siegner's office, the lone image telling him that this entire mess had prominently included the other Hauptmann, also. The details were left in the shade and it all seemed far too complicated for Kronberg to further delve into. The man blinked and, wanting to ease up the woman's clearly unwarranted feelings of guilt, he shook his head in confused silence to show her that he did not quite agree with her self-reproach.

He could not know the content of the discussion that had enticed such a violent mood in the Hauptmann and even though Miss Riedel was eagerly attempting to convince Kronberg that it had been due to her actions, it was still not enough to convince the Hauptfeldwebel that things could truly be so one-sided. Attacking the other Hauptmann had been one thing, but extending that violence towards Kronberg had been too much for the man to digest. He had been ever steadfast in his loyalty and had never expected any rewards apart from the appreciation he knew Jäger held towards such a deep-rooted quality, but he had never realized how effortlessly he could turn against him, either. He believed in Miss Riedel's words - as openly spoken as they were - yet they did not shift the blame away from the Hauptmann and this sentiment was evident on the stocky man's features as his mouth twisted slightly to the side and a shadow of apprehension passed over his face. The brief silence that passed between them felt almost awkward, the woman drawn into some memory of her own while Kronberg felt as if he should have been comforted by her words, yet he simply could not make that happen even through the almost childish and naive efforts he attempted to muster.

When Miss Riedel suddenly asked him if he had visited the Hauptmann, the question clearly requiring no answer, a brief sense of guilt visited Kronberg's eyes and he only shook his head, his eyes remaining on the woman, both confused and curious. At her mention of Kronberg's disappointment the man could only appear acknowledging, for disappointment was a very mild word for describing his current emotions. He felt betrayed for witnessing the Hauptmann so easily discarding something Kronberg had considered friendship between them and as much as the man might have barked and jeered at him, Kronberg had always chosen to look past this cold mask of his, rather placing value in the rare trust the Hauptmann had graced him with. The man felt uncharacteristically stubborn, refusing to allow even the woman's kindly spoken words to affect him, yet it was when she reminded him of how foreign the Hauptmann had been during those moments of blind fury that the Hauptfeldwebel blinked, a small crack appearing upon the surface of his resolve. It was true, Kronberg had never witnessed his commanding officer in such a complete state of blind anger and maybe, just maybe he was being too unforgiving in judging the man on this sole action alone. Kronberg could still not agree with the woman when she asked him to rather direct his anger at her, for the Hauptfeldwebel had already made up his mind about the woman and had already begun to consider her a warm, kind soul, one possessing a keen eye for other people and the world around her, further carrying within her strength and intelligence Kronberg could never hope to match. He was self-conscious of his own strengths and limits and most of the time felt quite happy being the person that he was - not the best at everything, but definitely not the worst, either - but it would have not hurt to be able to draw from such resources as the woman clearly possessed.

It was this very respect that made the man listen to her very closely and Kronberg's hazel eyes glinted in the glow of the sunlight at Riedel's words when she reminded him of the time he had defended the Hauptmann himself and that loyalty such as that could not be destroyed that easily. Maybe he had been too quick to discard it himself, maybe he being a horrible person not even paying his commanding officer a visit when he might have been counting on just such a visit, expecting the Hauptfeldwebel to inquire after him when nobody else would. The thoughts constricted Kronberg's throat even more when Riedel told him that Jäger had asked after him - in a horrible shape, no less - and then the woman personally asked him to forgive the Hauptmann, her honest and outspoken words causing the man's lower lip to tremble. Kronberg had been never good with handling strong emotions and he swallowed down the guilt and concern suddenly dwelling within, wrenching his hands in front of him. It took the man some time to find his voice and when he spoke, his voice was thin and weak, yet his words were thick with the sudden trust Kronberg felt towards Miss Riedel. "Ich dachte gerade... Ich würde nicht wissen was zu sagen, ob ich besuchte. Und... und... Er schlug mich, und er hat nie so getan. Ich versuchte nur ihm zu helfen," Kronberg stared at his feet as he spoke and his fingers tugged at the sleeve of his Luftwaffe tunic as he paused for a moment to gather his senses.

When he raised his gaze, there was a sense of sudden clarity and almost childish trust in his copper eyes, the man considering the woman's motivations only for a small while. He considered himself possessing a decent skill for judging other people's character and if anything, Miss Riedel was a person that could be trusted and who would listen to others with a keen ear, ever striving to assist them. Kronberg could only guess on the nature of relationship between the Hauptmann and Miss Riedel and it certainly seemed to be a connection of confusing extremities. The apparent hatred that seemed to pass between the two was something Kronberg could never quite understand, but he had seen the fervent look in the Hauptmann's eyes as he stared at the woman and Kronberg, naive as he was, only wished to imagine that the man would find some stability and joy in his life for once, such qualities maybe soothing down his violent nature and molding him into a more stable, calmer individual. Kronberg, possessing the talent for making himself almost invisible, had seen the Hauptmann pulling the blonde woman into a dance and pressing her frame against his own, the man obviously getting lost in another plane of existence in Miss Riedel's presence. Kronberg was anything but blind and he assumed that some deeper emotions for the blonde woman had to run within Jäger and even if the woman herself would not be quite ready to match them, it could only be a positive thing to attempt to pursue a human relationship, the Hauptmann's usual interactions with women usually having fallen meaningless and shallow. It would have been impossible to ignore the obvious scorch of flames that seemed to ignite within the Hauptmann whenever Miss Riedel was nearby and even though they were most likely ignited also by the man's ferocious nature, Kronberg knew that other sentiments had to be feeding that inner fire, too. He had not been blind to the stabbing words and unadulterated anger that passed between Miss Riedel and the Hauptmann, either, and Kronberg felt as if he was attempting to clear up an impossible tangle. Perhaps they just needed to have such an outlet to feel more comfortable around each other, maybe they even enjoyed it; Kronberg had already given up trying to understand the reasons behind their abrupt and irrational reactions. He was a simple, straightforward person and rather than tormenting his already tired mind with such complications, chose to settle into believing the things he found most simple and comforting.

He understood well enough that there was no reason for Miss Riedel to specifically seek Kronberg out in an effort to make the Hauptfeldwebel feel better over the incident, so it was only natural to assume that she was there because of the Hauptmann himself. The thought further prodded at the trust quickly building within the man and his shoulders slumped down, apparent worry reflecting from his still-gleaming eyes. "Der Hauptmann ist in genug Schwierigkeiten gewesen, wie es mit seiner... aggressiven Natur ist, weil er gewesen ist," the man started in a steadier, yet quiet tone. "Ich weiß, dass der Geschwaderkommodore nur bereit gewesen ist, dem Hauptmann zu erlauben, im Befehl des Gruppe zu bleiben, weil es keinen anderen ringsherum passend für eine Aufgabe gibt... Wir sind in Afrika irgendwie, die Anwesenheit der Luftwaffe hier wird sehr beschränkt," Kronberg shrugged with a thin smile, yet the frown that remained on his features was laden with worry and concern. "Der Hauptmann hat versprochen, seine Wege mehrere Male jetzt auszubessern, aber dann geschieht etwas immer und... So, als er Hauptmann Siegner angriff, wusste ich, dass ich ihn aufhören musste. Wenn etwas Schlechteres geschehen wäre, hätten sie ihn ... vielleicht sogar Schuss vor ein Kriegsgericht stellen lassen. Oberstleutnant Bruckmann ist ein sehr vernünftiger Mann, aber er hat endlose Geduld und andererseits nicht, er ließ den Hauptmann mit einer sehr kleinen Strafe gehen, ihm in die gewaltsame Haft befehlend, wie er tat. Der Hauptmann könnte viel schlechter geendet haben."

Kronberg would have never confided in anyone with these things he had observed, but he felt strangely comfortable telling them to Miss Riedel now. "Selbst wenn sie gerade damit enden, seinen Gruppe von ihm zu nehmen, weiß ich, dass seinen Willen zerquetschen würde. Der dritte Gruppe bedeutet alles zu ihm und... So, ich denke nicht, dass irgendetwas noch entschieden worden ist, aber ich bin besorgt," the man admitted with no small amount of dejection and his head hung down as he tugged at his sleeve once more, feeling forlorn but also curiously comforted at the same time, being able to confess his woes to someone so easily and feeling perfectly comfortable in doing so. "Ich glaube, dass Oberleutnant Wahler für ihn übernehmen würde, weil er jetzt getan hat," Kronberg shrugged and glanced at the woman quickly. "Mindestens provisorisch," the man added, obviously still clinging on to the stubborn hope that things could go back to the way they had been. Kronberg remained silent for a moment, but then some of the hollowness seemed to pass from his eyes and he gazed at the woman in open appreciation, a small, sheepish smile even inching to his lips as he did so. "Aber das ist von mir sehr dumm mitt militärische Sachen Sie, Fräulein Riedel belastend, es tut mir leid. Ich... schätzen.. alle Dinge die Sie sagten, danke," It was obvious that the man's appreciation was genuine and he shifted his weight from one foot to another nervously for a small while, wrenching his hands as if these movements would provide him with the clarity to say something more intelligent. Kronberg suddenly stepped towards the woman, his hands carefully clamping around Riedel's frame to give her a jittery but heartfelt hug, the man awkwardly attempting to make sure that his body remained a respectful distance away from hers. The hug lasted no longer than a few drawn-out seconds, but Kronberg fervently hoped that Riedel could understand the gratitude and honesty he was attempting to communicate to her in that brief and almost childish exchange.

Kronberg stepped back awkwardly, not quite able to look directly at the woman after such an un-German manner of demonstrating his appreciation, and when he could finally find enough bravery to lift his eyes once more, he allowed Miss Riedel a shaky smile, some part of his features still wrenched with his worries.


Translations:

"Ich dachte gerade... Ich würde nicht wissen was zu sagen, ob ich besuchte..."
"I just thought... I wouldn't know what to say if I visited. And... and... He did hit me and he has never done so. I was only trying to help him."

"Der Hauptmann ist in genug Schwierigkeiten gewesen, wie es mit seiner... aggressiven Natur ist..."
"The Hauptmann has been in enough trouble as it is, with his... aggressive nature as he has been. I know the Geschwaderkommodore has only agreed to allow the Hauptmann to remain in command of the Gruppe because there is nobody else around suitable for a task... We are in Africa, anyway, Luftwaffe's presence here is very limited."

"Der Hauptmann hat versprochen, seine Wege mehrere Male jetzt auszubessern, aber dann geschieht etwas immer und..."
"The Hauptmann has promised to mend his ways several times now, but then something always happens and... Well, when he attacked Hauptmann Siegner, I knew I had to stop him. If something worse would have happened, they would have had him court-martialed... maybe even shot. Oberstleutnant Bruckmann is a very reasonable man, but he doesn't have endless patience and then again, he was letting the Hauptmann go with a very small punishment, ordering him into forcible detention as he did. The Hauptmann could have ended up much worse."

"Selbst wenn sie gerade damit enden, seinen Gruppe von ihm zu nehmen..."
"Even if they just end up taking his Gruppe from him, I know that would crush his will. The third Gruppe means everything to him and... Well, I don't think anything has been decided yet, but I'm worried."

"Ich glaube, dass Oberleutnant Wahler für ihn übernehmen würde, weil er jetzt getan hat. Mindestens provisorisch."
"I guess Oberleutnant Wahler would take over for him, as he has done now. At least temporarily."

"Aber das ist von mir sehr dumm mitt militärische Sachen Sie, Fräulein Riedel belastend, es tut mir leid..."
"But it is very silly of me burdening you with military matters anyway, Miss Riedel, I'm sorry. I... appreciate all the things you said, thank you."

[Dirk Riedel]

The woman did, truly, wish that the Hauptfeldwebel would show twice the quality of compassion which his commanding officer had failed to bestow upon him, and why exactly this was so one could not tell with precision and clarity of certainty – although, to be sure, her guilt was most likely the fundamental justification for this adamant concern. She did not react as Kronberg explained the reason he had not visited his superior yet and how surprised he had been at being attacked, when such an action had not come to pass before and when he, apparently, had no reason to expect any such conduct from the Hauptmann, but as the man went on to say the baron’s troubles knew neither end nor leniency her green eyes shifted to better regard the subordinate as he spoke of how the Geschwaderkommodore would have had replaced Jäger had he been able to, the only issue preventing this outcome being that of substitution incapacity. The woman could only remain quiet while something held onto her insides and spread within her – a disease, of some sort of which she knew not the nature or the cure – and the other man’s concerned tone served more, if anything, to heighten the degree of that small, rousing sentiment making itself known and slowly beginning to pull at her viscera, her expression one of contemplative clarity, contrition and the aching twinge of misery. Kronberg’s voice penetrated her mind with the stabbing quality of a sharply edged dagger that had began to cut small parts of her and eat away at bits and pieces of her brain in punishment, his worried tone flowing through every nerve of her mind with the strange essence that very much resembled the same sensation one experienced upon being able to quite clearly hear one’s voice and distinguish the words, but feeling as if the person in question was standing behind a rather thick, wooden door.

Oh, yes, the Hauptmann had promised to correct his ways; he could have been court-martialled; he could have been shot. And now? Now to have his Gruppe removed from his duties would crush him. The Gruppe that meant everything to him. At this that very same thing which was squirming inside her like a parasite, that disease, stopped simply pulling at her and began to furiously bite at her, the blood channelled throughout the veins of her body carrying along and contaminating the rest of her with that toxic venom she very much resented – and it was horrible, and she hated it. She hated that she felt befouled and defiled by her very own self. Merely standing there, consciously listening to every word the Hauptfeldwebel had to tell her and feeling his anxiety expanded onto her silent form, she slowly isolated herself from the rest of the rather busy room with everyone else taking care of their respective duties, running around, ordering subordinates or secretaries working furiously in their typewriters, the ringing force of enveloping pangs of conscience seizing hold of her. No, it was not only self-approach – it was shame. Genuine, organic shame that birthed inside her and threatened to swallow her in a fit of paroxysm and unprecedented madness. The only time she did escape that state of motionless descent into aching introspection was when she felt a pair of hands wrap around her and someone motioning forwards and, sure enough, the Hauptfeldwebel had engaged her in an unexpected embrace. She had been so disused from showing such an affectionate gesture in the armed forces that she was surprised, but not unpleasantly so, and she allowed her hands to briefly pass over his shoulders, still inwardly flustered over her condition.

Poor Kronberg, a good and affectionate soul, kind, obedient, loyal and supportive, defensive of his superiors, the sort of man and subordinate any officer would be only to delighted to have, and yet one who had been unfairly treated and unreceiving as much recognition as he so obviously deserved – but who still cared and felt as much compassion and understanding as was humanly possible. But even his benign, heartfelt presence could not infuse her with the warmth she needed to battle the sudden coldness having consumed her, and as he pulled back and offered her a timid, warm smile, it was only instinctive and born out of her kindness that her lips slowly curled into something that resembled a smile in return, but she was evidently still troubled and looked hardly comforted by the Hauptfeldwebel’s compassionate, caring tone. She remained quiet for a moment or two, until she raised her head slightly to face him, and her eyes stared back at him. “Gehen Sie besuchen ihn. Er braucht Sie. Ich habe nichts mehr, um mit dem Hauptmann zu tun, aber er braucht Sie,” she insisted in a grave tone and, in that moment, without waiting for his response, turned around and walked away from him, disappearing into the crowd and then moving out of the barracks.

She did not move too far away from the building but, instead, her feet led her only a few metres in the corner before she allowed her frame to lean against the stone wall and slowly did she allow herself to slide downwards until she embraced her bent legs with her arms and buried her head within her lap, aching and in meditation. Her mind was racing, and racing, again and again, thoughts, thoughts, a million thoughts, hypotheses, assumptions, risks and dangers, analysis, sacrifice and guilt. No matter how she approached the problem there was always guilt. Guilt and shame. It would have been too easy if she were uncaring and irresponsible, but it so was that her conscience could never allow her such leisure and thus it came to be that she, tortured and nerve-racked, spent the rest few seconds, the following minutes, which morphed into half an hour, transformed into two hours that passed as effortlessly as a feather flying away in the soft breeze.

And then, resolved, and with no moment’s hesitation, she brushed the dust off her dress and entered the building again.

No more miserable did she look, but the fury inside her seared and scorched her with an intention whose clarity of purpose was as pre-defined as it was determined, as she stormed back into the busy, crowded room and wasted no time in looking around her at the people who strode past her and tended to their duties, nor at one or two secretaries turning their heads away from their work to steal a glance at this curious image. Nevertheless, she asked a soldier who chanced to be walking past her which was Hauptmann Reinhold Siegner’s office and, at his gesture, she continued striding along the hectic room until she arrived in the far end at a row of doors and, soon enough, she knocked the door twice in a rough, unfeminine manner and, without waiting for permission, she pushed it open and shut it behind her with a loud creak.

Hauptmann Siegner instantly turned his head away from the paperwork he had apparently been tending to the moment the woman had decided to barge in his office in such a rude, unbefitting manner, and, quite perplexed, creased his forehead in lack of understanding as to the reasoning behind her unexpected – and rather ill-mannered – visit.

“Was tun Sie hier? Ich bin beschäftigt,” he announced curtly, and resumed his attention back to the papers lying in a thin pile in the middle of his desk.

The woman began to walk slowly towards his direction. “Ich muss mit Ihnen sprechen,” she told him calmly.

“Was geschah mit Ihnen, genug ‘zu viele Sorgen habend’, um ohne mich zu denken, mehr zu ihnen beitragend? Vergaßen Sie darüber? Weil ich sicher nicht tat,” his sterile response was, the man’s eyes lifted to properly glance at her, his tone biting and with a touch of sourness as he spoke. Once he had been too curious to know the reason she had pursued him in his office – a time that was no so long ago but how odd to feel it so distantly, as though the situation itself was staring at her from behind a door made of ice – but now he did not appear remotely interested to discover such a reason but more attuned to his military duties was he, ready to throw her out of the office if need be and quite not willing to tolerate anything with regard to her person. She immediately registered this difference, and her expression had moulded into one of calm lucidity and request of understanding.

“Ich soll nicht mit Ihnen hier spielen oder herumalbern,” she whispered slowly in an assuring tone, but he did not seem too comforted, either.

“Gut, sehend wie ich keine Zeit für Spiele habe. Ich muss zu diesen Papieren in diesem Moment neigen, wie es ist,” he dryly stated, and his fingers briskly turned the page as his eyes moved on to the other one, before he made a quick scribble with the ink pen.



“Ich bin hier, weil ich etwas von Ihnen fragen will.”

“Typisch,” he scoffed as he looked back at her with a cynical smile. “Und was würde das sein?”

Frowning, the woman took a step closer to the desk and suppressed the loud yelp that would have certainly escaped her throat had she been unable to discipline herself any better; the inward need she had could not have been explained in any other manner, this parasite that was eating her from the inside and which was demanding of her such things as she had rarely done before on anyone’s behalf. She swallowed briefly, feeling the vibration slowly resound inside her throat, and waited for a second or two to calm down her spirits before she spoke again.

“Sie müssen dem Geschwaderkommodore sagen, dass es nicht seine Schuld war!”

“Worüber sprechen Sie?” Siegner questioned incredulously, his forehead creased in utter confusion and doubt – and, indeed, he needed a few moments to register what she may have referred to with a sudden motion of his eyes that conveyed understanding. “Wer, Jäger’s?”

“Sie müssen –”

“Sie wissen, Sie hören nie auf, mich zu amüsieren,” he told her, and gave a short chortle that was awashed in derision and amused disbelief; the woman frowned but he did not appear remotely concerned over her confusion, slowly shaking his head with a smirk and letting his pen drop on the desk with the tiniest clicking sound before he pushed the chair behind and stood up, coming around his desk to approach the woman. “Erinnern Sie sich an eine Zeit, als alles was kam aus Ihrem Mund, ein Strom der Beschimpfung hinsichtlich seiner Anwesenheit war? Eine Zeit, als das einzige Ding Sie sich für ihn aufrichtig versammeln konnten, war völlige Erniedrigung und Geringschätzung? Das Beschmutzen von Wörtern die würden sogar die würdelosesten von Männern machen, macht ihre Augen im Stoß breiter, und welcher, gesprochen von einer Frau zu einem Mann sein sollten, hätte man sehr am wenigsten gedacht sie sollte sich sorgen war, ob seine Mutter zu seinem Begräbnis richtig neigen wird, ganz zu schweigen davon zeigen Interesse an seiner … Kategorie?” he requested in a deeply criticizing, accusative tone as he walked closer to her with the ominous steps of a bird of prey circling around its victim, his eyes sharp and threatening, hostile and uncaring, until he finally stood right before her and eyed her with cruel coldness. “Eine Zeit, soweit ich mich erinnere, wurden Sie vom Bilden eines Gegenstandes des Gelächters aus ihm und unhöflich er von der Aufgabe zu völlig in Anspruch genommen, Ihre Aufmerksamkeit mit der blossen, groben Verwerfung zu gewinnen, aber nicht erkundigen sich nach seinem Schicksal. Oder ist dass gerade Ihr kranker kleiner Sinn des Vorspiels zwischen Ihnen zwei?” he asked her coolly with a smirk. And how her eyes had widened, and she, but a mere woman so effortlessly lessened and reduced to nothing by his words, eyes glinting brightly with shock and disbelief, and how her heart had sank.

“Das hat nichts, um zu tun – ” she could merely breathe, but he stepped closer in the glorious, dominant form of someone who took pleasure in stating the crude facts as they were, without any embellishments, with no leniency offered in awareness of the other’s likely affected reaction.

“Oh, das hat alles, um, Erika zu tun,” he assured her. “Sehen Sie nicht, sind Sie wirklich so condemnably blind, um nicht zu begreifen, dass Sie denken, dass Sie weg gehen, aber Sie werden nur näher? Mehr erzählen Sie sich Dinge wie ‘er benimmt sich wie eine Frau … er ist ein feiger Hund, der sich nach Aufmerksamkeit … ein arroganter abuser … sehnt, ich sorge mich nicht’ … das beteiligtere, das Sie werden?”

“Hören Sie es auf,” she whispered weakly, and her lip trembled, rooted to the spot and the power of such words that immobilized her, captured her in this entangling mess of denial and disbelief, and the horror of realization she refused to show passage to her mind. But he would not stop and, rather, took one step even closer.

“Diese ganze Negativität ist so reichlich, so ununterbrochen, dass Sie fortsetzen, sich mit ihm zu befassen, doch aber nicht ein scharfes Ende dieser lächerlichen Farce machen müssen?” he attacked her from left, right and centre.

“Nein, das ist nicht wahr, ES AUFHÖREN!” she barked in agony and took one step backwards, but he ignored her with a simple, uncomplicated laugh, and decreased the distance she put between them.

“Oder vielleicht ist es nicht eine Farce zu Ihnen, vielleicht in Wirklichkeit haben Sie es als eine Tatsache akzeptiert, Sie verfolgen es genau, weil Sie dazu so verwendet worden sind, dass Sie annehmen, es dann und wann zu treffen, ist es ein Teil Ihres Lebens, eines kleinen Spiels, einer komplizierten Anziehungskraft, ein unvermeidlicher Durst nach der Aggression.Dann scheint es, dass Feindschaft nichts als eine Fassade ist, um zu verbergen, was Sie sich so offensichtlich weigern bewusst zuzugeben, nicht wahr? Ich bin auf viele Menschen in meinem Leben gestoßen, Erika, aber Ihr Fall ist gerade so … offensichtlich,” he scoffed in that same scoff, looking down at her with triumphant eyes as she, with lips half-open and half-closed, and irises wide open, could not quite believe how she had fallen into this snare.

“Hören Sie diesen Quatsch in diesem Augenblick auf, oder ich schwöre, dass ich – ”

“Sie was? Schlagen Sie mich wütend? Um Himmels willen und meinig, gehen Sie auf alle Fälle voran – wer weiß, könnte es bedeuten, dass Sie mich schließlich mögen. Ist das nicht die Sprache Sie sprechen?” he asked her, and snorted with a smile. “Und jetzt? Jetzt wollen Sie, dass ich mich mit meinem Vorgesetzten in Verbindung setze und ihn erbärmliche Lügen gerade wegen Ihrer füttere? Wer genau sind Sie zu mir? Schulde ich Ihnen irgendetwas, damit zu beginnen?” he, then, demanded of her in an accusative tone, the smile vanished on the spot and replaced by a grave, forbidding expression.

“Siegner – ”

“Schulde Ich?”

She stared at him for a moment or two and, recognizing defeat, muttered, “ … Nein.”

“Das ist mein genau mein Punkt. Kommen Sie jetzt aus meinem Büro heraus,” he dryly noted, and then turned his back on her to walk back to his desk.

In disbelief did the woman stare at him as he sat himself on the desk, and distracted herself momentarily by drawing her attention around the room in a sheer effort to resume self-control. But when she returned her glance back at the man, there was intolerance and anger. “Sie haben Sie einen Nerv!” she said furiously. “Sie geben vor zu begreifen, was weitergegangen ist, sind Sie Ihrer Annahmen so sicher; Sie sind ihm so ähnlich, selbst wenn Sie behaupteten, verschieden zu sein. Ich, blind? Ich weiß mich sehr gut, Siegner, zu gut zu wissen, wer der Erwachsene ist, und wer das Kind ist, und das nicht ich ist. Ich würde weg davon nie kauern, meine Aufgabe zu respektieren, und Ihre Aufgabe ist, Ihren Vorgesetzten eines Fehlers zu informieren, der unter Ihrem Befehl – jetzt geschehen ist, wer der Feigling ist!”

“Kein Fehler ist unter meinem Befehl, Sie wahnhafte Frau geschehen!” Siegner snapped briskly and responding with the same amount of anger she possessed, if not a little less.

“Ja, es hat, und es ist Zeit, die Sie dafür amendierten, wie Sie sollten,” she insisted. “Sie müssen wissen, dass es nicht seine Schuld war – ”

“So, warum nicht tun, gehen Sie zum Geschwaderkommodore und geben solch einen ernsten Fehler selbst bekannt!” he suggested with no less sarcasm in his voice as his hand motioned to the door, the other one resting upon the piece of paper on the desk. “Ich werde Scheiß ihm nicht weitergeben.”

“Lassen Sie mich nicht lachen, Siegner, er würde mich nie ernstnehmen,” she muttered, and scoffed.

“Und ich muss?” he spat demandingly, his face creased with anger and disbelief, and the question he posed lay hanging in the air surrounding them through that brief moment of quietude. And then he grabbed the pen. “Und wie ist dieser Fehler, sprechen Sie von jedenfalls?” he brusquely demanded to know. “Er griff mich an, er hatte vor, mich Körperverletzung zu verursachen, so viel ist offensichtlich, was soll dort analysieren?”

“Er hätte es ohne mich nicht getan.”

“Oh Ja, nehmen Sie jetzt von der Schuld teil, die wird auch in Ihr kleines Spiel eingeschlossen? Ich muss alle Implikationen zur Kenntnis nehmen.”

“Jetzt hören Sie mir, Sie selbstgerechter Mann zu!” she barked, no longer able to quite suppress herself, and she stepped nearer to the desk. “Es ist Ihre Verpflichtung, Ihren Vorgesetzten zu informieren, dass der Angriff wirklich nicht nur im Sporn des Moments geschah, wurde er gezwungen!”

“Es war seine Hände so sehr viel standen mit dem Stuhl in Verbindung, wer sich vom Denken sorgt, Erika, wenn er der Täter solch einer beschmutzenden Tat ist! Welcher Mann ein Mann ist, der sich sogar im Falle Beweisführungen nicht beherrschen kann!”

“So haben Sie überstürzt sich selbst, so bereit und klug nie gehandelt, sind Sie!” she spat angrily, and rested her fists at the edge of his table as she lowered her body slightly towards his direction; her eyes, widened and glassy, stared at him with such fierce resolution and intolerance that he could only return the sentiment with furrowed eyebrows and an expression which suggested he would have no problem in having her kicked out of his office.

“Ich ziehe es vor, vernünftig zu sein, und zum Punkt, wenn es zur Wirklichkeit kommt,” he asserted calmly. “Er war derjenige, um mich, nicht Sie anzugreifen, und ich sorge mich im geringsten nicht, was zwischen Ihnen zwei im Voraus gegangen sein könnte, solange er wagte, Gewalt einem Mitkollegen zu tun, war, dass eine Verpflichtung er zum Heimatland diente!”

“Ja, und ich sehe, welche große physische Wunden solch eine schändliche Tat verursacht, es ein Wunder ist, das Sie nicht gerade durchquerten der Grosse teilt sich von zu viel Blutverlust!”

“Es war die Absicht, die Sachen, und er so viel hielt. Es würde lächerlich sein, alle Taten gemäß dem insinuator einfach zu verhandeln – der eine völlig irrelevante Sache ist!”

“Ich werde völlig irrelevant aus Ihnen machen!” she shouted, and pounded her fist on the table.

“Wie sehr krass von Ihnen, Erika,” he snapped with gritted teeth, and the paper crunched under his fingers.

No, this had not been what she had expected. Looking around the room through her overstretched nerves, she scoffed in disbelief, and then returned her gaze back at him. “Ich kann gesagt haben, dass Jäger feig ist, aber er ist zweimal der mutige Mann, den Sie nie mustern konnten, um zu sein. Ehrlich gesagt, Ihr Gesicht sieht ansprechender zu mir mit seiner Faust aus, die unter Ihrer Nase knirscht.”

“Und diese Ankunft aus einer Frau, die um eine Bevorzugung bittet.”

“Ich bitte um eine Bevorzugung nicht, ich bitte von Ihnen, wie ein Mann zu handeln und Verantwortung anzunehmen, indem ich eine Situation abräume, zu der Sie vergesslich sind!”

“Das ist genug!” he barked, bolting up from his seat finally and furiously glaring at her. “Solche lächerliche Reaktion, und für was? Für ihn? Vergeuden Sie Ihre Zeit und Anstrengung um jemanden, der keinen davon verdient! Ist er es sogar wert? So, ist er!” She remained speechless, and could not answer. “Genug! Ich werde nicht mehr von diesem Quatsch haben, und Sie werden sich nicht herausnehmen, um zu verstehen, wie die militärischen Funktionen zu Ihren täglichen lästigen Hilfsarbeiten zurückkommen und uns entscheiden lassen, wie man Sachen setzt. Kann nicht annehmen, dass eine Frau umläuft, für die sanftmütige Strafe suchend und uns darin befehlend, was wir wissen, wie man Bestes tut! Lächerlich!”

She raised one knowing eyebrow. “Es ist nicht lächerlich, wenn es Sie einschließt.”

“Was?” he frowned.

“Die Dinge, die ich Jäger erzählte, sind direkt mit Ihnen verbunden.”

“Und welche Dinge würden diese sein?”

She smiled. “Würde nicht Sie wissen mögen.”

“Ich dachte, dass Sie Spiele mit mir nicht hier spielen sollen,” he accused her, and folded his arms.

“Ich bin nicht. Aber Sie können nicht so unfair sein betreffs gelassen dieser Ungerechtigkeitspass.”

“Oh, es klingt zu mir ganz gerade und Messe, Erika, und nichts mehr, um auf dem Thema gesagt zu werden. Ich werde die Zeit meines Vorgesetzten mit dem Abfall besonders nicht vergeuden, wenn es aus dem Mund von einem betrunkenenZankteufel mit der Hälfte die Anmut eines männlichen Warzenschweins und der schicklichen Manieren eines blutenden Nashornes kommt. Er wird bekommen, was er rechtmäßig verdient, ist das das Ende der Diskussion!”

“Die Diskussion wird enden, wenn ich es beende, Siegner!” she bellowed at him, her eyes glaring at him with resentment and revulsion.

“Es scheint dann, es wird tatsächlich beendet, liebe Erika!” he yelled back at her.

She closed her mouth, and forced herself into calming down, but how could she? How could she just simply throw away her distress, her agony? She remained quiet for a few moments, and yet she had been insulted, yet she had been treated with disrespect, she had been called rude, impertinent things that struck too close to home even if the man could not understand exactly how much, and yet her pride had always been her guide and spirit, and yet she would have rather clawed her eyes out rather than submit to anyone who would behave toward her in such a way, still, with a glint of her eyes, green and glassy, and made of stone will and adamant wretchedness, and the flame of self-approach – “Siegner, bitte, bitte ich um Sie –”

“Aus meinem Büro, Erika.”

“Siegner –”

“Jetzt!”

Her head lowered, the heart sank and, recognizing defeat, she slowly turned around and walked towards the door. The minute she opened the door she realized that a considerable number of people had crowded outside and appeared rather concerned, curious or shocked, scrutinizing her from head to toe and attempting to find out what exactly had caused the great ruckus. And suddenly, the contamination – the shame, the breaking of pride, the utter humiliation. Oh, the humiliation and disgrace. Without another glance she walked through the crowd and broke away from them, feeling the sudden need to run away from them, to break free from everyone and find solace in the isolation of the wilderness. And, soon enough, her steps hastened, her pony tail whipped at her neck as she increased pace, with the gazes of the other people scorching her nape, and in an instant had vanished out of the building, and out of sight.



Translation

Go visit him. He needs you. I have nothing more to do with the Hauptmann but he needs you.

What are you doing here? I am busy.

I have to talk to you.

What happened to you having enough ‘too many worries’ to think of without me adding more to them? Did you forget about that? Because I certainly did not.

I am not here to play with you or fool around.

Good, seeing as I have no time for games. I must tend to these papers at this moment, as it is.

I am here because I want to ask something of you.

Typical. And what would that be?

You have to tell the Geschwaderkommodore that it was not his fault!

What are you talking about? Who, Jäger’s?

You must –

You know, you never cease to amuse me.

Do you remember a time when all that came out of your mouth was a stream of invective with regard to his presence? A time when the only thing you could truly muster for him was utter humiliation and contempt? Befouling words that would make even the most undignified of men widen their eyes in shock and which, were to be a spoken by a woman towards a man, one would have thought the very least she should care was whether his mother will properly tend to his funeral, let alone show interest at his … predicament? A time, as far as I remember, you were too pre-occupied with making a laughing stock out of him and disobliging him from the task of gaining your attention with sheer, crude rejection rather than inquire after his fate. Or is that just your sick little sense of foreplay between you two?

That has nothing to do –

Oh, that has everything to do, Erika. Don’t you see, are you really so condemnably blind to not realize that you think you are stepping away, but you are only getting closer? The more you tell yourself things like ‘he behaves like a woman … he is a cowardly dog craving for attention … an arrogant abuser … I care not’ … the more involved you become?

Stop it.

All this negativity is so abundant, so uninterrupted that you must continue dealing with him, still, rather than put a sharp end to this ridiculous farce?

No, this isn’t true, STOP IT!

Or maybe it is not a farce to you, maybe in reality you have accepted it as a fact, you pursue it exactly because you have been so used to it that you expect to meet it every now and then, it is part of your life, a little game, a complicated attraction, an unavoidable thirst for aggression. Then it appears hostility is nothing but a façade to conceal what you so obviously refuse to consciously admit, isn’t it? I have come across many people in my life, Erika, but your case is just so … obvious.

Stop that nonsense right now or I swear I will –

You will what? Slap me furiously? For God’s sake and mine, by all means go ahead – who knows, it might mean you like me, after all. Isn’t that the language you speak?

And now? Now you want me to contact my superior and feed him pathetic lies just because of you? Who exactly are you to me? Do I owe you anything, to begin with?

Siegner –

Do I?

… No.

That is my exactly my point. Now get out of my office.

You, you have some nerve! You pretend to realize what has been going on, you are so certain of your assumptions; you are so like him even if you claimed to be different. Me, blind? I know myself very well, Siegner, too well to know who is the adult and who is the child, and that is not me. I would never cower away from respecting my duty, and your duty is to inform your superior of a mistake that has happened under your command – now who is the coward!

No mistake has happened under my command, you delusional woman!

Yes, it has, and it is time you amended for it, as you should. You must know it was not his fault –

Well, why don’t you go to the Geschwaderkommodore and announce such a grave mistake yourself! I will not pass bullshit on to him.

Don’t make me laugh, Siegner, he would never take me seriously.

And I must? And what is this mistake you speak of, in any case? He attacked me, he intended to cause me physical injury, as much is obvious, what is there to analyze?

He would not have done it if it were not for me.

Oh yes, now take part of the blame, is that also included in your little game? I need to take note of all the implications.

Now you listen to me, you self-righteous man! It is your obligation to inform your superior that the attack did not just happen in the spur of the moment, he was coerced!

It was his hands that very much connected with the chair, who cares of the reasoning, Erika, when he is the perpetrator of such a befouling act! What man is a man who cannot control himself even in the event of argumentations!

So you have never acted rashly yourself, so prepared and wise you are!

I prefer to be reasonable and to the point when it comes to reality. He was the one to assault me, not you, and I do not care in the slightest what might have passed between you two beforehand as long as he dared to do violence to a fellow colleague, was that an obligation he served to the Fatherland!

Yes, and I see what great physical wounds such a despicable act caused, it is a wonder you didn’t just cross the great divide from too much blood loss!

It was the intention that matters, and he held as much. It would be ridiculous to simply judge all acts according to the insinuator – that is a matter completely irrelevant!

I’ll make completely irrelevant out of you!

How very crass of you, Erika.

I may have said Jäger is cowardly but he is twice the daring man you could never muster to be. To be honest, your face looks more appealing to me with his fist crunching under your nose.

And this coming from a woman who is asking for a favour.

I am not asking for a favour, I am asking of you to act like a man and assume responsibility by clearing up a situation to which you are oblivious!

That is enough! Such ridiculous reaction, and for what? For him? Waste your time and effort for someone who deserves none of it! Is he even worth it? Well, is he! Enough! I shall have no more of this nonsense and you won’t presume to understand how the military functions get back to your daily auxiliary chores and let us decide how to settle matters. Can’t expect a woman to run around, seeking for meek punishment and ordering us in what we know how to do best! Ridiculous!

It’s not ridiculous when it involves you.

What?

The things I told Jäger are directly related to you.

And what things would these be?

Wouldn’t you like to know.

I thought you’re not here to play games with me.

I’m not. But you can’t be so unfair as to let this injustice pass.

Oh, it sounds to me quite just and fair, Erika, and nothing more to be said on the subject. I will not waste my superior’s time with rubbish, especially when it comes from the mouth of some drunken shrew with half the elegance of a masculine warthog and the decorous manners of a bleeding rhinoceros. He will get what he rightfully deserves, this is the end of the discussion!

The discussion will end when I end it, Siegner!

It seems, then, it is indeed finished, dear Erika!

Siegner, please, I’m begging you –

Out of my office, Erika.

Siegner –

Now!

[Rolf Jäger]

Rolf Jäger had ever considered himself a person standing high above the common rabble, the tired mediocrity and even most of the finest souls that had ever been in the head of proud armies lead against each other in the eternal human battle for dominance and power. He was one born in the midst of nobility, ancient blood of aristocrats and knights flowing within his veins hot and tempered, and his mind and body schooled to respect the intricate customs of his own kind, his entire being almost savagely molded into the image of those that had reigned before him. Rolf had always felt that just as iron, one's character and essence could only be wrought stronger through strife and viciousness and through the strong strikes that would slowly forge metal into unbending steel. His eyes, the hue of soft silver as they had been in his childhood, had grown cold in the process and now they were ever glinting with maliciousness that Rolf had adopted somewhere along the way, the onyx essence bound and entwined into the icy core of his soul. Something had recently started twisting that careful creation, tiny chips almost mockingly appearing upon the flawless Damascus steel, and Rolf had found himself recoiling in horror and anger, his nature instinctively trying to sustain his character from getting so needlessly blemished.

These prominent thoughts of superiority had faded into the dark and unresponsive shadows of his prison several days ago and what was now left had done anything but treated him kindly. The initial feelings of anger and outrage had bowed their heads, wearily giving way to despair and guilt, with worry and fear trailing after them like two mischievous mutts skulking after their master's heels. In his mind he had been watching past discussions from a distance, his thoughts screaming at him to change the course of the events with one or two differently placed words, but as if watching a moving picture acted upon a certain script, the events remained unchanged and always ended up with Rolf sitting alone upon his seat of stone, embraced only by the darkness of the Libyan prison. As if to further push the blade into his insides, Riedel had appeared to visit him, only to tell Rolf that he had had his chance to prove to her that he had some kind of curious worth to her and that he had failed in it, the woman now completely resolved to steer clear of him.

As if the choice was hers! As if it would have really mattered to him! Her useless opinion was just as easily forgotten as desert sand scattered in the hot winds, yet Rolf's mind still could not let go of her words and instead desperately grasped at them, not allowing even the tiniest grain of earth escape from his hold. Maybe he was simply hoping that exposing himself to the pain would temper him numb and, eventually, senseless to such unwanted sentiments, but if that was the case, the tactic had not worked yet. At times his mind wandered into thoughts of his Gruppe and the fates of the pilots and in how someone else might lead them even after his release from detention, but they were always interrupted by the woman's poison-green eyes hovering in front of Rolf, her words cutting at him with the cruelty of a carved blade - and how she had walked away from him, promising never to pay another thought towards his existence! Rolf would have certainly prevented her from leaving had it not been for his incapacity to reach beyond the rusted bars of his cell to stop her and so she had disappeared, leaving Rolf in the pit of snakes she had created for him.

Boots scraped upon sand and stone and the sounds echoed from the cold tiles stacked upon one another to form cruel walls despair, fortifications created for the sole purpose of confining within those the society had deemed unfit to remain in the presence of other, more respectable people. Rolf paid the sound little mind and the man, now sporting a long stubble and dark lines under his eyes, continued simply leaning his back against the wall. He cared not about the guards or the food they offered to him, and he acted as if the jail cell existed in another reality of its own, all outside influences as meaningless and fleeting as an unrecognized thought. It wasn't until he heard a far too familiar sound of someone awkwardly clearing his throat and Rolf felt his heart skipping a beat as he slowly moved his gaze to the side, just to witness the ever timid Kronberg standing there, his mouth drawn into a nervous and shaky smile. He was staring at his commanding officer in silent stupor, never having witnessed him such an unkempt state before. As if the dirty clothes, rough stubble and heavy lines under the Hauptmann's eyes were not signs strong enough to communicate the man's current state, there was something far more alarming in the glance Jäger gave his wingman and Kronberg almost recoiled upon witnessing the silent renounce in his formerly arrogant irises. It took him ample time to react when Hauptmann Jäger slowly stumbled up from his seat to take those few weak, shaky steps required to reach the prison bars and as if finally realizing that the greasy-haired, hopelessly dusty and disheveled figure was, indeed, Hauptmann Jäger, Kronberg snapped into a fast salute. Rolf grasped at the metal bars in front of him, blinking at the Hauptfeldwebel in unbroken silence, not quite believing that his wingman had decided to visit him and for a few seconds imagining that he might have finally lost his mind in the continuous solitude and now found himself simply creating images out of thin air. At first he had assumed that his wingman would immediately rush to visit him and to inquire after his well-being, maybe bringing him cigarettes and food to help him better bide his time, but after those initial days had passed and despair had settled dwelling within him, he had figured that Kronberg had been too grievously injured by his attack. Maybe he would become just another meaningless face in the crowd, maybe he would ask to be transferred to another wing to create some distance between himself and Jäger's violent nature or maybe he would even find Kronberg later witnessing against him in military court.

Whatever he had believed, he had not expected to find the man standing there, attentively waiting for his orders as he always was, and Rolf stared at the Hauptfeldwebel in his stunned silence, as if he was simply a figment of his own imagination and not even actually there. When the man was still there after those initial seconds of silence, Rolf turned his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the other man's current state of mind. Was there disappointment or hatred in the way he looked back at him? Maybe even disgust? He would have understood it, dwelling in his past deeds as he had been for the extent of his imprisonment, but what he could see was only ever the old Kronberg, beaming with his familiar, nervous loyalty. Rolf's mind prodded him to open his mouth for an apology and for an explanation of his violent reaction to preserve this very loyalty, but his lips remained pressed into a thin line, the words captured within his mind and left rotting there, while something in his eyes steeled with a familiar decisiveness and his hand moved to his brow to return to the salute. "Rührt Euch, Hauptfeldwebel. Ich dachte, dass Sie Ihren Weg einfach verloren hatten, indem Sie versuchten, die Adresse meines gegenwärtigen Wohnsitzes zu finden," Rolf announced almost testily, a sharp edge now evident in his hoarse tone and he felt himself regaining confidence and power with each second, the appearance of his wingman having reminded him of his Gruppe and his duties in the Luftwaffe. He could not force himself to apologize, no matter how much he would have felt it was the most convenient thing to do and instead he simply chose to act if nothing had happened at all. The Hauptfeldwebel appeared almost alarmed at first, having not known how the Hauptmann would react to his visit after he had seemingly forgotten him, but then a sheepish look took over his features and he felt only relieved by the Hauptmann's characteristic acrimony. "Meine Entschuldigungen, Herr Hauptmann. Ich war... nicht sicher, wenn meine Anwesenheit erforderlich war. Gibt es etwas, dass Sie möchten, dass ich für Sie jetzt herbeiholen würde, Herr Hauptmann?" Kronberg asked nimbly, the man never having expected to hear something as foreign as an apology from the Hauptmann. He was not sure if he would have wanted to hear one, either, for he would have certainly felt awkward upon witnessing it and somehow the routines were making him feel safer and relaxed, even if these routines consisted of the Hauptmann's hoarsely barked orders.

"Was ist mit dem Gruppe geschehen? Passt Wahler auf Dinge richtig auf?" Rolf inquired, his eyes never leaving the Hauptfeldwebel's visage. His entire being was suddenly strangely empowered upon this sense of familiarity and it was all too easy to forget about his own slights, the still lingering thought of an apology effectively fading from his mind and replaced by more mundane thoughts. Kronberg nodded and explained all the recent events concerning the Gruppe, of kills and equipment maintenance, of supplies and Wahler's decisions, and Rolf listened to him hungrily, drinking in every word as if his Gruppe's fate alone could provide him with sustenance to strengthen him and to further draw him away from the stupor he had sunken into. Rolf felt slightly better after enough news about his pilots and planes had been given him and he breathed out slowly, considering the information and already focusing on how to continue from this point onwards after his release, but then he could see Kronberg's figure nervously hovering in the corner of his vision and he turned his head around, narrowing his steel-grey eyes at him. "Was noch?"

"So, es ist... Fräulein Riedel besuchte die Baracken, Herr Hauptmann. Sie war dort zu.." Kronberg bit his tongue, considering whether Jäger would find it too ridiculous that the woman had pleaded for Kronberg to forgive the Hauptmann for his violence. The Hauptmann wasn't certainly the kind of person who would have lived on other people's forgiveness and he might have found the idea ludicrous, which was why Kronberg altered his initial words and decided to exclude himself from the equation. "Sie sollte dort zu Hauptmann Siegner reden," the man confessed and immediately upon witnessing the violent sneer forming upon Jäger's stubbled face, shook his head and hurried to explain the turn of events further. "Sie sollte dort um Hauptmann Siegner bitten, um besser die ... letzten Ereignisse zum Geschwaderkommodore zu erklären, sie wollte für ihn wissen, dass jene Dinge, die geschahen, sie waren nicht Ihre Schuld, Herr Hauptmann."

Rolf blinked, staring at his wingman from the other side of the prison bars, no small amount of disbelief decorating his tired features as he considered this new piece of information. "Sie sollte dort... für mich sprechen?" he asked with a frown and Kronberg was all too quick to nod his head enthusiastically. Kronberg felt slightly elated for the chance of providing Hauptmann Jäger with such benign news, of how the woman had stood up for him and how she must have truly cared for the Luftwaffe officer, just as Kronberg had already wisely announced at the reception, yet before he could further explain what he had heard through that thin door of Siegner's office, Rolf had already posed another question. "Und wie würden Sie wissen, was wurde zwischen ihnen irgendwie gesprochen? War es eine öffentliche Anzeige? Spionierten Sie ihnen, drückten Sie Ihr Ohr gegen die Tür?" Rolf asked mockingly, his lips twisting with hostility that sprung from the thought of Riedel seeking out the other Hauptmann, that very part within his mind easily discarding the unexpectedly benevolent reasons behind such a visit. Kronberg appeared horrified upon hearing such an implication and he shook his head to erase any such thoughts. "Nein, Herr Hauptmann. Sie schrien an einander, die meisten Menschen konnten es in der Nähe hören. Sie versuchte, ihn zu überzeugen, um mit dem Gescwhaderkommodore in Ihrem Interesse, aber Hauptmann zu sprechen, den Siegner nicht abstimmen würde, egal wie viel sie bestand. Er endete damit, ihr von seinem Büro zu bestellen, und dann reiste sie gerade... ab," Kronberg regretted that he could not quite describe the events with the vibrancy they deserved and he sighed, beneath the surface still feeling strangely relieved of the fact that the Hauptmann was more like himself, as testy and unpredictable as he could be.

Rolf was still considering this new piece of information, his heart thumping fast against his ribcage as he attempted to understand the reasoning behind such a precarious action from her, but the emotions that must have been attached to them felt far too foreign to Rolf. He could only understand that some amount of guilt might have been involved, either due to him, Kronberg or even the Fatherland, but even such a simple sentiment would still be left obscured by the shadows by Rolf - at least until he'd have more information on the exact nature of the conversation and of each word passed between Siegner and Riedel, down to the most meager change in the tone of their voices. In his endless naivety Kronberg could not read the true intentions behind anyone's words and it would be up to Rolf to put together the pieces of the puzzle and to create a more accurate image of the discussion between Riedel and Siegner. Rolf's fingers circled around the rusted bars and his sharp eyes of steel stared back at his wingman, a sudden hunger for knowledge now having chased away the haze of his previous stupor. "Anfang vom wirklichen Beginn, Kronberg. Erzählen Sie mir jedes Wort, das sie sagten."

And once Kronberg had finished explaining the turn of events to the tiniest detail he could remember, Rolf asked him to painstakingly tell the same story all over again.

Translations:

"Rührt Euch, Hauptfeldwebel. Ich dachte, dass Sie Ihren Weg einfach verloren hatten, indem Sie versuchten, die Adresse meines gegenwärtigen Wohnsitzes zu finden."
"At ease, Hauptfeldwebel. I thought you had simply lost your way while trying to find the address of my current residence."

"Meine Entschuldigungen, Herr Hauptmann..."
My apologies, Herr Hauptmann. I... was not sure if my presence was required. Is there something you wish me to fetch for you now, Herr Hauptmann?"

"Was ist mit dem Gruppe geschehen? Passt Wahler auf Dinge richtig auf?"
"What has been happening with the Gruppe? Is Wahler taking care of things properly?"

"Was noch?"
"What else?"

"So, es ist... Fräulein Riedel besuchte die Baracken, Herr Hauptmann..."
"Well, it is... Miss Riedel visited the barracks, Herr Hauptmann. She was there to.. She was there to talk to Hauptmann Siegner. She arrived at the barracks to ask for Hauptmann Siegner to better explain the... latest events to the Geschwaderkommodore, she wanted for him to know that those things that happened, they were not your fault, Herr Hauptmann."

"Sie sollte dort ... für mich sprechen?"
"She was there... to speak for me?"

"Und wie würden Sie wissen, was wurde zwischen ihnen irgendwie gesprochen..?"
"And how would you know what was spoken between them, anyway? Was it a public display? Did you spy on them, did you press your ear against the door?"

"Nein, Herr Hauptmann. Sie schrien an einander, die meisten Menschen konnten es in der Nähe hören..."
"No, Herr Hauptmann. They were shouting at each other, most of the people nearby could hear it. She was trying to convince him to speak to the Gescwhaderkommodore on your behalf, but Hauptmann Siegner would not agree, no matter how much she insisted. He ended up ordering her from his office and then she just... left."

"Anfang vom wirklichen Beginn, Kronberg. Erzählen Sie mir jedes Wort, das sie sagten."
"Start from the very beginning, Kronberg. Tell me each word they said."

[Dirk Riedel]

The Anatolian winds blew and soared across the North African land, past the cerulean calmness of the Mediterranean Sea the waters of which waved with an ancient lucidity at the star-crossed sailors, the merchants, the pirates, and through the desiccated Libyan desert, whose arid skin thirsted for water to pour from the heavens and wash down upon the earth’s flesh with a force so formidable as would revive the dullest of insects seeking refuge from under rocks and in between hills of sand. Like in absolution the infinite skies and lonesome fulvous earth would become one through that one stately union – one which the gods had always feared – and with golden delight the rain would spread its hundreds of fingers, each one erupting like another head of Hydra, around the highlands in which sand and nothingness were the only wretched immortal inhabitants, softly caressing the curved form of that lonely succession of mountains, and touching around their crescentic meander in both admiration and resolution, until the soil would breathe from the concave vibrations whilst the downpour would permeate the land through its viscera, the fingers spreading with the force of disease and the worshipped value of penicillin inside the ground and travelling deeper into the ancient bowels of the earth to bedew the dirt, the mineral matters and cavities; and in turn the earth heaved, and her veins pulsated from the hydrous essence disgorged into her telluric vastness, to birth the smallest element of life, the most insignificant cell, whence geothermic impact tethered to concrete humidity upon its final sigh of relief unto deliverance. Yes, the earth, the dry earth had awaited for years, for more than decades, for the rain to live into her from the within and revive her deathly, bloodless existence of parched reality, and the rain had decisively capitulated. And who would be there to stop it? Who should have trespassed upon this fusion and tear it apart?

But, until now, the earth would have to wait as the waxing moon would sojourn across the dark Libyan sky in days that turned to nights, the soft breeze that caressed the pale, bare shoulders of ill-reputed women passing through the dark passageways of the ancient city; for at night the courtesans, the thieves and the murderers prospered, at night they found their reverence, and the night, sacred and feared, offered them her embrace and shielded them in her shadows with which she veiled the shapes of her children, yes, the courtesans, the thieves and the murderers, offering them refuge where there was none and sustenance where it had been denied by the cold, merciless sun. And slowly the day morphed into night, until, the gods that feared all the celestial bodies, and the animals that were one with them would direct their heads upon the skies. There, it had finally come, when the earth, the sun and moon were united, and the full moon reigned; the sun, the grandest star of them all to guide, flourish and revive all others, its silhouette of a bronze crossbow bullet, that which illuminated all else with its golden waterfall – for her a royal throne made of Indian gold and elephant ivory carvings; the moon, a pale shy little girl at sundown or dawn but a dominant carnivore upon nightfall; the earth, which so dearly depended was on the other two that to lose them would mean to lose the very purpose of its continuation. What is the earth without the moon, and what is the moon without the sun but for a meaningless silver orb with no light and no orbiting motive, reflecting, as if it were a grand royal mirror, the light of the sun whose warmth she adopted – a grand, bulbous mirror in front of which the ladies of aristocracy appeared to look at their reflective elegant forms, and which ladies would these be but for the sun herself and the earth. This the ancient men knew all too wiser than modern humanity. The sun was the fire and the moon was the water; one complemented the other but their union was obstructive to the mortals who drenched in darkness during eclipse; and when the fire and water fuelled into a mass of liquid combustion, the earth paralysed. A solar eclipse, and a diamond ring shaped around the moon’s surface as it shielded the sun; a diamond, raw, uncut, that she was, held from his cold, steely hand. The moon’s cold, steely embrace.

The animals awaited upon sunset and the people of Tripoli shut the doors of their old houses, and at the Belt of Venus did the skies glow with a magnificent roseate hue as it rested above the Earth’s shadow; and the lower the weary sun would descend behind the mountains of sand, the more the dividing line between these two arches would fade away so that in wedlock they fused into one complete and unified radiant luminescence, during which the caracal would roam in the land to stalk its prey, to their timely deaths until they were to dissolve into the night sky. The full moon had risen and dressed in its royal silver gown had traversed along the dusky, velvety texture of the now wide blue firmament, and at the high tides that sprung to life from the moon’s influence the fishermen had secured their catch, and the eyes of the carnivores appeared glowing in the darkness as they skulked about under cover of darkness for their hunting. Those that were free, and those that were held captive from within their well-barren cages, the African leopards that moved from one side of the enclosure to the next, the servals that looked at the moving figures with curious patience, the black leopard that growled and hissed with aggression at anyone chancing to come closer, its claws ready to grasp at any human form and teeth bared as it refused to be subdued to slavery even during its hours of captivity. The souk had closed and the merchants had long since left after a day’s worth of bargaining negotiations with the shoppers, and at this time as the moon glowed bright and beauteous the abandoned caravansera near the city’s border loomed mystifying and venerable in the red and yellow light cast by the fire from the wooden torches and lanterns, and the large fire pit located at the yard’s centre, birthing shadows that appeared sultry and inviting to the souls of those that thirsted for thrill and iniquity.

And there stood the local revelry and entertainers, the nomads, the musicians, the thieves and the Arabian prostitutes, the soldiers, the Germans and the Italians, the sailors, the air thick with the luscious smell of food and the rapid, rhythmic fusion of sounds birthed from the goblet drum and the oud, their distinctive sharp tones mingling with such passionate and vigorous chorus of an ancient Arabic essence that one’s face would water from the sheer enthusiasm. At the gate two or three locals were tending to the horses while the camels had already been fed and rested in their appropriate place, the food passed from one person to another in large plates, palm dates, local bread, couscous, bureek, bazeen with fish and potatoes and, if one wished, served with strong black tea – and, of course, mostly brought by the soldiers, bottles and bottles of beer and wine. The Arabian locals were smoking from their nargile and several soldiers stood next to them, waiting to be taught how exactly to smoke from the instrument, fed with curiosity and the drunken thrill of intoxication. A general sense of contentment and noise consumed the area, the atmosphere ripe with the promise of gratification and complacency.

“Diese Hände sind eines Mannes wer Arbeiten zu viel, so viel weniger einer attraktiven Frau. Hände, die Leuten meines Landes gehören,” a middle-aged Arabian suddenly spoke in German with a thick local accent in his tone; he was dressed in dark robes, a turban, and a greying beard decorated his course face, but his brown eyes appeared kind and curious. “Erzählen Sie mir, dann, Fremder, warum werden Ihre Finger mit den Zeichen der Mühe gehärtet?” he asked the woman in a friendly manner.

The woman’s head turned from the cage to the side, and looked calmly at the man. She understood him to be the animal handler, and the whip held in his hand only ever further made solid such an estimation. She looked at him in silence for a moment or two as she contemplated his words, obviously distracted away from having stared at the wild animals for many moments on end, perhaps it was in admiration, perhaps in disapproval, in hatred, in resentment, in agonizing pain, or in understanding – who could know? She had decided to lose herself amongst the others and after she had finished a bottle of beer resolved to distance herself from the crowd on purpose, eyes that were transfixed upon the sight before her in both reverence and dread. The servals had turned their heads at her curiously and at one point hissed before they returned their attention to the crowd, but the leopards – oh, how the leopards gazed back at her as though they could understand her, even invited her to climb inside their cage and end this farce. This farce that had her bite at the chains and attempt to push at the collar which had been forced around her neck; to finally give up and accept her face, swallow her pride and wag her tail from between her legs in disappointment and despair, and eventually assuming her place within the cage. The panther, as if on queue to her thoughts, growled and hissed at her furiously, the claws revealed and its teeth gritted as eyes of the coldest glaucous hue forbade her to resign and allow herself to fall into the master’s lair.

Looking back at the man, she never bothered to ask herself (perhaps due to her mediocre intoxication, perhaps she did not care to know) how the local knew to speak German, although one need not think too excessively to understand that the Italian conquest of the country offered several opportunities for those who wished to pursue a more well-rounded education to what was then the international language. The long, dusky hair fell down upon her shoulders in loose waves and further accentuated the pallid colour of her skin, illuminated as it was from the bronze light cast by the tall torch placed not too many steps away from her, and emerald green eyes that gleamed with fire.

“Aus demselben Grund, dass Ihr Gesicht die Zeichen der Sonne trägt. Es ist nicht bis zu Ihnen, um den Kurs der Natur zu entscheiden,” she spoke in calm, matter-of-fact tone, and the man smiled at her as he walked nearer to her.

“In meinem Land muss eine schöne Frau von ihrem Mann entweder geschätzt oder als ein Sklave an den Mann verkauft werden, der bereit ist, sich meist zu bieten, um ihr Master zu sein,” he told her with a knowing smile, his dark brown hair and aged skin illuminated by the light the closer he came, and she listened to him almost in the same reverence she had listened to the leopards. “Und Sie, mein hübsches,” he continued, and slowly stretched his arm to momentarily caress her hair, “hätten Tausende und Tausende von Dinars zurück in den alten Tagen gekostet.” The honesty to his tone was formidable, and she in quietude stood for a moment or two, to absorb the warmth of his sentiments, until a small smile crossed her lips.

“Genießen die Leoparden Sklaverei?” she asked him.

“Bietet Sklaverei ihnen Wahl an?” his honest response was.

She did not know why but she could not help but smile at this. Perhaps it could be traced in the fact she had inwardly accepted his words to be true even before she had heard them, a small voice inside her telling her of things she no longer wished to hear, words she was too tired to hear, facts she desired to shove to the back of her mind and eventually disappear, but really, the panther could growl and show its claws as many times as it fancied – but would it really change anything? It was so futile, so absolutely, impenetrably pointless one might as well attempt to explain one’s own meaning and purpose in the life cycle or, if indeed they had been fortunate enough to have come to realize it, then endeavour to change it. The Arabian handler smiled back at her and raised his forefinger in the air as if to signal she should wait for him, as he were to return shortly; and indeed a moment later, he had reappeared, not without holding something in his hands.

“Sie können es für die Nacht tragen, es wurde gemacht, um von einem majestätischen Wesen des wilden – und Ihrer, meines Mädchens getragen zu werden, die Augen eines afrikanischen schwarzen Panters haben,” he assured her, and opened his hands so that the woman could stare back at the piece of jewellery he held within the palms of his hands with such fondness and affection, one would have thought the animals and that piece were his only children, an entertainer’s comfort. “Oh, ich beunruhige nicht, dass Sie es stehlen könnten,” he then added as he noticed how she looked back at him with a beguiling, questioning stare when he passed the jewellery to her hands. “Es gibt nur eine Weise zu flüchten, aber dort stehen Ortsansässige am Haupttor - und Sie können nicht stimmt dass fliegen?” He smiled, but her eyes darkened at the words, fingers motionlessly wrapped around the gem stones.

“Wie ist Ihr Name?”

She remained quiet, and although her lips were curved into a straight line, her eyes were more than smiling at him, gleaming brightly with the mystifying quality of a carnivorous animal stalking in the forest and patiently awaiting for its prey to rest within its home, feeling secure and content, but soon to meet its untimely demise. For such was the law of nature.

“So, wenn Sie mir nicht sagen werden, dass heute Abend Sie die Königin Libyens sein sollen,” he told her, and smiled at her warmly. “Der schöne, gefährliche Lamya,” he announced, and chuckled quietly under his throat.

A melding of smells made the air thick and ripe with that of carnality, the meat on the plates, the taste of the Arabian courtesans as they danced in the oud’s local rhythmic tune, their traditional ruby-coloured costumes falling heavy down upon the floor and the sight of their dusky skin of their well-formed bellies occasionally offered graciously to the soldiers viewing the spectacle whenever the dancing move required for them to lift the garment’s split sections on the front, the veils around their faces revealing only a pair of glimmering, ebony eyes. And as they danced into the night, so did the moon embrace them in all of their destructive beauty when they whirled around and let their forms move to the cadence of the music, the scarf’s concealing part of their dark hair as it fell with wretched elegance down their shoulders, their arms expressive and bewitching as they floated around and moved along the rhythm of their torso, and when the figures moved about, the earth moved underneath them; and whenever they fell down upon the floor to writhe with the music like serpents crawling around the tree of knowledge, the earth would breathe a sigh – and shiver as bare feet slowly ambled along the soil, tracing back to the shape not of a dancer but a feline that had thirsted for the forgetfulness and misery which wine could offer a wretched human being, and the promise of torpor. Strong legs moved about, the soft breeze dancing through the dark hair and caressing the milk-white skin of her bare shoulders, her posture tall and imposing, undomesticated but presently tame under the heavy influence of alcohol – and around her neck stood a collar that suffocated her, indeed not – a piece of beauteous jewellery that bore an ornament to the body destined to be whipped to obedience lest she struggled against her animal handlers; a large jewel that covered the entire skin of her neck, made of black cobble and stones set upon the midst of the sparkling silver, as the gems stood out the same size as her nipples. She had, after all, no other use, for just an ornament was she, a slave, an incarcerated animal.

And who would be there to stop this? Who could stop this madness?

She lost herself in the crowd and danced from figure to figure, passing from one soldier to the other, her arms flailing about their necks and taking turns, as the earth, the entire world rotated around her very eyes, the stench of wine and cigarettes reeking from her lips, a fusion of shapes and noises piercing her mind, so that the only thing she could hear were the unified noises of the men who grabbed after her, and above that the distinctive voice of the animal handler calling out to the crowd, “Lamya! Lamya!” and she, like a bird, flew from one to another in that swift, rapid turn, in drunken mirth, in insane vigour as though her body had been set on liquid fire and was going up in smokes, turn after turn that inevitably led her from one man’s embrace to another’s, the tempo of the oud and the goblet drum signalling the sound of her heartbeat rising into a crescendo against her ribcage, the name loudly spoken and the men, driven by the call of instinctive drunken desire and ultimate madness, shouted their own bid at her one after the other, the derangement and instability reigning upon their royal throne so that twenty morphed into thirty, transformed into forty six, fifty seven, seventy eight Italian liras, to buy the slave, use the slave, subdue the slave, and cage her, yes, cage her! The panther hissed and growled from within its cage but she only heard that same demonic name called out loud, again and again, Lamya! Lamya! And in the next turn, breathless and weary from the dance of insanity, her palms rested upon strong, familiar shoulders; she opened her eyes and her face froze as the Hauptmann’s face stood a breath’s worth away from hers and the woman, in intoxicated disbelief, staggered backwards, eyes transfixed upon his steely countenance, before she managed to tear her gaze apart and forced herself to turn despite the moment’s shock and lose herself amongst the crowd.


Translation

These hands are ones of a man who labours too much, so much less to a comely woman. Hands belonging to people of my country. Tell me, then, stranger, why are your fingers hardened with the marks of toil?

For the same reason that your face bears the marks of the sun. It is not up to you to decide the course of nature.

In my country a beautiful woman must be either cherished by her husband or sold as a slave to the man who is willing to offer the most to be her master. And you, my pretty, would have cost thousands and thousands of dinars back in the old days.

Do the leopards enjoy slavery?

Does slavery offer them any choice?

You can wear it for the night, it was made to be worn by a majestic creature of the wild – and you, my girl, have the eyes of an African black panther. Oh, I do not worry you might steal it. There is only one way to escape, but there are locals standing at the main gate – and you can’t fly, can you?

What is your name?

Well, if you will not tell me, tonight you shall be the Queen of Libya. The beautiful, dangerous Lamya.

[Rolf Jäger]

Grey eyes of steel stared into the silver pool of the mirror, the irises on both sides of the sheen surface skittering over the reflection beyond the polished exterior and studying the image that they saw, scrutinizing it, calculating. Dark rings beneath the man's eyes belied his recent lack of sleep and food, but the man's hair had at least lost its greasy quality after a bath long overdue and it now only stood damp instead, last tiny drops of water still travelling down the man's neck. Clean clothes were waiting for him upon the back of a wooden chair and the man had already pulled on a pair of clean military-issue trousers, but had still left the shirt waiting on the account of the uncomfortable warmth within the room he was currently residing in. Rolf raised the razor to the side of his face and tilted his chin to the side, ready to get rid of stubble that was fast becoming a beard, yet he allowed the blade to hover in the air in an indecisive manner, his eyes continuously fixated upon his own image. He seemed different now, something foreign having taken over the very spirit residing within his eyes and they seemed older and far too serious now. Maybe it was ever his overgrown stubble that brought on such a curious effect, Rolf could not say, and he shifted his head slowly from side to side to track down the exact cause of such an illusion. The realization struck him from the shadows and his head froze in mid-movement, the man's eyes narrowing and his breathing ceasing for that very moment when he saw himself looking at his own father instead. Eyes of sternest grey, the sharp angles of the brow and the neat, small beard running over the jagged and distinct jaw - they all belonged to his father and Rolf had suddenly lost his own identity for a moment, the image further shifting and the shape of the face slightly gaining in heaviness, the lines under the eyes growing more distinct and the hair adopting just a slightly darker hue.

Rolf's eyes widened in sudden shock and cold ripples passed through his spine as he took a step away from the mirror to dissolve the devious illusion and to remind himself how he was in Libya and how Stuttgart was so very, very far away, hidden behind the wallowing waters and endless seas of forests and fields, the scorn of his father not able to reach him from such an endless distance. A sharp, metallic clink emitted from the sink as the razor fell upon the enamel surface and Rolf had to tear his gaze away from the mirror to completely dissolve the alarming image, although it had already caused his heart to run wildly, his blood suddenly running cold in his veins. It took Rolf a few drawn-out seconds to finally gather his wits once more and to force himself to look back into the mirror, but instead of his father he could only see his own image, strangely unkempt as he still appeared, shirtless and bearded. The man sneered at his own visage, as if challenging the phantom to manifest itself again, but he could only witness himself sneering upon the polished surface, the man's grey eyes immediately flashing with challenge, as if he was a mere animal and could not understand that the image was not a competitor. He stared into his own eyes for a small moment, waiting for the malicious shift in his likeness, but after nothing seemed to happen, his gaze fell upon the discarded blade instead. His hand already moved in to grasp it again, but then his fingertips curled in hesitation and he paused, a brief sense of irritation crunching his eyebrows at the thought of shaving away the overgrown stubble, as if doing so would signal that he was afraid or ashamed of something. The man released a low scoff and withdrew his hand, turning his back at the mirror, yet not daring to gaze into it again.

It was easy to discard this uncomfortable feeling later as he walked upon the nightly streets of Libya, the sounds of the celebrating crowd almost violently attacking his hearing and effectively driving away the still lingering ghosts that had stubbornly haunted him. He now appeared like a respectable member of the Luftwaffe, sporting a fresh, sand-coloured uniform and polished boots as he was, yet the coarse stubble lining his jaw hindered the image somewhat, the man choosing to carry this only visible sign of his recent imprisonment with a characteristic, stubborn pride. This same self-sufficiency reflected back to the man's entire posture and he regarded people from under his eyebrows with his chin tilted up slightly, a confident swagger dominating his steps as he regarded each new and unfamiliar sight with a sharp glint in his eyes. There was unadulterated, almost childish interest to his gaze as he tried to regard as many exotic sights as he could and he knew that he was enjoying the fervent signs of this hungry, nearly desperate life the most and certainly, the extent of his solitude had driven him to seek some extent of solace in the crowd, not wanting to participate in the celebrations and only wishing to observe them, to remind himself that there was still life to the desert and that it had been there - even through those times he had felt the entire world had abandoned him in his cell. The wild spirit that had taken over the streets filled him with its primal force and he breathed it in deeply in all of its outlandish quality, the smell of unknown spices and foods filling his lungs with an intoxicating essence. The pilot nimbly stepped around some dancing figures of local women, his eyes lingering on their enticingly swaying hips, their thin wrists writhing like snakes to the shrill melody of the music and then Rolf already bumped into someone, the sudden contact forcing him to regard the person he had collided with.

An almost toothless local man grinned at him widely, presenting a small selection of golden trinkets towards him, and Rolf blinked slowly, shaking his head in stunned rejection. He stepped away from the weather-beaten geezer as he started spouting fast words at the German officer and Rolf further raised his hands to clearly communicate to the man that he had no interest in the baubles he was so eager to sell him, and retreating with such fast steps as he was, he found himself once again bumping into something, his leg brushing against something alarmingly living and furry. The hyena yelped and raised its hackles upon the presence of the man, nimbly skipping a few steps away from him before the metal chain snapped to its collar stopped the canine's escape short and the collar dug into its skin viciously, the animal further growling and gnashing its teeth at the sensation. Rolf held his breath, only slowly realizing that the beast was chained and appeared quite tame, even fearful, and the man allowed himself to relax as he saw the shaggy animal pressing its bulk against its owner's leg, the local man mirthfully laughing at the German's utterly dumbfounded expression. Rolf glared at the animal and then at its master, a slow sneer forming in the corner of his lips of the outrage of having someone of such small value laugh at him, yet once more the continuous torrent of the celebration was already demanding his attention once more, the shrill and familiar call of a horse causing the man to snap his head to the side.

Next to the bulky camels and sluggish mules danced a majestic beast of desert sands, the muscles of the animal rippling beneath a skin of misty silver as its hooves sprayed sand upon its wake and the whites of the horse's eyes flashed as it attempted to tear the reins of its painstakingly decorated bridle free from the heavy wooden pole they had been attached to. It was easy to tell from the graceful arch of its neck and the distinct, light bone-structure of the animal that it was of the Arabian breed, the long, elongated head ending with a muzzle of midnight black, the darker colour further replicated upon the animal's legs and in its flowing mane and tail, now whisking nervously from side to side as the horse shied away from the clamor of the crowd. Rolf did not even notice himself taking those steps towards the elegant animal before he had already reached its side, the man carefully extending his hand towards it, his words spoken low and hoarse as he told the animal to calm down. Ripples of irritation and nervousness ran across the silver texture of the horse's skin, but it ceased its stepping around and allowed the man to press his hand to the side of its neck, the black nostrils flaring wild and feral as it turned its head around to regard the man. The dark strands of its tail whipped through the air, still, but soon enough it was too curious about the newcomer and pushed its muzzle to the man's hand in search of treats. Rolf could only stare at the elegant animal in open admiration, his lips parted and drawing into a smile as he wondered what strength those feet could hold, at what kind of speeds the beast could fly across the deserts its kin had ever called home. This particular breed had been tempered in the relentless scorch of the sun, the harsh surroundings and requirements calling for both stamina and speed from the animal, and through such strife had its very core been forged as to achieve perfection in both body and spirit. And was there not an ancient intelligence to its dark eyes as it gazed at him, the animal further arching its graceful neck, as if suddenly finding itself conscious of its own superiority.

A sudden attack of foreign words caused the man to withdraw his hand from the horse's neck and he glanced at his side, a younger local man smilingly pointing at the silver horse and spouting out further observations, Rolf only arching his eyebrows quizzically, not understanding even one word of the man's enthusiastic speech. As if on a queue to his confusion, an Italian Corporal suddenly stepped next to the local man and, swaying slightly drunken as he was, pointed at the horse himself. "Figlia della vento. Ya-bint-al-hawa. Questo è il nome del cavallo, Capitano," the man announced slurredly and Rolf regarded the Italian with no small amount of surprise, for he obviously was familiar with the Arabic language. Naturally, the Italian either did not care or only assumed that the German pilot knew Italian, and it was his turn to look slightly surprised when the Hauptmann answered him in the man's own language. "È proprio così? Bene, si può dire che lui ha un bel cavallo, il nome si inserisce. Lei è un ottimo modello della sua razza. Non abbiamo davvero vedere cavalli come questo in Germania," Rolf commented graciously, further patting the now calmed animal upon its neck. The Italian chuckled, turning around to translate the Hauptmann's words to the man and the local man seemed quite taken by the compliments and his face was suddenly beaming with pride, the string of his next words even more enthusiastic than the first one had been. The Italian listened to him, appearing amused and he waited patiently for the apparently endless explanation to end, finally directing his attention back at the pilot to translate it. "Egli è riconoscente e dice che essi hanno molti cavalli come questo fuori Tripoli. Egli ha anche detto che il cavallo è in vendita se lo vuoi, egli ha affermato che intende integrarsi bene nel servizio di un uomo come te, Capitano," the Italian seemed more than happy to demonstrate his skills in the language and Rolf appeared almost hostile at the curious implication not thoroughly explained, as if he was expecting the description to be something of an ill nature. "Un uomo come me?" he asked sharply and the intoxicated Corporal blinked at the question, as if he did not remember leaving anything out from his previous words. Then he grinned wide and pointed at the German officer. "Sayad. Un inseguitore," the man announced happily and Rolf's eyes widened momentarily, his heart skipping a beat at the far too conveniently pronounced title the local man had chosen for him. Rolf took a step back and shook his head, both at the Italian and at the owner of the horse, his heart thumping wild within his chest as he spoke through the dryness of his throat. "Io non sono qui per comprare nulla," the man answered, nimbly turning his back at them and pushing his way through the clamoring crowd, happily losing himself in their midst and allowing the noise to pull his thoughts away from the incident.

The fast and rhythmic beats of the music grew stronger as he advanced through the mass of people and he felt his heartbeats settling to the dull thud of the drums. Soldiers were yelling at some enticing sight they saw and Rolf only pushed them aside, regarding their irritated glances with a hostile growl and he felt the sudden, burning desire to find something alcoholic to drink. It had been some time since he had dulled his brain with that poison and this, if anything, felt like a convenient time to do just that. There had been far too many thoughts tormenting him during his time in the prison and he wanted to discard all of them, his conflicting thoughts of Riedel's involvement in his continued existence at the head of his Gruppe mixing with those of the hatred he held towards her and those of his own lust, of how her images had haunted him through all those drawn hours spent sitting in the silence of his cell. The initial sense of wonder he had felt over the various exotic sights so rapidly thrown at him was now dissolving quickly and he felt as if someone had placed a set of iron chains over his chest, the tormentor pulling them tighter around him, denying him from freely breathing and still trapping him in that dark prison with his thoughts.

He only came to a stop once he realized that there had been a wall of people in front of him and that he was not standing in an empty area in front of the mass of clamoring soldiers and he attempted to step back in the midst of them, not wanting to interrupt whatever display that had so managed to catch their attention. The wall of people behind him denied him from backing up and just as Rolf was about to bark orders at them, he caught the sight of pale skin flashing in the corner of his eye and the words died down in his throat, his gaze slowly shifting to regard the nightly creature dancing in front of the crowd. The woman swirled around, strands of coal-black hair flowing across her shoulders as she dipped to the side and her feet found their way around in the sand as if on an instinct, caught by the rhythm of the music and the shouts of the crowd as she moved closer to the soldiers, her hands inviting them to join her just before she would move away and find another victim to tease. Her strong calves drew circles in the air, the scant black canvas of the underwear the only thing really covering her luminous skin and Rolf was left hopelessly staring at the sight. Even when his mind could distinctly recall the curves of that strong body, it still refused to place a name upon the dancer, some safety mechanism within his thoughts telling him to walk away and forget about the enticing dark-haired dancer so eagerly beckoning to every man she chanced upon. Rolf's fingers curled into a fist and he felt a cold dread spreading through his viscera and his chest at the name that broke through the surface of his denial and burned at him, the briefest glimpse of the distinctly drawn lines of her face and the strength stored within her arms providing him with too many memories to repress the reality any further. Was this how she really was? Ever drawn to whoring around whatever man she could find in her drunken mirth, not even possessing enough self-respect to conceal herself from the mass of hungry eyes watching her or from the filthy hands trying to grasp at her and claim her as their own. Like a poisonous viper she was all too ready to spout her venom at him, to injure him and to deride him and how she enjoyed watching him burn and writhe in agony, the woman drawing some twisted sense of pleasure from his torment!

Rolf's expression darkened with these sentiments and he felt his throat constricting, his grey eyes now the hue of cold steel as he glared at the hateful thing so easily fleeting from one soldier to another, ever closer to him, her burning halo scorching him more painfully with each dancing step she took towards him. He could hear the men bidding for her and a local man, unexpectedly speaking in German, was only encouraging them on and to bid higher on the exotic creature swirling around in their midst, his voice rising over the crescendo of musical instruments and the shouts accompanying them, yet even through all this commotion Rolf could only observe the way the woman's pale skin flashed before his eyes, as if to further mock him and to draw out the lust that also lingered beneath the surface and that would always be rejected by her with mockery and violence. As if on some grand plan set to motion by the very universe itself, the woman swayed closer to him with each nimble step of her feet and then she was suddenly there, her hands set upon the man's shoulders and her now hazed eyes of green staring back at him in confusion and horror. The woman's lips remained slightly open from the exertion of dancing and it felt almost painful for Rolf to so well recall the familiar curve at the corner of those lips and just how proudly the woman's eyebrows curved over her ever relentless irises, an unknown and dangerous storm always brewing within their center. The man's eyes skipped downwards for the briefest of moments that contact lasted, regarding the round form of her naked shoulders and the enticing curve of her neck, her skin bathing in the dance of shadows and fire, of darkness and light. Rolf's gaze travelled downwards to regard the glimmering necklace of silver decorated with dark gems, the precious stones appearing as black stars in the middle of a sea of lustrous sterling and it was only natural that his eyes should have still skipped further below, just to notice that the necklace was the only thing adorning her upper body at the moment. The man breathed out deeply, blinking and feeling the pressure of the woman's hands upon his shoulders more distinctively now, the touch suddenly starting to scorch through his uniform while he was uncertain of where to direct his eyes at and whether to regard the woman with admiration or contempt. Fast thoughts of his hands wandering over that bare skin of hers flashed through his mind and for a few fleeting moments he could see himself grasping the woman by her arms and allowing his fingers to roam along every inch of her exposed body, exploring and worshipping, yet just as suddenly the clamor around them had returned and only the inner fire so easily set aflame within the man was left burning in ominous silence.

Rolf was frozen in his place, his stern gaze that of eternal ice, and as they stared at each other Rolf wanted to feel nothing but hatred and scorn towards her, these simple emotions helping him to merely sneer at her and leave her get destroyed to her own depravity, yet when she faltered back in shock, something else shifted within the man's chest. The ice in his eyes cracked for the briefest of moments, his fingertips curling on the thought of grasping her and pulling her away from others, wanting to preserve her from the fate she was far too eager to draw upon herself and wishing to spirit her away from the mass of hungry eyes. Then it was already too late and she had turned around and fled from him, her pale figure already vanishing in the midst of the crowd and her form hidden from the hunter by the feral wilderness of debauchery and vice. Through this stupor he could hear the storm of the bids for the woman rising ever higher and the men laughed in their drunken glee, soldiers eagerly offering their money to the man holding the auction, each one of them hungry to possess the pale, dark-haired female. Rolf's eyes searched for the tiniest glimpse of Riedel's figure in the crowd, but upon failing to spot them, his ears tuned to the shouts of the bidding instead, the sale now turning to the favour of an Italian Lieutenant, the rest of the crowd fast finding themselves swimming out of their depth when the Lieutenant announced that he would be ready to claim the dancer for the sum of two hundred lire.

"Eintausend!" Rolf's hoarse bark caused the Italian officer to furrow his brows and stare at the challenger, doubting whether he was really ready to give up such a sum of money for the woman, but the Luftwaffe officer appeared nothing but confident as he stepped closer to the local man holding the auction, meeting his surprised gaze with a cold fire burning in his eyes. "Ich bieten eintausend um die Frau."


Translations:

"Figlia della vento. Ya-bint-al-hawa. Questo è il nome del cavallo, Capitano."
"Daughter of The Wind. Ya-bint-al-hawa. That's the horse's name, Capitano."

"È proprio così..?"
"Is that so? Well, you can tell him that he has a beautiful horse, the name fits. She is a fine specimen of her breed. We don't really see horses like this in Germany."

"Egli è riconoscente e dice che essi hanno molti cavalli come questo fuori Tripoli..."
"He is thankful and says that they have many horses like this outside Tripoli. He also said that the horse is for sale if you want it, he said that she would fit well in the service of a man such as yourself, Capitano."

"Un uomo come me?"
"A man such as myself?"

"Sayad. Un inseguitore."
"Sayad. A hunter."

"Io non sono qui per comprare nulla."
"I'm not here to buy anything."

"Eintausend! Ich bieten eintausend um die Frau."
"One thousand! I bid one thousand for the woman."

[Dirk Riedel]

Like a python’s bite to the vein that infected the body and paralysed the mind, spreading its toxin throughout the blood, the swollen wound, the convulsive skin, did the woman feel his very presence striking her at the heart with a force so formidable it seared the tissues and burned her viscera with the essence of ethanol, her arteries bleeding with the promise of destruction and wretchedness; she became one with the enveloping crowd and lost herself amidst the soldiers who observed her curiously and more often than not hungrily as they turned to stroke her by the sides, fingers pulled around her belly and marking the muscles of the stomach, pressed as they were underneath the breasts but recurrently making an effort to trace the silver gemstones of the coal-black necklace – and she, with abundant repellence, pushed them away and further moved into the crowd to escape from the baron’s territorial conquest as if he were in pursuit of her weakness for the sole purpose of appeasing his swollen pride, assuredly, his prodigious self-regard and vanity. Her mind was too confounded to be able to think clearly, and the smell of wine reeked from her blood-red lips, with the evidence of alcohol consumption having blinded her better judgement, if indeed she had any – and, to be sure, could one truly believe the uncaring woman had not planned beforehand for this to happen? She staggered through the crowd, and at one point could not even commit to memory the reason she was in that caravansera to begin with, but then such was her stunned disbelief and inner turmoil upon the baron’s arrival that any other capacity of understanding apart from that of his presence had been stripped away from her.

The men were too far intoxicated to even recognize her as one of their own and, thinking of her as an Arabian exotic beauty, each barked their respective bids for the local slave girl that was to become their future possession to yield and command. Such an estimation, of course, was ridiculous, considering how neither could they in reality tend to a slave even if so they wished and, moreover, the woman did not believe of herself to possess an appearance worth of anyone’s attention and dedication, her features often course and sharp, the angles of her face brisk and hostile and those of her body powerful and rough, hardly built of a gentle feminine semblance that would attract the imminent worship and fondness as appropriated; even so, while the knuckles felt roughened and prickly and routinely reddened from the weight and the toil, the palms of her hands were soft to the touch, not too gentle as neither were they silken like the hands of the ladies of aristocracy who fancied sporting velvety gloves to further accentuate the lightness of their fingers, but hers were mild with a sense of purposeful strength to them. Truly enough, she possessed a very simple, rural physiognomy which, though the woman never paid any thought to it, bestowed upon her features the undomesticated characteristics of a wild beast whose claws emerged at the first likelihood of threat and teeth bared with hostility and aggressiveness were any other creature to pursue her in an effort to tame or restrain her. The necklace glinted as she passed into the crowd, but not before the distinct words pierced through her entire shape, nude and shameless as it was, and warned her of the imminent danger that arose once the price of one thousand liras had been announced – the baron’s hoarse and characteristic voice sounding in the night rigid and uncompromising.

She immediately whisked to the side and turned her head to look behind her, her narrowed eyes slowly registering what the man was planning to do and, with an exasperated growl of protest that sounded almost too frantic as she strode back at him, her fists clenched and with the sheer force of predominant rage and suffering agony guiding the actions of the creature did the Lamya bark, “Nicht! Nehmen Sie ihn weg! Nehmen Sie ihn weg! Nicht!” And grasping at the soldiers around her with a desperate clutch to her hands did the woman plead with them, demand of them, shout and yelp at them, shriek, beg, and command with all of her might as she passed from one to the other, the steps bringing her closer to him. She thought she was distancing herself through calling out of the others to rid her from his essence, but in reality the closest she stepped into his cold, uncaring embrace. “Nicht er! Nicht zu ihm! Sie müssen sich mehr bieten, Sie müssen!” she cried loudly, and clutched a German Obergefreiter from his collar tightly, eyebrows furrowed fiercely and lips stiffly pressed, the woman’s face now completely distorted into a mask of dread and barbarity. “Nicht zu ihm! Verlassen Sie mich mit ihm nicht, nein, ich werde es nicht erlauben! Ich werde es nicht erlauben!” She turned to another soldier, a Stabsgefreiter, who was so absolutely sloshed that he was only looking at her through eyes half-closed and a mirthful smile of plain contentment etched across his lips as his hands outstretched to snatch her from the sides, but how easy could her hands coil around his jaws and press her fingers tightly at the skin in a suffocating, violent manner. “Wachen Sie auf!” she barked, and, slowly beginning to lose hope, she looked around her at the surrounding crowd of drunken soldiers, her breath shallow and laborious, and eyes of clearest green widening from the gradual realization of the cold, awful reality that slapped her hard upon the face.

“Ich werde dem nicht erlauben!” she howled at the crowd, and in vain did she wheel her head around in search of any face that appeared remotely interested in bidding a ridiculous amount of money for the only purpose that she would not end up in the hands of –

Her eyes locked upon the baron’s steel-gray, ice-cold irises, the man standing only a few steps in the distance amongst the crowd and close enough to the animal handler, his countenance as always forbidding and straightforward, as unyielding as a raw, uncut diamond and with the zealous determination of an ancient hunter tracing the tracks of prey having long since been stalking. No voice did escape her throat, no words had she to speak, her prospects of breaking free from his hands bleak and unlikely, the animal trapped to the hunter’s final moment of conquest – or had she really trapped herself? Made the path easy for him to follow? Led him into her lair and invited him to crawl inside her hideout? The woman simply remained in that position, with her arms hanging down by her sides and her posture tall and proud, not quite knowing what to do, if there was anything she could do, or what to say, if there was anything that could be said. She could hardly resign to the idea of being enslaved to his whimsicalities, but really, had she not already been a slave to these? This is how she had felt ever since his discovery of her true identity, being the one tied on a leash and always writhing on the ground next to him; whenever he sat upon the armchair she would rest upon his legs, and whenever he so wished to keep himself entertained all he was required to do was tug upon her leash and thereupon his entertainment would begin, the woman kneeling to his every vagary and fanciful demands, his capriciousness, selfishness and adamant thoughtlessness. There she stood, in front of him, in all of her glowering bareness, eyes that scorched him with a burning conflagration to her eyes that refused to obey him and act in accordance to his wishes and desires.

One’s nature, try as hard and persistently as one would, could never be spirited away from them, forged into a different path or forced to act otherwise. They could make a sheer effort to accomplish this, it was true, but really how much worth did such efforts hold in them when all was vain and pointless from the very beginning? Perhaps she had bitten at her fingers, pressed her lips and struck her fist against the metallic surface of the Kubelwagen, attempted to pacify that deep, unfathomable human urge to resist against his call for submission, the hand that hit her at the back and prodded her to behave in a prudent manner, all to prevent his eventual betrayal of her secret, that treacherous one-sided act that would have destroyed within an instant all she had built in blood and sweat; and though at first her pride had been too excessive and categorical to allow for such a shameful condition to come to pass, let alone permanently be solidified in days that turned to weeks, to months she had not realized had easily elapsed – she had indirectly and slowly swallowed down the undeniable reality and deferred to this deplorable capitulation of hers, that concession of defeat.

And now? With the stench of wine and cigarettes, she stood before him, hating him, aching for him, and wishing all of the ills of the world to chance upon his fate; for she had nothing more but for what she had to give, and that was staring at him in that very moment, her pride, her resilient spirit, the powerlessness to break against her nature, the weakened body, the weakened mind, her loathing and contempt visible through that one frigid glower as eyes pierced through his own, and then hated him even more, for his imminent triumph, his insufferable ability to earn his way with her, his means, ways and resources – not so monetary, not in the least, but spiritual ones that endowed him with that undying readiness and vigour to pursue that which he longed to possess in whichever way he wanted to possess it. Where did he find it? Where from, indeed, did such inner power of readiness spring?

Frowning, the woman then turned around on the spot and without thinking – or even bothering to look at that particular direction – she snatched the open bottle of wine one Feldwebel was holding and tilted her head backwards to consume a large gulp from the bittersweet nectar of the gods, the woman’s feet instinctively leading her closest to the cages, as though, one would in irony remark, she had assumed the role which had been forced upon her ever since the start of April. It might have been that momentary madness, the present powerlessness, that woeful dearth of self-control and her collapse into another state of consciousness whence all decadence and depravity knew their glory that as the woman let the empty bottle fall upon the floor and break into hundreds of shards her hands reached out for the thick steel bars and teased with the leopards, a part of her wishing she were inside that very cage. The servals were staring at her curiously, but the panther, as though hateful of her behaviour, growled with aggression and bared its teeth upon her approaching; a small, distinctive smirk etched across the woman’s lips and moved to the maddening sound of the goblet drums and the oud, for entertainment was her purpose. That and nothing more. Fingers that followed the rhythm in the air and which motioned to the golden body to rise and fall, as such had been her own fate, viridian eyes alight with the blinding hatred that gave way only to wrath and hurt, half-open, half-closed, transfixed upon the pilot’s grey irises in the near distance. The panther moved around its cage behind her and growled, and the woman’s shape unified with the animal’s outline, her coal-black hair dissolving into the panther’s silken ebony gown that shined underneath the moonlight, its milk white teeth, bared and threatening, reflecting upon her pallid skin, upon which danced tendrils of silver and glowed the crimson and golden flicker of the burning fire within the wooden torches standing around her, the shadows, sultry and inviting, allowing parts of her body to submerge in darkness and resurface into the warmth of that all-embracing luminescence that worshipped every curve and every crescent of her dancing form, the silver gemstones of the jewel adorning the strong, proud neck gleaming in the moonlight so that with each moment her bosom heaved they radiated the glistering flames; the fire that smouldered in her body and exalted her in its own way, smearing her in shades of golden red so that, in due moments, the skin became one with the light and she became the sun, that burned, and seared and scalded anyone misfortunate enough to stretch out their hands and touch upon the object. The flames glowed upon the spots of her body, the wounds of battle and the marks of the engine, the moles that embellished the skin across her arms and around her bosom and thighs, the birthmarks, strawberry marks, the freckles of that fervid face, and each one gleamed; she, the sun, and they, the sunspots, forbidden but desired, cursed upon but worshipped.

And the panther growled and hissed, it reached out for her to stop this dance of madness, to regain her pride, its steel-green eyes glowering and violent – but the same eyes were absorbed into his own through that haze of blinding ache and the affliction of sentiment put forward before reason.

“Derjenige mit Händen in Wasser ist demjenigen mit Händen im Feuer nicht ähnlich,” the Arabian animal handler told the Hauptmann as he stood next to him, the faces of both men directed upon the dancing woman, before the Arab turned to look at him. “Ihre Hände, Jäger, scheinen versengt und geschwärzt. Haben sie das berührt der wird zu ihnen verboten? Oder haben sie den Geruch nach der Brandwunde vergessen, nachdem sie an das Gefühl gewöhnt wurden?” And with a perceptive glint in his eyes he returned them to the woman. “Wie die Mondspiegel das Licht der Sonne in seinem Glühen, tun Sie so die Augen spiegeln die Seele wider, und ihre Augen sagen einem alten Mann wie ich, dass sie sich um Sie sorgen, Jäger. Augen noch und scharf durch die Natur aber nur in einer Weise, die Wärme zu verbergen. Vielleicht, sogar, sorgen sie sich zu viel, als sie - und diejenigen wollen würde, die sich sorgen, zu viel wird der Selbstzerstörung und Wahnsinn entweder zum Opfer fallen oder von der Wärme brennen, wie es Sie verbraucht. Ihre Hände erzählen mir so viel. Sie müssen ihr verzeihen. Da schließlich sich Feuer kaputtmachen wird, wenn es fand, dass nichts brannte,” the old man told the pilot in a knowing tone that was kind and exuded understanding through years of wisdom and experience which the young man was deficient in, and furthermore looked at the woman with an expectant glint in his dark eyes, as though he was expecting of her to manifest the first attempt of searing the pilot's skin simply by staring at him so determinedly.

But, then, without any forewarning did the woman turn around in a brisk, uncontrolled movement and motioned even closer to the panther's cage, the animal pacing to and fro from behind the bars as though in expectation of her approach to finally slaughter her for her mindlessness and defeat. In the rhythm of the goblet drum the woman let her hands touch the bars and then whirled around herself, quickly, sharply, the drunken reverie and hatred, to punish him, punish herself, and stepped closer to the cage - the animal handler shouted at her in sudden fright - and she would not listen but danced along the bars, her skin passing from one bar to the next; and the animal crawled closer and - with a quick snap of its paws - did it attack her from the cage, the woman dancing away from the point of attack in a light-hearted, careless manner, hardly showing the remotest interest at the imminent danger, even embracing it with drunken, cold laughter at the time that she moved along the cage's periphery. The panther slowly followed her, teeth bared and its tail curved upwards from the ground, head slightly bowed and in preparation for the next strike - and, soon enough, the claws pushed through the bars, the animal handler bellowed, and the woman laughed in eyes almost closed as she missed the advance with yet another mindless swift move of the body to the side. With the musical tones of the oud entering the culmination of madness and the drum's temporal crescendo into rapture and ecstasy, the woman's bosom rose and fell to the cadence and revolved around herself, the palms grasping at the barricade and fingers coiling around the thick black rail for moments before - in an instant - she turned around and green eyes met, the woman and the panther, in that momentary mutual contact and the breathing of souls, before with a loud hissing growl the claw gnashed at her arm and the animal motioned for another strike had she not been pulled back by a few German soldiers.

The Arab whipped at the cage with his rod and the black leopard moved back, the woman secured within the intoxicated embrace of the comrades as they laughed and smiled at her, their hands around her stomach and eyes moving to observe the wound. It was a small cut the size of a large needle, the blood painting the surrounding region with a characteristic crimson hue, but even so she only stared at the abrasion with uncaring, indifferent eyes - and, indeed, a smile crossed her lips. Was it merely drunken, or did it exhibit pride and genuine mirth upon receiving a wound well earned? One could not know, and neither could the woman understand how figures and music dissolved into one faceless mass of sounds and outlines as she was passed from one soldier to the next, for they, having recognized defeat and the bidding having come to its end with the winner made clear, returned the prize to the conqueror, the slave to her master. Neither could she understand the purpose of this motion, let alone put an end to it, and the next thing the woman could very clearly register through that intoxicated visual mess was a pair of cold-steel eyes that suddenly came face to face with her as the soldiers turned her around each to his comrade standing closer to the Hauptmann, until she was thrown directly upon his arms. Her hands collided against his chest and she instinctively looked up, her lips faintly parted and breathless, her glassy eyes wide open gleaming in the flickering light from the torch alight close to them and fingers unconsciously wrapped around his shoulders for support. She did not appear conscious of the laceration even though she could feel its annoying sting and aching twinge, or mindful of the blood railing slowly down her arm, her eyes drawn into his silver irises through that eternal impassioned haze.




Translation

No! Take him away! Take him away! No! Not him! Not to him! You must offer more, you must! Not to him! Don’t abandon me with him, no, I will not allow it! I will not allow it! Wake up!

I will not allow this!

The one with hands in water is not like the one with hands in fire. Your hands, Hunter, appear seared and blackened. Have they touched that which is forbidden to them? Or have they forgotten the smell of burn after they became used to the feeling? Like the moon mirrors the sun’s light in its glow, so do the eyes mirror the soul, and her eyes tell an old man like me that they care for you, Hunter. Eyes still and sharp by nature but only in a way to conceal the warmth. Perhaps, even, they care too much than she would want – and those who care too much will either fall prey to self-destruction and madness or burn from the warmth as it consumes you. Your hands tell me as much. You must forgive her. For, after all, fire will burn itself out if it did not find anything to burn.

[Rolf Jäger]

The hunter watched the prey in silence, from a small distance observing her violent trashing as she battled against the clutches of a snare conveniently set, the iron jaws of the trap having already bit into her pale flesh far too deep for her to escape. Rolf had not planned on building such a cage for her, but watching at her from a small distance as he now was he could plainly see the borders of that devious enclosure pressing closer around her, the woman's untamed spirit now hopelessly battling against the truth she had attempted to turn her eyes away from. It was of no use now, the chase that had taken through such violent and tumultuous turns now ending in a closed off pass, the feral creature dwelling within the female still attempting to find any means of escape, her claws raking at the walls of the closed-off pass in vain. The hunter now found himself drinking in on her distress, yet not out of cruelty, but due to the mockery the entire universe had made of them, some unknown power ever throwing a set of fresh tracks in front of the hunter just as he had thought his quarry lost; and yet again the fate had decided to throw them together, the situation almost all too absurd to even properly consider.

Rolf's eyes glinted with sudden curiosity as he watched the woman pleading for someone to help her, to raise the bid and save her from the clutches of the capricious Hauptmann and from one man to another did the pale form of the woman swirl, the scene constantly accompanied by the fast and vivacious beating of the drums. If the men in the crowd possessed the desire to help the woman, even for the selfish reason of claiming her soon after, they had no means to attempt such a feat and Rolf allowed his competitors a brief, haughty glance, knowing that he could outbid them. Of course he was aware that the man currently taking bids for the stirring dancer had no grounds in doing so and that he was merely using a business opportunity that had suddenly dawned to him, but then bidding for the woman seemed like a curiously enticing thing to do. It was as if he was only further emphasizing the strength of will he was ready to pursue her with and demonstrating to her that he would never cease chasing after her until he had been satisfied - whatever it was that would finally appease him enough to finally discard her and continue on with his own life, another trophy hung upon his wall to remind him of victories past. He had not even considered settling still, for too many sights still lay undiscovered and too many quarries were waiting for him to find the means of hunting them down. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that though he knew not the meaning behind some of his current actions or sentiments, they would pass and dissolve as inevitably as the sunlight had to meld into the horizon and give way to the night. He had only yet to discover the hidden use the woman must have held for him and as he often did, he was merely acting on an instinct and allowing his obsession to lead his steps.

And how well had it lead him once more, had it not?

This fervent hunger and fascination glinted in the man's eyes as he stared at the newest act unfolding, the woman's constant pleading receiving no real response from the crowd upon their inability to meet the baron's offer. As the woman swirled around to regard him, their eyes met, and as grey pierced through green something moved inside Rolf and he suddenly felt all-powerful, the mere intensity of that one look causing him to feel wildly alive. The hateful scorch of her eyes warmed him across the distance between them and a curious, almost magnetic force beckoned for Rolf to step closer to her, to drown himself in the flames and embrace them in all of their tormenting quality, but then she had already turned away. She stole a bottle of wine from one of the soldiers, haphazardly gulping down a generous portion of its contents, and when the discarded bottle shattered upon the ground, she was already moving again, her hands grasping a set of metal bars holding captive a large, black feline. Rolf felt the desire to follow after her and to pull the woman away from the crowd, but then she was already moving her pale body to the beat of the drums and the man could not will himself to step forward, his gaze far too captivated by the enticing way both shadows and fire danced upon her curves. It was now that she held him captive, instead, and Rolf breathed out slowly as she teased the crowd with her rebellious display, the ebon cat pacing on velvety paws behind her, the low growl of the animal becoming that of the woman's and their shared, green eyes adopting the same challenging glow from the embers of the nearby fire. Trapped as they were, the cat and the woman both refused to shed their pride, a primal yearning for freedom still rousing their hearts to beat wildly and suddenly the beating of the drums had morphed to resemble that stubborn rhythm of life, the shadows drawing their pale fingers across the woman's thighs as she dipped lower, her eyes held by his.

When he first head the older man near him speaking, he was too preoccupied to allow his gaze to be stolen away from the woman's dancing figure, yet it was when he heard the man plainly mentioning his name that the man narrowed his eyes and allowed his gaze to move to regard the other man, instead. Whether he somehow had knowledge of his identity or he was simply speaking of hunters in the general sense, it was far too personal for the man's liking and his glare became more hostile as he spoke words too complicated for the man to completely understand. The old Arab claimed that he had scorched his hands on something forbidden, something that pained him but which he still refused to let go, and Rolf glanced at the palms of his own hands on an instinct even when he knew the man was speaking only figuratively. As complicated as the old man's words were, Rolf's gaze snapped sharply back at him when he claimed that the woman should have cared for him, a glint of sudden and amused laughter appearing in the man's eyes upon such a ridiculous notion, for what else had she ever offered him but her unending wrath? What else other than.. Rolf blinked slowly, only now suddenly remembering Kronberg recalling the words Riedel had defended him with without his knowledge, for whatever unknown reason attempting to make sure that Rolf would remain at the head of his Gruppe and with this memory dominating his thoughts did he glance at the dancing woman again, attempting to see what the old man had been referring to... but what else was there in those eyes of burning green other than hatred and scorn?

Rolf tilted his head to the side and attempted to see that gaze in a different light, but such a concept had simply never been recorded in the depths of his mind and he only shook his head at such a ridiculous notion. The old Arab was as much of a fool as Kronberg ever was, claiming to understand the scorn that existed between him and Riedel, yet the seed of that thought was left lingering within the Hauptmann's mind and he felt uncomfortable at the realization. It appeared that his sudden scoff was aimed at the old Arab as he mentioned something about Riedel's fire and how he should forgive her, but he was really only reprimanding himself for allowing such a foolish and unneeded thought to start rooting within his mind. He simply snaked a hand inside the front pocket of his tunic to pull out a folded stack of paper money, absentmindedly separating the promised sum of money to push it in the Arab's hand and haughty words of the old man having lost both his sight and his senses due to old age were already ready upon his tongue, when there was a change in the entire ambience. Rolf's gaze moved away from his task and his blood was frozen at the sight of the woman nimbly and dangerously toying with the growling panther within the cage, her hand withdrawn from the wake of its raking claws more on blind luck than apt reaction. Rolf was already calling for Riedel's name, when the shock of witnessing another just nearly avoided attack from the wild animal and the man's steel-grey eyes lay widened with nothing but complete shock, the woman too drunken to properly realize the true extent of the danger she was offering herself into.

Rolf stepped towards the cage, but the events were unfolding too quickly for him to have any real effect on and as the beasts claws inevitably drew blood, the old Arab's whip slashed against the bars of the cage, driving the animal back and the woman nimbly secured by the soldiers standing closest to the cage. The man had not even noticed when his heart had started pounding so wildly and he felt as if he regained feeling upon his skin only once he was certain that Riedel was no longer in danger of getting torn apart by the onyx cat. It was not necessary for him to move anywhere, for he found the men pushing the woman closer to him, the drunken woman soon enough colliding against his chest, the man's hands instinctively setting upon her arms to help her maintain her balance. She gazed back at him, a familiar drunken haze dominating her green eyes while her lips lay parted, adrenaline and endorphin most likely still coursing in her body along with the poison of alcohol. Rolf's heart was still thumping against his chest wildly and he looked back at her in silent stupor, his face lingering an insignificant distance from hers. He was suddenly becoming fast aware of the woman's nakedness, the raven strands of hair brushing over her shoulders and falling down upon her upper back. Her body was now presser close to his and even through his uniform could he feel the distinct warmth of her skin now, fervently lit by her primal dancing as it had been. The man swallowed hard, his fingertips forcefully digging into the skin of her arms and lust passed through his entire being, demanding and hungry like a beast having traversed across the lands for ages in search of sustenance, but then something warm snaked across Rolf's fingers and he shifted his gaze, the crimson of her blood slowly traversing across his fingers.

The sensation drew the man further back into reality and he moved his hand to cover the wound and to stop the flow of blood, the haze of lust not completely gone even when his gaze sharpened fast with new-found determination. "Sie können kämpfen... aber Sie wissen, dass ich Sie noch weg mit mir schleppen werde, und Sie werden nur damit enden, wie das betrunkene lächerliche auszusehen, Sie sind. Ich gab letztes Mal nicht auf, wenn und ich jetzt nicht aufgeben werde," the man growled hoarsely and his steel-grey eyes bore into hers to further drive in the point. "Ihre Wahl," he arched an eyebrow, even though the mere notion of her different choices was nothing but an open, jeering insult. Rolf stared at the woman for a few more drawn-out seconds, releasing his hold of her other arm and choosing to start pulling her away from the injured one, just before the old Arab stepped closer and motioned demandingly at the necklace upon the woman's neck. Rolf did not quite understand the gesture first and he merely maintained his iron grip on the woman's arm, his palm still covering the wound as he glared at the animal handler. Naturally he could understand the meaning of his interruption after a few silent seconds of stupor and Rolf sneered at the old man. "Ich werde es auch kaufen. Ich denke, dass der Sklave ihren Kragen verdient," the Hauptmann announced poisonously, his eyes visiting the woman's visage briefly, his fingers pulling out more wrinkled paper money from his pocket. Without even looking at the amount of money he was passing to the Arab, the man was already pulling the woman along with him, Rolf wishing nothing more but seeing the woman spirited away from the depravities and harm she was so ready to expose herself to. The man's grip remained relentless and even painful as he pulled Riedel along with him, his gaze further darkening on the drunken smiles the woman's naked figure was drawing from the soldiers as they made way for the pair. He would have seen them all paying for their unneeded curiosity and hunger and he felt the hateful, hoarse growl already forming within his throat at the thought of everyone's eyes lingering on the woman's uncovered skin. He did not even want to look at Riedel as he forced her to follow his step and away from the largest masses of crowd and upon spying the narrow, shadowed alleyway in the midst of the sandstone buildings, he chose to jostle the woman in front of him into this secluded area, just to turn her around and push her back against the wall violently.

The man's breathing was heavy and his eyes burned with offense and hatred as he regarded her, even not his slightly unkempt form diminishing any amount of his overflowing pride and self-confidence as he stood a mere step away from her, the beats of the drums carrying curiously muted into the shadowed alley. The muscles on the man's right arm tensed and his fingertips twitched, the man's entire form readying itself for an attack, yet when the pilot's hand inevitably shot towards the woman, his fingers only curled around her jaw, instead, trapping her head against the stone while the palm of his hand pushed against her throat dominantly. "Wirklich, Riedel? Ist das, wer Sie sind? Ich würde Sie eine preiswerte Hure nennen, aber da Sie offensichtlich nicht der preiswertesten Art sind, kann nicht das tun, jetzt kann ich?" the man taunted, the pressure of his fingertips upon the edges of her jaws growing with his irritation. The source of his anger was not directed at the woman's presence and rebellion as it often was, but born from the frustration of not being able to steer the woman away from the vices she was throwing herself into, and this realization caused the man to pause for a moment, a sense of confusion passing through his eyes just before they automatically skipped downwards to glance at the necklace adorning her neck and further downwards, to observe her bare breasts and skin only partly hidden by the strands of her dark hair, the muscles upon her bare stomach only further accentuated by the murky shadows. Suddenly he craved to extend his hand towards her and explore the curve of her hips and his free hand raised half-way, yet was still left hovering only a breath's away from her side. Waves of familiar, warm yearning splashed within the man and he brought his jagged, bristled face closer to hers, his breathing laboured as his eyes glowed from the heat brewing within. "Ist es Aufmerksamkeit, die Sie brauchen? Ist das es? Sind Sie unter Schmerzen, Riedel?" he breathed out with a low growl and narrowed his eyes as he allowed his breathing to tingle her lips, his fingers still decisively curled around her jaw. "Oder legt das Problem die Tatsache an, dass Sie einfach nicht genug bekommen?" Rolf's lips curled into a distinct sneer as he posed the question and he remained still and unmoving like a stalking predator, the palm of his hand further pushing against her throat to more effectively drive in the force of his words.


Translations:

"Sie können kämpfen... aber Sie wissen, dass ich Sie noch weg mit mir schleppen werde..."
"You can fight... but you know I will still drag you away with me and you will only end up looking like the ridiculous drunk you are. I did not give up last time and I will not give up now. Your choice."

"Ich werde es auch kaufen. Ich denke, dass der Sklave ihren Kragen verdient."
"I will buy it, also. I think the slave deserves her collar."

"Wirklich, Riedel? Ist das, wer Sie sind..?"
"Really, Riedel? Is this who you are? I'd call you a cheap whore, but since you obviously are not of the cheapest kind, can't really do that, now can I?"

"Ist es Aufmerksamkeit, die Sie brauchen? Ist das es? Sind Sie unter Schmerzen, Riedel?"
"Is it attention you need? Is that it? Are you in pain, Riedel?"

"Oder legt das Problem die Tatsache an, dass Sie einfach nicht genug bekommen?"
"Or does the problem lay in the fact that you simply cannot get enough of it?"

[Dirk Riedel]

Trapped in his cold, thermal embrace and with any prospect of escape having extinguished itself within the torches whence the fire rose and flickered, the woman stared back through his gleaming argent eyes that bore inside her with a controlled force that was ready to burst at the seams in a snap, the hunger and need slowly simmering with a threatening, all-consuming dominance and reflected upon every inch of his skin – and how well could she recognize that demanding countenance, how she was no stranger to that hunger, yes, his hunger, that had become a cynic friend of hers, that which attacked her from left, right and centre and cut her with its powerful impact; but it was gentle gnashing and the abrasions such impact birthed were made of silk and velvet, the blood trickling from them sweet and caressing her body with a worshipping glower – all these invisible marks of his genuine human thirst that were to never be quenched. She felt his nails digging into her skin, a sudden powerlessness to revert her gaze away from his face having paralyzed her form even as the man broke the eye contact to look upon the stains of blood dribbling along his fingers. The moment he looked back, his fingers had traced and covered her wound, his appearance ruthless and resolute as he promised to her she would follow his lead whether she wanted to or not. That he would not give up. She gazed endlessly into his eyes as he pronounced these very words, and not even his cynic pronouncement of ‘her choice’ was enough to break that pensive, absorbed expression on her silent face, for moments on end, two figures that spoke nothing though they spoke everything, the prevalent stillness and quiet between them even through the strident cadence of the goblet drum, and it could have lasted for one second, an entire week or even a few centuries until – with a brisk movement – he suddenly caught her injured arm and began to pull her after him.

It was then that he stopped in an instant, the old Arab looking at the man demandingly and stretching out his hand in expectation, and luckily enough for her that the Hauptmann soon understood the meaning behind such behaviour else the woman in her drunken stupor would have been unable to pinpoint the reason of his intrusion. She stood quietly while the Hauptmann carelessly and without any forethought passed an amount of paper money to the animal handler, neither showing the remotest interest at how easily species of his kind seemed to waste money as compared to the habits and needs of those lesser creatures than them, nor appearing to wish to do so. It was until his biting tongue cast yet another abrasion upon her skin as he spoke of her slavery that her glare stiffened as the woman stared back at him with a prominent unforgiveness reflected upon that fervid face for those few moments their eyes met, before the man continued with his way, pulling her along with a force so authoritative and commanding that his militaristic superiority could never be questioned by the hands of a drunken woman losing herself to the music’s crescendo.

It had all happened too quickly for her to realize, so much less to accept the facts that glared at her in the face, and in disbelief did she allow herself to be led away by the pilot’s forceful hand. Allow? Indeed not, for she had no choice in the matter and the woman could hardly even believe she had just been bought to him. If she had not been as taken aback by the events finding her completely unprepared, she would have even laughed at simply how ridiculous this was, how indescribably absurd. That she was his slave. His toy to play with. A cheap, broken little porcelain doll he could fondle, a meaningless object he could use as he fancied. His servant. His worshipper … His dog. To desecrate, to taint and attack. And she, inside her cage would be incarcerated, inside that pit, and the steel, iron bars that kept her a prisoner to his own divine, obscure flaws, the steps she took that followed him unwanting and bitter, hateful and careless, in pain, in agony, in hatred and contempt, having realized she would be led to her cage, his hold of her ever as uncompromising and strong.

And dominance reigned in her regal gown.

The moon glowed overhead in the crystal clear skies that adopted a little of its silver luminance, and the woman had not realized in her drunken confusion and eyes unaccustomed to such an endless line of people swiftly passing before them, until the fiery warmth of the torches nearby was lost and she blinked in the surrounding darkness, the brisk texture of her bare feet scraping against the ground – and then, without word or warning, was thrown to the wall where her back roughly collided with the stone. She had no time or ability to react and so could only remain still in her allocated place as his hand suddenly struck through the air and grasped her around her jaws, his fingers strongly pressed against her throat. He spoke his insults once more, calling her that which had been his title of her ever since their first meeting, and how little influence it bore on her as her lips faintly curved to the side in what almost resembled a pained smirk even through his forceful grasp, but it drowned the moment he brought his face a mere whisper away from hers and spoke to her … of pain. Oh, how he had no idea of it, but how deluded was he to believe she was the one craving the attention when even a child would be able to distinguish which of the two was tailing after whom. Why must she play the part of the dog when he was the one whose hackles raised at the first sign of threat, whose mouth was drenched in slaver at her sight, whose tail enthusiastically wagged around and with his head glancing upwards at her in hopeful expectation whenever she was being good to him? But then, had she not played that part already – had he not forced her into such a role ever since his discovery of her secret, the exploitation he could muster never lost in that sudden form of power his very own hands had assumed, his arrogance rendering him uncaring and thoughtless.

A dog was what he wanted her to be when she rose from the floor and barked at her master, and a slave she were now, birthed for the sole purpose of following him anywhere he went, learning to bend at his will and bring to fruition all of his caprices and desires. The only difference lay in the fact her status had now been proven in a more ceremonial arrangement, that of official payment, the concept of demand and supply overtaking that of human decency, the sterile quality of trade and exchange contaminating their wretched, condemnable relation in a hateful, vengeful form. His breath tingled her lips and his noxious words pierced her mind, her entire length, and every fibre of her almost nude frame, words that were ridiculous and to her laughable, words that would only have him receiving a slap, her scoff, a glare, her smile of contempt – but as her eyes were transfixed upon him with a resolute frown, she recognized the wretched truth which not even he could know; eyes alight from the intoxication, one which came not from the wine but which he birthed inside her with his sheer adamance, the constant torment he thirsted to give her and the whipping sounds as he forced her to plead upon his feet and she, ever defiant and untamed, growling with vehemence. Her eyes glinted in the mild darkness and her skin was dressed in shadows, feeling his fingers powerfully coiled around her throat as his hand borrowed from her warmth. “Ja,” she breathed weakly, a radiant smile dancing across the characteristic curves of her lips and through her gleaming eyes, some invisible force prodding her to speak that word – something which at another time would have been absurd of her to do – and perhaps it was her drunken abstraction that unchained her better judgement and ability to evaluate the words in her mind before she spoke them, perhaps her unconscious repression exploiting her weak moment at this time to break free from her constant method of self-restraint and control, her denial and refusal that ate her slowly from the inside – that now goaded her to shed her contempt and scorn and concede to what he demanded of her.

Her eyes smiled with recklessness, in madness and turmoil, and as she spoke that one cursed word her hand rose through his determined grasp and even though his fingers remained curled around her throat her palm calmly rested upon his stomach, the warm skin against the fabric of his tunic, and slowly began to draw alongside his frame, the motion leisurely and serene and her drunken breath that tingled his nose, her fevered essence warming the evening air even as the first raindrops touched the parched ground, revived the lonesome fulvous earth. “Ich bin was Sie von mir machen,” she simply said in a soft, calm tone, her voice slightly hoarse but sweetened with the taste of wine, her hand tracing the line of torso and lying upon his heart, gentle and light like the caress of a single leaf flying away from the tree branch at the strengthened breeze, of a rose petal torn apart from the blossoming whole. She felt the rapid beat of his heart in the same rhythm as that of the goblet drum and her fingers curled with a fiercer grasp at that part of his chest for moments on end, to feel him, feed from his inside sentiments and breathe from his thoughts. Slowly her other hand was raised to travel across the same route the other had tread, traversed across the tunic, fingers lending their warmth as they touched at the strong, proud neck, tracing the curve of his Adam’s apple at a slow pace with reverent quietude and in almost religious adoration that was neither concealed nor taken away from him, the smile of her lips genuine and perhaps even pleasantly amused as she examined his face the moment her hands crossed over to his bristled chin – the coarse stubble that had barely grown into the beard lining his jaw making him appear older and ripened, the appearance rough-hewn and virile and with a dominant essence of ruthlessness and command exuded from his imposing posture, that principle of superior control which he had claimed. Her fingers traced his jaw despite his strengthened grip that faintly choked her. “Sie. Der Stolz der Luftwaffe,” she whispered with that same pensive, vague smile, viridian eyes glowing with the red wine spearing through his grey irises – and who could know whether it was plain, amused recognition or downright mockery?

With her lips faintly parted at a more wearying breathing, the hands caressed each side of his face as she allowed the tips of her fingers to gently brush against the bristles with a reminiscent strength, the stubble that bit with the briskness of red-hot needles, a sensation she only welcomed and which further inflated at the hydrous quality they adopted when drop after drop fell upon his skin; she brought her face closer to the side and, in sequence to a reminder of her actions in the hospital, did she close that worthless distance between them once her lips brushed against his chin and gently grazed against the bristles while the skies sparked with the voices of the gods, the moon having long since vanished behind the clouds and retreated into her private chamber. Hatred reigned forevermore and upon her throne she stood made of ivory and gold, the loathing had never vanished, for the woman’s feelings were of such a quality moulded, but there was mild and controlled despair as her lips slowly roamed upwards his chin and travelled to the side of his face, her fingers following the motion and with one hand moving to press it closer to his neck; the aching impulse for the closeness she had been denied for years, the repression she had without fail imposed upon herself at the distance she maintained with her soldiers, the truth she denied them in turn, the inability to show the genuine affection and sisterly devotion and tenderness that had in time morphed into this small, wrinkled varmint residing within her viscera and eating at her insides, that made her throat constrict and her muscles harden with the pain of restraint and insufficiency. Yes, she hated him, and how cruel and mocking was it that she sought his attachment even if she cursed at it, that her lips sowed despairing, wretched pathways across his cheek one after the other even in the face of his strangling of her; how pitiless to have her hold him in a distressed, all-consuming embrace, as though her bare survival depended upon that fundamental moment of intimacy and closeness. But even through her suppressing treatment of her emotions did they ultimately enfolded her and surrounded him with their catatonic, inexplicable nature. She hated him, yes, and even now that she breathed into his skin did she wish to throw him into the humid ground and kick him in the head with aggression, thrash him properly at every inch of his filthy skin and slap him time after time, until his head would lay defeated on the ground, until he bled, bled to his unconsciousness. Her fingers caught the wet, stray locks of hair falling upon his forehead and gently pushed them back into his head before they traced down his other cheek once more, touching his face with the warmth of her naked hand – the very same one which had once and twice, and more times, offered him nothing but punishment and the certainty of soreness and contusions.

He could go to the devil, yes, to hell with him! – she cared not, but she still held him tightly, breathing with difficulty at his clench around her throat; and what if she so resented him, what if her only eagerness and resolve lay in the prospect of his punishment with the siren call of violence and the hunger for revenge blinding her judgement and capacity of self-restraint; what if she cursed him, struck him and slapped him in the face; what if she spoke cruel, hateful things at his face, told him of his worthlessness, his caprices, his carelessness; what if she assured him of her indifference, her detestation and what if the inevitable birth of enmity and revulsion truly blinded her with the rioting attraction for bloodshed and brought out her raw savagery to wreak damage upon his skin – did that truly change anything? Did it make the closeness any less significant, did hatred really inexplicably contradict the attachment rather strangely complement it? A mouthful of water that washed down upon them, that soft drizzle that came to absolve them from their sins and cleanse them from the blinding hate, and she reached for him with a pained groan upon her suffocation to trace the side of his face and drink every drop of rain damping the bristled skin, to purge him, adore him and hate him in that violent wave of supposedly self-contradictory sentiments. Her fingers coiled around by the side of his ear and like an animal that curled in the corner to lick its wounds did she embrace him with claws, the teeth retracted to give way to the motion, the breath that dissolved into his skin and the warmth she imparted upon his cold, coarse posture.

“Gehen Sie dann weiter. Erwürgen Sie mich. Schluss gemacht mit dieser Farce,” she whispered, her voice desperate and goading, her forehead resting by the side of his face for a moment, and a small sound of discomfort escaped her lips at the fingers pressed against her throat. Yes, bring an end to what so tormented and tortured her for months on end! “Beenden Sie diesen Wahnsinn,” she breathed and her forehead wrinkled at the pain channelled throughout her veins with the sharpness of a scalpel that cut through the flesh. Why this slow suffering to her demise? Even he could not be as cruel; even he could have the heart to end her misery and offer her calmness and peace. Her muscles stiffened and her lips pursed, fingers pressed with renewed strength around his head and her knuckles whitening from the pressure, the sting of aching too unbearable and overpowering not to submit to. And she ached because she could not understand. She could not understand why even as she had felt relief upon her depart from his life she had instinctively missed the gravelly texture of his characteristic rasping voice, the coldness of his argent eyes, the violent and zestful dynamism of a man whose veins throbbed with the force of life and nature.



Translation

I am what you make of me.

You. The pride of Luftwaffe.

Go on, then. Strangle me. Put an end to this farce.

End this madness.

[Rolf Jäger]

Life pulsed beneath the palm of the man's hand as he pressed it decisively against the woman's throat, the force of that violent touch pushing the woman towards submission, the endlessly reigning autocracy and superiority of his very nature expecting nothing less from those he considered his pawns. What Rolf had started realizing was that he was no longer sure if he actually wished to see the woman vanquished beneath his feet and even though he kept pushing and confronting her upon each convenient turn of events, he was doing it more on the instinct of knowing that she would keep resisting him, her unbending will constantly challenging his. It was this very same instinct that had seen him attempting to preserve Riedel's honour and integrity before, the man choosing to pry the woman away from the hungry hands grasping at her rather than leaving her at the whims of the drunken crowd. Rolf had to grudgingly admit that through those moments another unexplored emotion had directed his actions also, and that the dark and poisonous burn that had churned within his chest at the sight of the other soldiers attempting to claim her had drown him insane with rage, his mind already picturing the other men laying broken and bleeding upon the floor for demonstrating such insolence.

But was the woman simply a quarry he wished to chase for all eternity, the pursuit as endless and set on its course as the journey of the celestial bodies upon the skies? And if the heavens would shake and bend, the natural order of things having been so disturbed as to bring the chase to a fruition, what kind of apocalyptic and destructive consequences might follow such an event? It was due to this uncertainty and the slow smile that rose to the woman's lips even through her continued torment that suddenly worried Rolf and his eyes flashed with disbelief when Riedel suddenly agreed upon his words, acknowledging that she, indeed, was either in pain or in the search of it - or both, Rolf was not certain. There was a tinge of lingering insanity in the woman's green irises as she stared back at him in that violent hold of his and Rolf flinched slightly at the sudden touch upon his stomach, the woman's hand softly placing upon the canvas of his tunic and starting to draw a leisurely path upon his frame. The feral snarl was already finding its way upon the man's lips and even through the thick haze of lust his natural sense of aggressive suspicion still prevailed, and the man had to force himself to such a simple action as standing still. He did not want her to think that Rolf would have somehow been worried or for afraid, for he most certainly was neither of these things, and the initial reaction had only been that of short-lived surprise. That contact was rendering his mind numb, his skin not even able to register the first cool drops of rain as they splashed against it, his attention effectively captured by the woman's closeness, her light touch and by her softly spoken words words as she told him that she was whatever he made her to be.

The man's heart was still beating fast and strong within his chest and his fingertips squeezed against the woman's jaws while his lips curled into a small, hostile snarl, yet even through this aggressive stance his eyes glinted with an untamed emotion of a completely different nature... or were they truly two such different things in all of their primal essence, hatred and lust? Both sentiments seemed to curl so eagerly around each other, like slithering snakes attempting to bite and poison each other; or maybe they were simply entwining with one another into a destructive, unexpected harmony that at the same time was grossly out of place, yet also completely natural. As her hand moved upwards to caress his throat and neck, Rolf tilted his head to the side on an instinct, the burning glare of his eyes never leaving hers even when his heart started pounding more rapidly upon the simple sensation of her fingers pressing against his skin. Only faintly did he realize that it had started raining and he felt too much like burning to even notice something as insignificant as the drops of water that spattered upon his skin, his hair and Luftwaffe uniform, his attention now completely focused on her fingers drawing a path against his coarse stubble, a slow smile lingering upon the woman's distinctly curved lips even when Rolf's fingers still pushed against her jaw, promising her nothing but pain.

And then she recalled words Rolf had once spoken to himself while looking at the mirror and the man, even in his dazed state, felt surprised for a small moment, the breath captured in his throat as he stared at her; but then she could have overheard him, for how else could she have known the exact words the man had once mocked himself with? Both of her hands were now caressing the sides of his face and as the drops of water, so curious and unexpected in such an environment as this, strengthened in force, so did the man's desire as he felt the woman's warm breath upon his skin and Rolf did not quite realize that the palm of his hand was now only choking her further, his other hand moving to grasp the woman by her shoulder. The rainwater fell upon them more intensely with each passing moment, but the man could only make sense of the woman's hungry lips travelling upon his cheek, her fingers following suite and further causing the man to fall into his curious, almost intoxicated state. He was burning from within and outside, his breathing heavier and the blood in his veins running so wild and heated that he could almost imagine the drops of rain simply evaporating from his skin, and his steel-grey eyes had now closed halfway in the simple notion of enjoying that teasing contact she was offering him. Nothing else in his surroundings mattered now that he could feel her half-naked body so close to him, her demanding touch reaching his ear and the steady breathing tingling his skin as her lips drank him in, that whispered tone asking for Rolf to destroy her, to end her suffering and to strangle her until all signs of life would fade from her eyes.

The woman rested her forehead against the side of his face, again pleading him to end the madness while her fingertips pushed against his head in an increasingly violent manner, causing enough discomfort to draw a low growl from the man. The small sensation of pain did nothing to bring the man out of his stupor and if anything, it only fed the flames already burning bright within him. As if to comply to her request, his hand curled more decisively around Riedel's throat, ready to quench out the proud, feral force existing within her and the fingertips dug viciously into the soft texture of her pale skin, the man's lips drawing away from his teeth as he stared at her. The gesture was forceful enough to completely choke the woman for the small moment Rolf brought his face close to her ear and allowed it to linger there, as if to breathe in the last remaining moments of his prey and to drink in the despair of those seconds when one realized that they were to perish, all hope drained from their frames. Then the hold of the man's hand became lighter and his eyes flashed with a feral, wanton desire that he could only barely contain as he brought his lips upon the woman's cheek and allowed them to travel along her skin, the coarse bristle of his chin savagely scraping against it in the process. The low growl that now formed within the man's throat was not that of anger or irritation, but that of unbridled longing, the desire that he had so many times forced himself to suppress and forget wishing to break free from its bonds upon an opportunity that was far too convenient and inviting for him to ignore.

The rain was now falling more heavily upon them, but Rolf would have no longer noticed even the most ferocious torrents of a raging storm, for the turmoil within him had grown to a scorching pyre and his fingers curled around the woman's bare shoulder forcefully enough to draw bruises, his other hand still holding the woman by her pale throat. The uneven breathing tingled the woman's skin from between the man's opened lips as he traced a painfully slow path along the line of her jaw towards her ear and Rolf snarled, his mind already moving to enticing images of all the things that could unfold and how his thirst would be finally quenched. And how he longed for that moment and the events that would lead to it, how alive the promises of such a prize lingered in front of his fevered eyes! He felt completely intoxicated by the painful desire as he pushed the woman's head against the wall and allowed his tongue to flick from between his teeth when he finally reached the woman's ear, the hot breath burning her skin as he tasted of her, the flavor of the fresh rainwater curiously mixing with hers. Rolf felt his muscles stiffening with the sudden and almost unbearable ache he felt for her and he wanted to punish her, to devour her and claim her, his mind too torn by all the different and conflicting desires that she was drawing out from within him. He drank the water from her skin as his hand travelled from her shoulder up to her neck, his fingers curling around it as if to further threaten her with the impending fate she had asked upon herself, but then he had already moved on, the fingers slowly traversing a conqueror's path down to the necklace resting upon her collarbones and lingering there for the small moment it took him to properly focus his mind on exposing his teeth and biting down upon the soft flesh on her ear.

The man growled and snarled low under his breath like some hungry beast guarding his fresh kill, the sharp edges of the large silver necklace pushing against the skin of his fingers as he allowed his hand to travel along it, the fingertips tracing an oval path around the round gemstones. His hand slipped away from the necklace - of the collar he had so mockingly purchased for her - and soon snaked downwards, stopping at the soft, exposed breast. There was more uncharacteristic gentleness to the touch of his fingers than there was to any of his other actions and his mouth was now demandingly prodding at her ear and neck, his lips, tongue and teeth attempting to wolf down the very essence of the woman. He pushed the woman further against the wall with his hips, squeezing her frame violently against his own and the hand curled around her neck now clamped upon her chin instead, turning her head to the side decisively so that he might nip at the line of her jaw with his teeth, his breathing now having grown rapid and uncontrolled. The hand that had achingly brushed against her breast moved downwards, the man creating enough space between himself and her to properly explore the distinctly drawn muscles upon her stomach with his fingertips, admiring the strength he was not used to witnessing in a woman and in silent reverence acknowledging the toils that had birthed and forged such raw power. Rolf soon closed that gap between them once more and grasped at the woman's thigh instead, the hold possessive and demanding. His fingers pressed painful grooves on that soft skin all the while he still allowed his mouth to claim bold paths on her neck and ear and he felt his insides burning as the rainwater snaked along his neck and beneath his shirt, the now unquenchable thirst having taken on a life of its own within him. His hand clamped upon the back of the woman's thigh and brought it upwards to press against the side of his hip as he pulled her closer, the other hand still decisively forcing the woman's head remain tilted in an awkward position and Rolf felt lightheaded at the simple amount of frenzied craving he was feeling, the emotion not born only out of the physical touch, but from the conflict between him and the woman, the raw hatred between them so mirthfully mocked by the universe as fate kept throwing them together, locking the two beasts of such grossly conflicting natures inside the confines of the same cage.

He had ever wanted to desecrate her since the moment they had met, to violate that which she had denied from him, yet still he had chosen to assist her in situations where he should have jeered at her and used her plight to his advantage. It was easy for him to forget how the woman only depended on his whims due to his knowledge of her double identity and if anything, it had become a standard for existence and he had simply never bothered to consider the consequences such a situation might have had on her. Rolf had been schooled in etiquette, horsemanship, piloting and law and not in human emotions, his conscience running deep and ice-cold as the water of a creek in the midst of the harshest winter. Still, he could be hardly blamed as not having any emotions at all and when they manifested, they attacked him with all the ferocity of the raging sea, the waves crashing against his form and filling him with their raw power almost too dominantly for him to handle. Such feral tendencies were taking him over right now as his teeth bit at the woman's neck and his fingers pushed into the naked flesh of her thigh in an effort to pull her ever closer, to have her wrap the leg around him and to keep her there as the desire filled him and howled within his chest demanding and hungry. Rolf's breathing was heavy and uneven and ever so often a small, hoarse growl would emit deep from within his throat as the coarse bristles of his stubble kept raking across the skin of her cheek, his thumb finding its own path across the woman's lower lip and further pushing along it to settle between the woman's teeth. Very slowly did the man pull his mouth away from the woman's neck and he allowed her to feel his rapid, excited breathing upon her ear as he brought his lips close, just to rasp almost laborious words at her. "Ich konnte den Wahnsinn beenden... Ich konnte Sie vom Schmerz und Erniedrigung verschonen, wenn ich dazu wollte," the man's hoarse voice was thick with the savage yearning within him and his lips curled into a rough snarl as they lingered by her ear. "Ich konnte... Aber ich will dazu nicht."


Translations:

"Ich konnte den Wahnsinn beenden... Ich konnte Sie vom Schmerz und Erniedrigung verschonen, wenn ich dazu wollte. Ich konnte... Aber ich will dazu nicht."
"I could end the madness... I could spare you from the pain and humiliation if I wanted to. I could... But I don't want to."

[Dirk Riedel]

It had only began with the feeble single drop of rain that fell from the skies and touched the ground, within seconds absorbed into the earth and vanished, perhaps ever to be forgotten in its useless, transient value, before it was soon to be followed by another, and one after that, in what soon escalated into a rising drizzle, morphed in a cold shower that streamed down upon the mortals, to the savage thunderstorm that sent the ships astray across the Mediterranean Sea, the tempestuous waves breaking violently on the shore and the wind carrying with it the promise of past desires rising to fruition amidst the enclosing pitch-blackness; so had their wretched interdependence, that monstrous mistress that laughed upon their heads, the manacles that raised and bound them to that same, unassailable fate which saw them immured within the dark confines and four walls of a cage going up in flames, fixation forged through the fires of hell and towering paroxysm that ruined all, disfigured all, defaced all. The skies thundered, the raindrops snaking around her mouth to pass onto his skin at the same time that she felt his fingers coiling with greater force around the throat, his palm pressing at her arteries and, within moments, almost ceasing the circulation of blood to her neck and head. Her irises widened as hollow, sharp sounds escaped from her throat when he brought his head closer to the side of her face, a faint gargling noise nearly drowning out at his skin, and her hold of him instinctively stiffened and tightened with her heartbeat growing rapidly at the prospect of imminent suffocation. She could feel his breath tingling the insides of her ear, the woman lightheaded and incapable of quite separately registering the essence of choking and his consuming existence enforced upon her, both realities drawn up and merged into one unified sense of perception, grasping onto him, incongruously enough, for instinctual support and strength. Still, in the next moment the man had only faintly loosened his deadly grasp, enough to prevent her from choking but quite tightly pressed regardless as if to assure her that even though he were to spare her from the peak of agony she was all the same very much chained within his grasp, unable to move, unable to breathe. She had not realized as much at first and needed a few more moments to properly register the fact she was not being strangled to her wretched demise any longer, the initial and singular thing that brought her back to her senses being that of the sensation of his bristled face grazing a coarse pathway alongside her cheek, the low growl emitted from his throat entering her in all of its clarity and rendering her helpless to his touch, and how she hated to admit to her own mind that it was that very same snarling quality of his sounds she had missed.

Her lips parted, and eyes widened with the reverberation of the slowly progressive motion of lips that stroked against the warm skin with growing greed, the reality of his advance painful in more ways than she cared to admit, her fingers numbly moving down across his neck, and at one point she had forgotten to breathe. The skies thundered, and the more stubborn he grew the heavier the rainfall became in that unquestionable interdependency of the laws of nature; she could not react – even if she had so desired – but only received and accepted when his fingers solidly and purposefully coiled around her shoulder with the force of a hundred clamps fastening her skin in between their iron bands, the inevitable marks that such action would birth proof of an ancient hunger long since suppressed but never more forgotten, that very pressure of muscle a mere reminder of the sheer power his existence was prepared and willing to lay upon her at the first opportunity chancing upon his path. It was with a passive concession – obedience, it was true – that she allowed for his excessive greed and pronounced starvation to manifest and persevere with flourishing extortion across the frame that stood close enough for him to ensnare, too close to let escape, at the time that the bristles of his cheek scraped along her face in that gradual, unhurried movement which stole for him her warmth and made her stare meaninglessly behind his back (but yet at nowhere in particular) with an unclear, fading sight she had no interest in but for the closeness of his shoulders within view. His lips left behind a trail of heat from his temperate breath and she, unmoving and quiet, simply went through the motion as the back of her head came in abrading contact with the stone wall when he pressed her closely against it, the trace of slaver across her ear drawing in immediate response a sharp, sighing sound from her throat which drowned out halfway through its resonance when she blinked in the next moment, in that frail, vain attempt to mentally stir away from the agitation and disturbance he conceived within her, the anguish that fancied to torment her with its icy claws and cackling laughter. If she had managed to regain part of her awareness then it were to be permanently lost the moment she felt the gnawing sensation of teeth marking at the flesh in the shivering surge that ran throughout her veins with the rush of ache and bemusement, the spine twitching involuntarily at the motion of alive and slippery muscle sliding into the ear’s crevice and the teeth sinking into the surface to form lasting lesions, an animal claiming its territory.

She tried to swallow, but the movement died in the middle, as she felt his other hand journeying across to her neck with ill-intention and the promise of fresh anguish, and how could she hinder him when she lay so helpless and numb against his stronger frame, how could she exercise the remotest hint of command and hold any expectations of his compliance when such thoughts were only ridiculous at best, when the woman neither had the capacity nor the will to impose herself upon him – and how could she even begin to retaliate when incapable she was of the slightest, most fundamental form of applying control over her own movements, her skin numb, almost paralyzed to the touch in such an extent that she could often not sense the feel of her fingertips, incompetent to stop his hand from roaming down across the wretched piece of jewellery he called her leash, to stroke with fondness at the argent gemstones adorning the proud, defiant neck often exposed to him in disregard and contempt – but not this day, not this hour, and her heart already knew that which she could not foil, the desecrating pathway his hand would tread to shame, to hate and to ruin her. It was with a sudden, sharp movement of his jaw that he attacked her neck as though to punish it for all the insolence it had advanced during a time which at this point appeared to have passed many hundreds of years ago in some bygone era of ancient kingdoms and undomesticated topographies, yes, punish it for the disobedience, and her head was forced to rise into a curve as he served from his fresh kill at the exposed crescent of her neck with such raw savagery exuded from his existence and discharged into her system that her lips parted before she could muster the resolve or strength to suppress the sound that left her throat – both a whimper and a groan – of pain, more visceral than it was physical, more consuming the mind than distressing the body, eyes of celadon green almost closing at the aching sensation and through that haze could blindly gaze into the vastness of the skies, unable to distinguish the clouds from the horizon.

It was curious how the inflamed skin reacted to the hydrous quality of the rainstorm, adopting more the sensation of one showering in hot water rather than being cooled to the water effect; even if the pores of her skin ought to have closed to the cold rain’s cleansing impact they remained opened at the warm humidity, every spot and birth mark of her shape accentuating the flawed aspect of her human form. In the area near her breasts and near the left collarbone a mole half covered by the leash; another one upon the shoulder where locks of hair touched, and many more adorning the area around her breasts exposed to his view not out of her own personal decision and amusement. With her head constrained against the wall in that same rising posture he could also see the small moles painted across her neck as he struck upon the flesh with the force of an animal salvaging the remains of its prey, if indeed he was capable of anything more than blind hunger, and her lips opened in a pained attempt to call out to him, prepared to beg him, plead and ask of him to stop, to end this madness and let her lay against the stone wall as he gave her a last look and walked away, yes, even plead with him, for to amble down the declivity of that road only came to one known, predetermined end, the hazard too costly to be worth a risk; no, the truth was that she did not wish to pull away from him out of disgust or revulsion, but the realization that to be consumed into his world were to prove incurable and disastrous, that she could not simply turn around and leave him, that the hurt was there and he was at all times prepared and willing to twist the knife deeper into her wounds and break her apart little by little so that, despite her efforts, the attachment she never had wished to pursue in the first place, the uninhibited closeness, he would still drive her away, kill her with words and slap her with the cruelty of his indifference, stalk her back only for the purpose of humiliation and shame, and what else had she to give but the sour promise of punishment and violence? No, in point of fact, she could not be distracted away from her task, her objective in the army was only one and to stray away from it would be no more devastating as it would be terminal; to render her false identity almost permanent and forget her former, true nature was a convenient method of adapting better to her role, and then why allow this divergence to destroy all she had built with the cost of her sweat and blood? That she should have never attended the reception, never allowed herself the faintest trace of her past, never made the mistakes that led him barging into her life and claiming her better judgement, her sanity, her ability of self-control. The muscles in her face tautened at the pressure of his hand roaming closer, and the knuckles of her fingers cracked upon his face as her hold stiffened, the attempt to speak lost and the first words that came out of her lips in what would supposedly have been human language distorted into a muffled, suppressed grumbling protest the moment the contact was birthed, her head forced into a curve and his hand caressing beyond the jewellery the skin that lay exposed for the Master’s appeal – and if she had had any ability to register the need for protest the moment came that disobedience had been defeated and she but the merest toy was to use, abuse and throw away. She was the one to raise the question of control and employ balance whenever it was needed, extinguish his attempts at various vagaries and other whims and with a sharp hand discipline him into self-restraint one way or another, and now that in drunken distress she lay within the palm of his hand who would be there to put an end to it? Who could stop the insane, inevitable treading of a pathway whose declivity only saw the triumph in his cold, ice-steel eyes, the prey falling into the hands of the hunter?

Or was it the hunter falling into the arms of his prey?

Her eyes gleamed with the briskness of a shell passing over and she lost herself to him despite her otherwise wishes, green irises half gazing into the sky before his hand pressed at her chin and forced her head to the side, surrendering to the taste of slaver and flesh, the promise of ache and hurt, and the incurable sensation of agony and insanity, the man’s stubbled face grazing violently against the line of her jaw as teeth gnawed at the skin and let little marks and bruises blossom in sweet reminder of his territorial claiming, and she followed through the motion, shoved against the cold, grating surface of the wall and trapped between his frame and the lifeless stone, forced to remain in her place while he drank and fed from her, his hand demanding and hungry = dominating and unforgivably selfish – as it debased the skin she had often resolutely forbidden him to have, and he disregarded every command she ever barked at him to obey, ignored any prohibitions and paid no further thought to her pride as little by little and piece after piece he claimed part of all of her, his hand demandingly wrapping her around his waist, the friction binding and imperative, her hands plucking powerlessly at his shirt with knuckles pressed, the growling essence of his existence piercing at her mind and infiltrating her entire length with a force as frightening as the oceanic tides during the full moon, and all that happened too quickly for her to react to – if indeed she had anything to react with – her hands vehemently moving at the back of his head and grasped at his hair with a fierce, uncontrollable force, and with each motion of his head across her jaw line so did her hand push at his hair in that violent caress – an animal that only knew to feel with claws – her fingers tightly yanking locks of his hair as she stroked him in her own display of hateful affection, lips parted upon his growing ownership but often pressed together to drown out the low, feeble whimpers as the sound of fabric against fabric and humid muscle viciously chewing at raw meat entered her reality, only that she now felt like she was living more through a dream than the world breathing around her, his commanding hold ever goaded and forceful when desire reigned and acted solely as his taskmaster, shedding his contempt in the face of her submission – and there clutched her closely into his lair, making her yield, demanding of her to capitulate as she had always refused to do.

And she grasped strongly at his hair, her nails digging into his scalp, her world now nothing more but the piercing sound of rain and the raspy texture of his growling, eyes marred by the haze of pain and powerlessness. It was all his fault. Her fingers danced and twirled around the wet locks of his hair, the rain that stealthily snaked around his neck and crawled into the tunic, dampening her raven-black mane that was only ever a concealment for the hair of gold – and though it were to cleanse her from her sins and filth, it did not; she thought it would lift the cold weight of her heart but it only ever heighetened the agonizing burden residing within her. And could he know? Could he know the pain he was conferring on her? It was almost wondrous how she could still feel his determined clasp of her chin even despite the hungered pressure for closeness, one foot firmly touching against the earth whose soil she disgraced and with her hands finding violent pathways across the back of his neck as it moved up to yank at his hair and down caressing the neck, the woman no more or less reduced to the state of chaos and helplessness, at the point where she would have been unable to move or react even in the prospect of an enemy combat vehicle heading straight towards her direction. She opened her mouth to tell him of his insanity, cry out for him to end this useless display of aggression, that was he was being selfish, greedy, opportunistic – but the only sound which did escape her throat was an unintelligible low wail, her knuckles whitening from the pressure of fists clasping at both sides of his face at the growing loss of composure, her arid skin thirsting for the water that poured from the skies and washed down upon them, until she would breathe with strained ardour from the concave vibrations of his greedy motion whilst the downpour would permeate her, her veins pulsating from the force of his feeding and twitching every time his teeth snapped at her neck.

That should never have happened. She had only wanted to drench in her self-humiliation.

When he spoke, his words, cruel and ruthless, only proved to her what she already knew, the reality further slapped around her face, his promise warming the evening rain and hanging around them with the imminent menace of ice-hot needles pointed at their direction; she inhaled at the thumb finding its furtive way into her lips and in between her teeth, her breath strained and suppressed, the blinding thirst for loathing and punishment leaving her very still and paralyzed for those few moments that followed, until, slowly, her lips parted and traced the skin alongside its length, the force of suction gentle but purposeful, the rain and slaver dressing his thumb with a humid coating, and soon enough her teeth bared to sink into the flesh, and kissed that which he offered with a hateful, biting force, the motion uninterrupted and solid as the heat of her breath glued upon its dampened surface, raindrops snaking around her lips and trailing furtive passageways down across her neck to form the shapes of the gemstones before they, one after the other, trickled down across her breasts in whichever corner they could find through the narrow pressure of his frame against her figure. Then, her lips moved and touched at his palm, her one hand releasing him and softly interweaving in between his fingers as she looked at the sight before him, examining it quietly through her drunken stupor, before she brought it closer to her face and allowed her lips to trace his fingers, one after the other.

The cloudburst cracked with noise that pierced down from overhead, and the liquid sunshine that soaked them in a will of its own winding around their interlocked fingers and trickling alongside the length of their bound skin, as the woman stroked each part of the moist skin in quiet obedience, at first a kiss, but then the contact growing consuming and forceful whenever teeth bit at the flesh, and when she raised her eyes to gaze at him they still bore that same quality of vulnerability and helplessness, her fingers effortlessly trailing a path away from his hand, across his arm and curved up to his neck to finally hold him by the side of his face as before, her other arm in unison reaching out directly to grasp at the other side and she gazed into his cold eyes for what appeared to have been endless moments – the lips that faintly parted and eyes wide open only revealing her frustration and confusion, even the suffering and inner torment she must have underwent, the pain through those curved eyebrows and the despondent expression through the sharp angles of her facial features which, stiffened and half paralyzed, could they communicate no more or less but her complete incapacity of understanding. To shatter her pride for him into hundred little pieces, to be stared at, humiliated – yes, humiliated not only in front of the others but most critically to her own self – and lose her peace of mind that were to be substituted by this constant state of distress and agony, and why, why? As she held him closely from the face she could not realize why it had so happened. He did not deserve it, he did not deserve anything; and if that were so, could the human emotion of guilt and self-reproach be powerful to even disregard the likely prospect of belittlement upon the event of their fulfillment?

Gazing into his eyes she saw nothing but the violent call of animalistic hunger, he gave her nothing, nothing but affliction and heartache, and how could hatred attach her so resentfully to his despised existence, in what absurd reasoning did wrath and outrage have the capacity to chain her within his cold-hearted, empty embrace, so that no matter how much she walked away from his life, she was only getting closer? It was hopeless, and she felt she belonged inside this circle of fire she could never escape, the flames binding her as she could only stand next to him, both figures trapped within the confines of the unceasing circle, and it was maddening, maddening, and the notion terrible! The pale green irises widened and her fingers sharply clasped more tightly around his face at what he was denying of her still and she, abruptly, forced his head nearer before she closed the distance between them in that one damning, aching motion when her lips crushed against his with violence and need. Yes, he was the stonehearted, selfish and uncaring Jäger, the one she had viciously renounced and rejected in the underground prison; the one she now took back. She did not want to take him back. She did not want to care for him. Her heart did not wish to forgive him, and her mind cared not to offer him any warmth. Yet it was this man and no other semblance of his that drew her into his arms, his cruelty, the ruthlessness, the sheer impact of his raw power, all plaguing her with the promise of madness that would drive them both to disaster. No, he did not shed his cruelty even at this moment and it was this very thing she absorbed as the woman, thrown to the wolf and allowing him to feed from his freshly conquered prey, pressed with a vicious hold against him, for there was nothing remotely comforting or pleasant in that contact, only ever a raw exchange of disease and madness as her breath warmed his throat with the sweet taste of wine, the heat of steely, hot-iron whispers tantalizing within her mind with a thousand million promises that only spoke of his name – and to hell with him! – as she involuntarily twitched at the sudden, unwanting surge of hateful adoration that goaded her and blinded her to the impulse, when teeth pulled at flesh and her demanding touch became a violent gnawing, which marked, and tore and bit at him.

Her hands enfolded him with a rigid clasp, drawing up across the sides of his face and then moving backwards to yank his hair in aggressive affection as her head rolled and turned against his upon the savage, forceful motion, the gnawing heightening in need and demand, until her teeth left marks upon his lower lip, again and again – and she finally drew blood. Rather than this putting an end to the spasm, her fingers only pressed more tightly into the nape of his neck and let him bleed, his callousness threatening to char her to the marrow of her bone and they, surrounded with the biting force of condemnation, no more but two wolves in a cage were, her nails scratching against his skin, his teeth bared to bite and chew on her throat, draw blood, spit flesh and snap her bones, and dominance – yes, dominance – lifted her crimson dress to walk across the hot embers and reach the other side, for at the end of the road there awaited her vice and desecration with their coldly smiling faces. She let one hand slide down and caressed the journey down across his arm as her palm instinctively found its momentary place at the side of his pelvis against which she had been wrapped, before it then moved to coil around the length of the leather strap, fingers curling around the belt buckle with a lingering stillness as they crawled up to the drenched, wrinkled tunic of his uniform.

She opened her eyes, and gazed into his face, a thin line of crimson red trickling from his lip down across his chin and snaking alongside his neck, half dissolved into the rainfall; she looked at him through that haze of speechless unrest, for moments on end, the frozen stillness only ever violated when she motioned closer to cleanse his face from the blood, her teeth retracted to give way to the muscle to lick at the wound – an injured animal’s lonesome fate – and her hands rested by the side of his face, fingers lying against the bristles of his stubble as her head slowly leaned lower at the motion when she moved to clean the chin, the bitter taste of iron familiar; and the lips grazed against the coarseness of his bristles, the tongue scraped with a scratching soreness against the skin as it tread a bridleway down across his neck, tracing the virile arc of the Adam’s apple and motioning alongside it as it followed the vibration when he swallowed, her forefinger slithering across the same path and drew a slow, drunken pattern around the protrusion whilst she tasted of the forbidden fruit inside his throat only someone like him would dare digest with no sense of remorse and guilt, or the imminent wake of punishment. To clean his wound felt like drawing inside her a draught of his soul, so that perhaps she could be somehow spared form the rising torment lest she could learn to understand his cruelty better, and she let her hands wander down by his arms, her fingers crawling underneath the wet fabric of the sleeves to slip inside and coil around his wrists for a moment or two, before they slithered further in their ascending journey across his arms, to feel their raw strength and grow weakness at the powerful built when she pressed around at the muscle and felt the force of life beating alive inside him. She pulled away, and stared at him, observed him closely when his breath tingled at her nose, her skin glistening and her glassy eyes wide open and gazing at him in torment, in misery, in pain. She blinked, motioned closer, but then hesitated, and she stared back at his lower lip, the red hint of fresh blood staring back at her, before her fingers pressed against his arms and she moved once more in cadence to purge him from that one stain.

[Rolf Jäger]

Fresh pangs of desire and madness coursed through Rolf's veins and each breath he took seemed to hurt a little bit more than the last, the pain born out of nothing but pure need filling his insides and pulling him further into that all-consuming, powerful torrent that helped him block out reality and the torment and despair that it would inevitably bring. He could feel the woman's hot breath upon the tip of his thumb as it snaked between her teeth, pulling a small and careful line along the sharp edge just before it was caught between her soft lips. There was light pressure upon his finger as the woman suddenly chose to carefully suck upon it and Rolf's mouth was left half-open as he stared at her, his eyes glinting feverishly while he felt that force upon his finger growing and soon enough teeth clamped upon his skin, that simple action sending thousands of fast, teasing jolts running down his spine, the flashes of hot and cold racing down his back with the stray drops of rain that had found their way beneath his clothing. He had detached himself from reality a long time ago and the rain felt like a fitting continuance to the despaired insanity they both existed in, the man's mind consumed by her scorching presence, water entwining with fire as her lips moved to travel upon the skin of his hand. Rolf allowed himself to remain still and unmoving for the mere purpose of perfectly experiencing that curious, provoking feeling of the rain-drenched lips drawing paths upon his fingers and he breathed out heavily, eyes closed half-way at the sensation of her hand slowly traversing to his neck, the other one soon following suite and clamping around his head.

As she looked back at him, Rolf met the gaze of her emerald eyes in something resembling a drunken stupor, his chest now heaving from the almost desperate gasps of air he was drawing in and he allowed his attention to linger on the intense curve of her eyebrows, some part of his mind only partially discerning the desperation that existed in that look. His thoughts felt clumsy as he attempted to make sense of it and his head tilted to the side as if to better discern all the fine details upon her pale features, looking for clues towards the purpose of her actions or the silent desperation that was dominating her gaze, yet any such intelligent thoughts melded slowly into the rain that washed over them and lay there discarded, the beast of raw emotion happily trampling over them. A feral animal of such qualities cared not to study the fine emotions behind the actions of others and acted on pure instinct alone, the woman's touch communicating nothing but acceptance and invitation to him. And why would he have questioned his opportunity, indeed, especially after having so fervently longed for it through all those scorching moments of hatred that had so viciously bound and branded them with their mark? He needed only to grasp at her and claim her, her lack of resistance only further proving to him that he was welcome to do as he pleased, finally allowed to quench the painful desire clenching at his viscera, one ever growing in force at her immediate closeness and at her hands so dominantly curved around his head.

Drunken and cheap, deceitful and volatile, ever beneath him in both stature and worth as she was, Rolf should have already dominated and claimed her if he so wished, to use her up and discard her as he did with most people he came across. Either they served him a purpose, be it that of entertainment, profit or advancement in his career, or they could be ignored by him, his mind never having quite grasped the concept of mutual benefit, of selfless sacrifice or of deep affection. Why was he holding back now, then? He had been circling around the woman and carefully prodding at her, observing the reactions and attempting to make sense of them instead of simply claiming the things he needed, spending unnecessary time in an experiment that had only caused him nothing but pain and torment. He felt as if he was standing in front of the iron path of a train, only waiting for the moment the mechanical beast would collide with him and end his entire existence in the mere fraction of a second and he had already figured out enough to tell that there was no use in attempting to place himself in such jeopardy just to catch a glimpse of her complicated world. There was no reason for him to see himself caught in such senseless, fruitless actions and if there had been the prevailing sense of doubt over his current strength of will in ending such a ridiculous charade, it was gone the moment the woman's lips crushed against his, the sudden action drawing him further into a fiery torrent of purest lust. In that moment he knew that there was nothing stopping him from completely giving in to his instincts, no reason to linger in unneeded doubts and unwanted sentiments, and he met the contact with equally violent force, a hoarse growl rising from his throat as his fingers pushed into the skin of her thigh, his other hand grasping the woman by her neck while her nails pressed into his scalp and pulled at his hair.

They fed from each other with an urgency born out of starvation, desperation and madness, fangs gleaming in the dark-silver glint of the rain as the pilot pushed the woman more fervently against the wall to further accentuate his feral dominance. The bitter taste of wine still lingered on her lips as Rolf drowned himself in that agonizing contact and his fingertips dug painfully into the pale flesh of her neck, the violence of the primal exchange further whipping his lust into a ever growing frenzy as he pressed himself against her. All last shreds of common sense and sanity were washed away with the rain and when Rolf felt the woman's teeth biting into his lip, he growled at the unexpected ferocity of her actions, the fingers clamped upon her thigh slowly stroking the skin and caressing it in violent motions. There was no gentleness to that touch, no tenderness of open affection and the man's roaming hand only reflected his pure greed and desire, further pulling her leg against his hip, the fingertips drawing a painful and bold path to the back of her thigh and to her backside, where they brushed against the canvas of her underwear just before slipping beneath it. The feeling of the soft skin under the palm of his hand coupled with the continuously more forceful bites upon his lip caused the man to shudder with excitement and pleasure and he snarled hoarsely at the sensation, his heart pounding violently against his chest as his veins were filled with the scorching liquid of desire. A sudden, strong twinge of pain suddenly passed through the man's system as the woman bit forcefully into his skin, her teeth drawing blood from his lower lip and causing the man to flinch on an instinct. If this intuition had told him to create some distance between himself and the source of pain, it was futile to even attempt such, for the woman's hands had trapped his head in her embrace and Rolf only grunted at the sharp sting of punishment she was offering him, allowing his mind to settle back into that demanding flow of lust, the pain merely another wave in the raging sea he had dived into. Soon enough it interweaved with the rest of his feral enjoyment and he swam deep beneath the waters, tasting the iron of his own blood on her lips as he further crushed her against the stone, the coarse bristle on his chin drawing savage paths on the woman's skin as the man tilted his head to the side to better enjoy the painful exchange.

He could faintly feel the woman's hand drawing a slow path down his uniform and there was a brief pressure on his waist as she grasped at his belt and the pilot's chest heaved up and down in severe motions as he gasped at the humid air, his fevered eyes meeting hers the moment he could look at the woman once more. There was urgent, almost bewildered need in the man's eyes for those brief seconds he glanced back at her, but then she had closed the distance between them once more, the tongue slipping from between her lips and lapping up the blood that had already drawn a path down across his neck, the tiny rivers of rainwater snaking inside his shirt and over his clavicles. Rolf breathed out laboriously, his eyelids slowly closing as he felt the wet muscle slither to his stubbled jaw and ever downwards, while his fingertips pressed more forcefully against her behind, the other hand curling dominantly around the back of her neck to make sure the contact would not be broken. The man felt lightheaded and disoriented as he allowed himself to study that feeling, relishing in its foreign, yet pleasurable quality and he grumbled low in his throat as the tongue brushed over the thin flesh covering his jugular vein. The simple truth was, that Rolf had never experienced anyone actually responding to his advances in such a manner, for the physical contacts he was previously familiar with had been built on nothing but his violent will and there had been no room for mutual exchange as he was offered now. He gritted his teeth together into a snarl, small droplets of blood flowing from his lip and mixing with the rain and he felt the woman's hand suddenly slipping inside the sleeves of his uniform. Her warm fingers settled over his wrists and snaked further along his arms, drawing painful, enticing paths upon their wake and igniting multiple tiny flames inside the man and drawing out a low, hoarse growl from him. Driven to the precipice of insanity by the woman's actions, Rolf felt as if he could simply fall on his knees should she stop and draw away from him and that he would be ready to beg for her to continue before he would succumb into a savage state of insanity and unconstrained lust.

Rolf breathed out sharply the moment he felt the contact ending and the woman moved away, her green eyes watching back at him through a curious haze, the veil of sentiments dominating them unreadable to Rolf, and the only thing he could discern was his own ache and desire. He felt nothing but pure relief when the woman suddenly moved closer, but then she had stopped and Rolf's eyes flashed with agony and expectation, his fingers pressing against the back of her neck more forcefully in preparation of brutally forcing the contact, but there was no need for that. In the next instant she had brought her face closer to his and renewed the violent kiss and Rolf answered to it with a hungry force, his teeth instantly snapping at her lower lip as if on the intent of devouring her on the spot. The low growl had now become a snarl and he crushed the woman against the wall of stone, the hand upon the back of her thigh pulling down the black canvas demandingly while the fingertips curled around her neck threatened to crumble her spine in that one violent grasp. He bit back at her lip and allowed his tongue to nimbly slip along it next, that curious mixture of raw violence and fervent desire dominating his actions riding upon the waves of cruelty first and next dipping into the warm, dark embrace of simple closeness as the man deepened the kiss and drew in her very essence. What he breathed in was intoxicating at first, her soft and pleasant scent distinct to him even through the rain and the taste of blood and wine as delectable as the finest refined alcohol and with furious gasps did he attempt to consume all of that essence, not quite realizing that something else lay beneath.

Suddenly he was drinking in another flavour instead, one that ran deeper and hidden in the bottom, and his heart froze at that brief, unexpected twinge that bit at his heart and paralyzed his lungs with its poison. At first he could recognize the warmth he had experienced earlier in another time and it emitted from a comfortable flame within, one he knew burned inside Riedel but not inside him and it had been through a brief contact that he had seen it flicker, only able to observe the core of her sentiments from the outside, never quite understanding them. The flame danced in front of his vision and touched at him innocently - just a small lick of fire contacting with his viscera briefly - yet even this momentarily connection scorched the man as severely as if he had been just thrown in the midst of a raging pyre. It filled him with emotions he had always pushed away, with sentiments he could not even begin to name, this mixture brewing into a deadly poison that injected his veins with ice-cold dread. He felt guilt for feeling such feral desperation at her touch and could suddenly recall her eyes of viridian green quietly staring back at him through the thin haze of alcohol and he felt curiously... responsible for her. It was such a needless thing to recall, an unwanted distraction he did not wish to give voice, but by now it had invaded his mind with its obstructive force while something else also demandingly tugged at this heart, completely disregarding the fact that Rolf's mind too busy trying to make sense of the first sentiment to even start focusing on another one. The voice of the other unwanted visitor within his head rang with a glowing, sincere force and Rolf's eyes widened at its ever-growing presence while his lips were still brushing against hers.

He breathed out sharply upon having drawn such emotions from within her very soul - or his own - and his fingers settled upon the back of her thigh twitched just before they withdrew from her rain-drenched skin. The man's head jerked back and the alarm was evident in his steel-grey irises as he stared back at her through that insignificant distance between them, rain having soaked his hair and the renewed traces of blood soon mixing with the saliva still left upon his lips. A muffled sigh of alarm was frozen in his throat and Rolf stared at the woman in his sudden state of despair, his chest still heaving up and down with the force of his uneven breathing as he withdrew away from her, taking a step back and swallowing as something within him quivered with sudden anxiety. He had breathed in too deep, he had been greedy in his drunken haze of lust and drawn something out of her that caused the balance of his entire world quake and he felt as if he had been robbed of his essence through those horrific moments, something foreign and unwanted filling his heart and further drawing in guilt and shame. The woman stood half-naked in front of him in the empty alley, the rain scrawling hungry rivers across the muscles on her arms and stomach, the tiny moles and imperfections upon her skin nothing but still stones resting beneath the running water, while the dark, wet hair clung to her exposed breasts, circling around her shoulders in slippery loops and curls. Rolf's eyes lingered in the shadowed curves of her body as the night embraced her with the fondness of a gentle lover and how he ached for her even through his sudden apprehension, how fervently he wished to explore each arch and bend of her frame! He wanted nothing more but to claim her and quench his thirst, yet something stopped him once more the moment his eyes caught the gaze of the irises of celadon green looking back at him in the midst of the dark hair, that violent parasite once more moving and writhing within Rolf and rendering him unable to close that gap between them. The bewildered look passed as the man forced himself to some measure of action, quickly stepping aside and turning his back at the woman, just to pace away from her and allowing his lungs to draw in painful breaths of the air while his boots splashed the water already gathered upon the sandy ground at his angry, fast steps. His eyes fervently searched for something to look at, for some offender he could properly attack and punish for such unneeded distractions, while the lust within him was still there, drawing painful claws across his insides and not allowing him to ignore the sentiment even when he attempted to. The man's lips distorted into a snarl and his eyes filled with violent anger that was aimed at nobody in particular, or maybe at Rolf himself or maybe simply just at the entire world and at the complications it decided to throw in his path just when he had thought the road standing in front of him clear and simple.

The man had to spend a few brief moments in simply containing the mixture of emotions, his lust and anger coaxing him into a violent outburst of hatred and as the man wheeled around to glance at the woman once more, these sentiments still burned clear and bright in his eyes. For a moment it appeared as if the pilot was prepared into a savage pounce, muscles tightening at the anticipation of the assault, but then his hand suddenly went to his belt as he started to unbuckle it. He opened the clasp and pulled the belt from his waist with one, angry motion, further starting to unbutton his tunic with swift movements as he held the belt in his other hand, the man ignoring the rain and allowing it to soak him, maybe hoping that it would cool down the torrents of his hungry desire. He was still unbuttoning his tunic as he stepped closer to the woman once more and, after pulling the Luftwaffe tunic free from his shoulders, placed it upon the woman's shoulders in a manner reminiscent from another time and a place. The man's grey eyes burned as he glared at the woman, yet he only pulled the edges of the tunic better over the woman's shoulders, not quite minding the fact that the tunic was partly soaked with the rain by now and offering the woman only moderate comfort. Just as it appeared that the pilot was happy with his task and ready to step away, his hands grasped more tightly against the canvas of the tunic once more and he brought his face close to hers, the movement sudden and menacing. His silver irises scorched her with the lust and anger that reigned dominant even through the coldness of the night and the rain, at the same time both desiring after her and hating the unexplored emotions that had driven him away from the woman and denied him his satisfaction. The beginnings of a sneer were already inching upon his lips while he glared at her through those drawn seconds, as if urging his mind to attempt once more to break free from the shackles that had so viciously and needlessly bound his will, but then the highest flames of that inner fire visibly lessened and the man's fingers slowly slid away from the tunic, his intense, yet confused gaze never breaking away from hers.

For a moment it seemed as if the man was simply frozen to his spot, but then he appeared to reach some sudden decision and his posture became much more decisive, the man's grey eyes slowly narrowing at some thought of his. Without even bothering to address the woman, Rolf grasped at her shoulder, pulling her away from the wall just so that he could roughly shove her along the alley in front of himself and towards a direction unknown. The man found himself unable to speak anything after such a confusing turn of events and so he communicated his frustration and anger by violently pulling the woman along with himself, his fingers remaining sternly clamped upon her arm through the soaked canvas of the sand-coloured tunic. The white shirt Rolf had been left wearing was soon drenched in water as well and only now did the man find enough space within his mind to consider the curiosity of the weather and just how alienated he had become from something as basic as rainfall. The dust that had ever plagued the Germans ever since upon their arrival in North Africa was now changing into stubborn mud and Rolf gritted his teeth at the chills of displeasure that ran down his spine along with the cold drops of water. He attempted to ignore the presence of the woman even when he kept prodding her along, constantly standing prepared to drown out any protests she might have had, and he purposefully chose to look past the woman's half-naked figure, not wanting to look her in the eyes and renew the desperate confusion that had taken hold of him just moments earlier.

The goal had been automatically set in his mind and through increasingly familiar turns did he force the woman to match his pace, finally pushing a door open in front of him just to shove the woman inside a hallway and away from the rain that had not lessened in strength the least as they had been walking. Dripping with water, Rolf still ignored Riedel's presence and glanced at the landlady standing behind her counter, the older woman merely raising an eyebrow at witnessing the sight of the Hauptmann and the drunken woman accompanying him, her half-naked state hardly surprising her anymore. Without saying a word, she reached for the key to the same room as always and Rolf snatched it with a grim look drawn upon his features, the man next forcing the woman up the stairs and inside the room, where he finally released his hold of her. Water dripped from the man's clothes upon the dusty floor and the sounds of the rain spattering upon the window carried curiously distinct across the room, the fingers of the storm tapping against the windowpane in an erratic rhythm while the wind howled feral in the corners of the building. Rolf prodded the woman towards the bed, knowing full well that she would not find her wits before she had slept through the night and sobered up. Leaving Riedel on her own in her current state would have only called for some obscene fate upon her and Rolf found his thoughts reaching past the various options that might have taken place. Maybe she would stumble in her intoxicated state and break her neck. Maybe she would be forgotten in the rain and the first rays of the morning sun would rise to caress her lifeless body?

The gruesome misfortunes she was so eager to inflict upon herself were endless and Rolf loathed to picture any of them, his visions purposefully ignoring the thought of someone using the woman's intoxicated state to their advantage, for it was an intent far too recent and familiar. The fact that he even took the time to care about such things shook him to his core and he glared at the woman hatefully from under his eyebrows, blaming her for his own inner plight, her wretched existence drawing nothing but complications upon him. He should have not bothered with bidding for the woman, to pry her from the crowd and attempt to make sense of her drunken musings, let alone breaking the contact which he had so intensely desired, just to herd her to the relative safety of the room. With water dripping from his hair and the bristles upon his jaw, Rolf sneered at the woman and motioned his head towards the mattress, expecting her to fall into proper obedience and to lay down to sleep as he wished, some simple part of his mind wishing to see Riedel return to her entire hateful - and sober - glory.

[Dirk Riedel]

It was not supposed to rain this time of the year.

The desiccated earth was not expecting the rainstorm even if at her high necessity of dehydration she would plead for its arrival; the soil knew not to anticipate the hydrous quality it so deeply longed for even as it dreamed of the skies to thunder with the glorious announcement of downpour; the subterranean ground had learned not to foolishly and naively hope for its elements to be washed in water, the lonesome Ponderosa pines and palm trees, the bushes and scorpions lying very still and exposed to the merciless, scorching sun. Why, then, why had rainfall not kept its promise and desired a sudden and unforeseen meeting? For lesser beings of a universal system they both were, him and her, required of them to accept nature's laws and wherever possible her transgressions as well – without complaint or wrath over her own will of straying from her self-imposed principles. The rain had come not with the intention of cleansing them from their sins, no, and such may have been the initial illusion which its purifying effect always appeared to demonstrate, but not this time, and not this hour. How clearly was it within moments understood that the skies spread upon both of their human forms the purge they needed – but purge which they refused. The drops of rain created small distinct rivers of water snaking down across the veins of his strong, proud neck, the crescents by her sides and rounded the pained arches of the breasts accustomed to the sharp friction of flesh against metal; they formed pathways alongside his drenched arms and worshipped every exposed vein across the stiffened muscles, they slipped inside her navel and tickled the aperture before they once more trickled outside the skin to flow down on their southernmost journey and snake around the margins of the black fabric, playfully at first, to then caress the triangular lines whence shadows rose, and so they calmly flowed across her inner thighs down along her knees to wind around her ankles and eventually reach the soil. There, she was bared upon his view, where no pretenses and no lies could hide beneath a deceitful façade; there he stood in all of his arrogance, unassuming, his intentions clear and his heart exposed, and eyes that showed the carnivore’s nature. The rain had wished to reveal their true forms in the hope each would shrink away from one another at what they witnessed, the water washing away that part of him which the woman had felt closest to, his softness, his humanity all vanished on the spot so that what could only stare back at her was the very part of him she despised; and the water swept along its wake the woman he had learned to expect to see each time their paths crossed, her self-control and strength dulled into despair and anguish while she was clinging on to him, dependent and miserable. They should each have withdrawn away from the other upon confronting such a deplored state of existence – the rain had intended so and unleashed the great downpour at them to set apart that which should not be brought together – and though she had declared to care only for what he concealed within and let resurface when she approached closely enough to see, though she hated and disdained him, she still accepted him for what he was with her humid embrace, hands warm and consuming grasping around at his head with the desperate force of talons; and he did not break away.

No, it should not have been like this.

She held him firmly into her hands, fingers pressed around at the muscles on his upper arms close to the shoulders, and lips that drank the last remaining stain of blood upon his face; a sudden, sharp whimper of surprise escaped her throat when his teeth savagely attacked at her lower lip in return, the knuckles of her right hand slipped inside his tunic tightening her hold into a stern fist on instinct at the twinge of pain before her grip loosened into a more relaxed, but still quite as desperate touch, when she was pushed hard against the stone wall, his frame colliding against hers in that greedy, imperative tone of command which his form exercised upon her own, his even greedier hand claiming her where his heart desired; and her spine had at first shuddered at the contact, until her skin became accustomed to the dominating grasp of his fingers as they moved beyond the region of her pelvis and southward, his motion demanding and his breath hungry, prepared to consume and destroy her at any given moment.

The fingers pressed painfully against the nape of her neck, carving marks upon her skin that would linger even when he were to leave her, this thumb applying force at the veins and the rest of the fingers coiled manically around the flesh while her head scraped violently against the wall, turning whenever his commanding contact dictated at her face in a forceful manner to roll against his, at the same time as she felt his fingers pulling at the fabric of that wretched piece of underwear with uncompromising greed, and her grasp tensed around his arm. She attempted to swallow, if only on instinct, but even the slightest form of movement that went against his motion was out of the question, and her lungs began to complain despairingly at the dearth of oxygen, a piercing feeling entering her insides to demand of her to break free; rather, her skin hatefully welcomed the tip of his tongue as it sidled through her lips and claimed one more part of her – always with the demands he was – and returned the livid greed with undeniable impatience, so that by now her fingers were permanently coiled around his arms with determined, agonizing force, the essence of humid flesh on flesh and the awareness of fabric scratching against fabric that attacked her from all directions possessing every inch of her being, her gasp drowned forever inside his throat as he breathed inside her all of his malady, his hunger, his claim; the fly entrapped by the spider, the prey cornered by the hunter. It might have appeared curious how two such grossly differentiating beings were to be restrained into one another with shackles binding them together in that destructive, vicious enfolding, but after all, had she not been created from his rib? His demand grew and began to burst at the seams, and she, short of breath whose rate had risen to an abnormal pace, was with fiercely furrowed eyebrows despairingly clinging on to him to draw from his own breathing, her throat furiously straining to suction the remotest gulp of air through the contact of slippery muscle, his gnawing having escalated into a raging, animalistic ravage, teeth biting at her and almost foaming at the mouth, and if indeed the expectation was that he were to began eating and chewing at her flesh, the woman would not have been surprised. There were too many sensations to feel at once, the painful grooves of his hand, his drenched chest crushing against her weaker form and her slippery fingers attached around him underneath the fabric of his tunic where the raindrops snaked and dampened the skin, the leg that stood more tightly wrapped around his waistline and securely placed against him, the stubble scratching violently at her face and the taste of his saliva washing the gums, so that soon enough she was incapable of telling which of the two had been drinking, soon enough her restless gasps dissolved into his frantic breathing – soon enough they merged into one essence, the fusion of drawing sounds inevitable – hurting and agonizing – two animals in a cage, teeth bared and attacking, the flesh exposed, the force of madness staying rampant and hatred governing that which could never be constrained, and claws scratched against claws, teeth that fought to bite at the wound first, savagery, mindlessness and instinct, and –

Then he broke away from her. The sudden, unexpected loss of his attached existence almost made her crumble down at her feet, her palms instantly colliding at the wall in support of her balance, and she still needed considerable moments to register precisely what had taken place, the rain finally washing down upon her front with all of its force now that he no longer stood against her to absorb the water, small pools of rain streaming down across her form and rushing alongside the curves of her half nude body standing coldly by the wall, the coal-black hair sticking down near her chest line and glued at her scalp as her bare feet stuck against the wet, mud-brown ground; the jewellery was sticking at her skin in an uncomfortable, aggravating manner but her skin had been numbed to the sensation from the inner turbulence, the piece of black clothing hanging from one side below the pelvis bone to remotely reveal a glimpse of her cuneate darkness, her pale white legs only ever channels of water they let cascade from each crescent of her frame down to the ground to form the puddles slowly growing in size and depth; and she stood very still, her eyes cold and glassy, and with arms hanging lifelessly down by her sides, as though he had only just spirited life into her only to simply suction it away from her in his usual merciless, uncaring manner, her lips half opened in frustration and the lack of understanding obvious as she looked back at him during those few moments that he stared at her with eyes that spoke nothing more or less but his own frustration, before he turned around and walked several steps away from her. The moments passed, and it may have been only a second or two, perhaps even a few minutes, but to the woman time had slowed down and everything seemed too painfully drawn out, the feel of his hand straining the nape of her neck still burning her wet skin, the residue of saliva and the bitter, iron taste of blood across her lips evidence of a friction which had long since been lost. She merely stood there, ready to collapse onto the ground at any moment, her ability of speech clearly died out inside her throat and eyes that emptily stared at his back. It was difficult to believe this was the same woman who had once so defiantly refused to break at his hand.

The rain was pelting down, and it was only through a terrible haze of confusion and disorientation that she could see his distinct outline looming closer, when, suddenly, a soaked tunic was wrapped around her shoulders, and she felt those same hands powerfully clamp around her arms when she was forced through that contact to raise her head and look back at the man, his eyes violent and fevered, and she would not have found it surprising if he simply bared his teeth at her to completely vanquish her simply by the nature of that glower he was giving her. If she could have just taken the tunic to throw it back at his face, she would have most likely done so, but paralyzed was she to the moment’s stillness that she did not even apply any opposition whatsoever when he shoved her along the alleyway, her feet drawing a line of mud at her trail and her eyes staring into nothingness. She did not care of his intentions, where he planned to take her, where his line of thought lay, a surge of scoffing indifference having overwhelmed her at this point, and neither did she realize what route he was taking, the empty, dark roads they were crossing, and nor did she ever turn around to steal a glance at his face, the woman merely walking along on her bare feet without the remotest sense of resistance or concern, her facial features distorted into an apathetic expression of habitual, indefinite hatred. She could not tell for how many minutes they were walking – he was leading and she was following – but the route was long and winded, the streetlamps had been turned off due to the rain even if it was not quite as late in the evening and no other figures were to be found in the streets apart from one or two locals running around with a piece of their robes lifted to shield their heads from the downpour and speaking in rapid Arabian.

She did not show the faintest interest at anything in particular, her lips straightened into a strict, curt line and her eyes half closed, half open at the rain washing down upon them, before she was ushered through a door and inside the relatively warmer confines of a reception room. The landlady’s familiar outline next to a large candle burning upon the wooden, rickety old table entered her vision and the younger woman merely scoffed, relying entirely on the Hauptmann to be maneuvered up the staircase and across the corridor, not on the grounds she was as intoxicated as to be incapable of movement – not in the least – but after all of his tactics she only wished to deliberately be a nuisance to him. He deserved as much. Finally, the wooden door creaked open and she was shoved inside the room, the woman almost leaping forwards as he let her go and turned to shut the door behind him. The light in that lonesome, familiar old friend that was the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling from a bare thread flickered on, and the woman blinked momentarily as she looked around at the place. It had been as they had left it, with the only difference that it now appeared more neat and tidy even through its poor furniture, the large, rickety wooden wardrobe at one side and the bed with the thin, black railing next to it.

“Haus, Süße nach Hause … der ist nicht richtig, Jäger?” she said in a mocking tone, and a drunken smirk rose in the corner of her lips, the green eyes smiling and with her back still turned at him as she examined the small room. When she turned around to face him she saw him gesturing with his glance at the bed, and she stared back with an arched eyebrow; she would have been liable to crack a crude joke about how he had not even paid for dinner yet, if she had not been suddenly struck by a rising surge of fury and frustration that made her look back at him as if he was pitiable, even ridiculous.

And so, she suddenly laughed.

It was a cold, mirthless laughter born out of mockery rather than good humour, out of his persistent nature to turn a blind eye to everything rather than encounter that which he most needed to struggle against, and thus, quite simply, she acted in the way every decent, self-respecting politician of the day ought to have done and … she blatantly ignored him. She turned her back on him as if she had only breezily acknowledged the existence of his gesture but from then on completely disregarded to pay any further attention to it, let one proceed to see it done, rather she moved her arms to pull the soaked tunic away from her shoulders, and let it drop on the floor. She was drenched from head to toe, and the short coat was more than an inconvenience to her than a source of comfort, sticking at her skin, but of course the halfwit that he was could not even distinguish between these two feelings; the woman knew this rather well. The piece of jewellery was also being more of a vexation, its soggy, brisk surface scratching against her wet skin as it was, but she would not take it away; not now. She turned to look at him once more, her face unaffected and calm, eyes glinting from the rain and the wine, and the mouth whose tips still could distinguish the taste of slaver dissolved into the water dripping slowly down across her neck. Slowly she began to walk closer to him.

“Oh Ja, was seiner jetzt? Das übliche. Schlaf im Laufe der Nacht, dann wachen Sie auf und stellen Sie auf eine Tat, dass nichts jemals geschehen ist, dass der Tag nur eine andere Fortsetzung genau so ist, nicht wahr?” she told him in a relaxed, collected tone, her moistened throat having lost its dried out sensation and sounding distinctly less hoarse than before. Her eyes glinted in the dim light as she stared back at him, her glance knowing and perceptive. “Aufenthalt ruhig und Hoffnung entweder dass ich überall nicht bewusst gewesen sein werde, oder dass ich vergessen hätte,” she said, and closed the distance between them into one last remaining step, “weil es Sie lässt sich unsicher fühlen, in unerforschtes Wasser gehend. Die Lüge zu sich selbst … Lüge zu mir … wirft alles weg,” she whispered, and her hand slowly raised to touch at his chin, before she let her forefinger trace a pathway up across his stubbled jaw, her skin at ease with the coarse texture of his bristles as she drew a line alongside the rim of his lip. “Alles haben Sie gegeben. Alles haben Sie mir gegeben,” she told him, and slowly let her thumb trail along his marked lower lip, her eyes gazing into the motion of her fingers before they raised to meet his glower. “Hervorragende Taktik – lasen Sie sie von Clausewitz?” she teased, and a genuine smile dressed her mouth, the tone mocking but not cruel, her eyebrows loosened into a calm unison without bearing that intense curved frown they often seemed to adopt.

“Und dann was?” she said, her forefinger slowly moving at his cheek to caress at the bristles of his face. “Gesetz, als ob Sie sich nie sorgten, dass Sie sich nie sorgen und dann Ihre Wände wieder erheben wollten, weil Sie zu entnervt werden um zu konfrontieren was Sie vorher nie gehabt haben?” Her eyes pierced through his silver greys with a determined, resolute glint and she communicated not her hostility but only her genuine estimation of his behaviour; she had seen it before, and she had seen it moments ago once he had resolved to escape her clutches and find comfort in the distance where he could breathe alone, away from her, away from everything he knew not how to react to. She was drunk, yes, but it was intoxication, strangely enough, which sharpened her ability of perception when it regarded him; for any other person she would have been incapable of registering even the difference of their clothes if they were wearing them inside out but alcohol helped her liberate her mind of all the prejudices and intolerance she would otherwise be enslaved to, rendering her more receptive to the subtleties and even faintest traces of comportment in his character, most liable to recognize that timid gleam of the eye, the snarl that meant not arrogance but the allocation of threat, his reluctance.

She let her finger roam by his dripping cheek, the water blending into her already drenched skin, her warm breath tingling his chin as she spoke. “Ich sagte dass ich mich nur für den anderen Jäger fühlte, aber die Wahrheit ist nur das schwache würde die leichte, weichere Seite bevorzugen und zurück vom anderen … zurückweichen Die Wahrheit ist … den ich nicht weiß, den ich am meisten liebe,” she said, and a smile surfaced across her lips as she looked up at him, bringing her face nearer to his chin. “Ich mag den Mann, der sich unten, derjenige verbirgt, der furchtsam, widerwillig und neugierig ist; wer von mir lernen will, der freundlicher und human bin,” she whispered, and leaned in to give a soft, passing kiss at the right tip of his lower lip. “Ich mag den egoistischen, arroganten Jäger, seine Macht, seine Kraft, sein Vertrauen,” she said, and leaned to offer another impartation of her disease, this time at the other side of his mouth, in the very corner, whence his poison flowed. “Seine krassen Manieren, sein Nerv.” Her fingers slowly travelled alongside the side of his face and absorbed an insignificant amount of water as it passed onto her hand. “Seine Unerschrockenheit.” And she drank for a moment the skin by his cheek, her teeth retracted, and her tongue grazed against the rough bristles of his stubble, but it was only ever a compelling appeal rather than an inconvenience to the woman. When she pulled back, her eyes looked directly into his gaze. “Ich hasse ihn wirklich, doch ich verachte ihn, ich tue – aber ändert das irgendetwas aufrichtig?” She smiled. “Wenn Sie denken, dass ich gerade ins Bett gehen und schlafen,” she said calmly, and then began to take a step backwards, “und dann gerade aufwachen werde, so können Sie Ihren Kopf von mir abwenden,” – and another, to which the man responded by closing the renewed distance as he stepped closer – “und mit Ihrer dummen Arroganz fortsetzen, nein, tue ich nicht,” she assured him.

Her eyes narrowed, and she took another step rearward. “Sie sind arrogant, aber das ist nicht alles dass Sie sind,” she told him in a resolved, calm and knowing tone, her manner matter-of-fact so that any questioning from his part would have been redundant at best; she stepped behind the more he walked closer to her, until she suddenly felt the edge of the table’s wooden surface scraping at her, her eyes remaining transfixed upon his glowering countenance. “Ich weiß, was Sie von mir zurückhält, weiß ich, was Sie neugierig und durstig macht. Das ist fast wie ich brachte Sie zur Welt,” she told him, and then effortlessly let herself slide upwards the table in a sitting position, the palms of her hands briefly stroking around the wooden texture, the moist fingers leaving trails of water along the way, but she were at this point oblivious to it. “Ihre Ängste, Ihre Unsicherheit, weiß ich von ihnen auf die gleiche Weise, als ob sie meinig sein würden,” she promised him, and the tips of her toes raised and stretched to reach out to his right shin, her sole caressing the skin against the fabric as it slowly moved in its ascending journey northward, and stroked up the knee, her words, plain and potent, hanging in the air with the parasitic essence of a noxious scrounger. She caught perception of his intended motion when, with the faintest twitch, he meant to flinch away from her but – all at once – her rejoinder was prompt, the movement was brisk and resolute when the leg outreached and shot up in between his thighs to clamp on to him and stretch out in an unbecoming archway down around and up to his rear, before she violently pulled him back with a force as acute and prominent as almost had him falling back towards her, the man needing to catch the edge of the table to find the proper balance. A genuine, mirthful smile rose up and spread across her lips as her eyes gleamed when she looked up at him from that renewed closeness. “Und ich werde nicht abreisen, bis Sie ihnen ins Gesicht sehen,” she declared, her voice nothing but resolute and unyielding, and to prove how an escape away from her and out of the room into the coldness of the night was out of the question her clamping stiffened and pulled him even closer to narrow that pitiful little gap between them and lock him within her embrace so that his torso was only a few breaths away from her head.

She had already allowed him the leisure to break free from the confrontation; he had at times shed his cruelty and assisted her, only to later turn blind to whichever acts of that side which knew a better judgement for humans, momentarily gaining a route into her world, a slip of warmth to caress his rigid countenance, just to cower away in fear of the unknown, retreating back into his comfortable, perfectly vain and meaningless world, shedding in turn all the thoughtfulness and attention he had briefly shown her – and where did he preserve such sentiments? They could not have simply vanished somewhere, neither could he simply keep them as reserves and use them whenever he so deemed necessary. It was that very thing which had broken him away from her now, and it was that very thing she was adamant he were not to ignore this time.

Her gaze remained transfixed upon him, and the woman almost forgot to blink as her fingers touched at the belt he was holding on his one hand, the holster storing the Lüger and hanging from the side; she pressed her hand against his and slowly pulled one finger open after the other, loosening his grip at the strap of leather before she dragged it along the table and let it rest at the side, not once breaking the eye contact with him, the dim light only ever illuminating shreds of her in a orange and yellow hue, the raindrops glistening across her skin and the argent jewels on the necklace glinting with a glorious pride at their luxury. At that point her hands raised and journeyed up slowly from the sides of his pelvis up to his abdomen, her fingers moving to his torso and clutching around at the button of his drenched, wrinkled shirt. It was mindless to be wearing it. “Sind Sie erschrocken?” she asked him, and her eyes gleamed with the clarity of knowledge, a small smile rising in the corner of her lips. “Sind Sie … von mir erschrocken?” she asked him, and then opened up the button, soon enough progressing with the second, and then the third. “Sie sind blind zu Ihrer Unbequemlichkeit in anderen Zeiten, aber nicht an diesem Tag, und nicht in dieser Stunde geworden,” she assured him resolutely, her face perfectly calm and placid, her free leg slithering against the fabric of his lower thigh and her knee scraped at the side of his own before it locked against him, at the same time as her fingers sowed careful pathways alongside his frame as they moved from one clasp to the other, her hands soon wetting through the drenched fabric. “Ich werde nicht Sie gehen lassen, bis Sie im Stande sind, darauf in den Augen zu schauen. Sie können versuchen zu verlassen aber … Sie gehen irgendwo nicht,” she said, and she finally pulled the shirt away from his shoulders, to merely let it drop to the floor, useless and pitiable. Her hands softly traversed across his chest and she could only gaze up into his eyes with the most genuine intentions at heart reflected in her own green irises.

“Sie bleiben hier bei mir,” she warned him, gazing at the baron with a resolute glint, and then let her nose brush against his skin when her lips found his abdomen in a single, quiet kiss; and to further give substance to the resolve of her words she wrapped her arms around his waist, her chin almost resting against his abdomen as she looked up at him, stern and uncompromising.




Translation

Home, sweet home … isn’t that right, Jäger?

Oh yes, what of it now? The usual. Sleep through the night, then wake up and put on an act that nothing has ever come about, that the day is only another continuance, just the same, isn’t it? Stay quiet and hope either that I will not have been conscious throughout or that I would have forgotten, because it makes you feel insecure, stepping into uncharted waters. Lie to yourself … lie to me … throw away everything. Everything you’ve given. Everything you’ve given me. Brilliant tactics – did you read them from Clausewitz?

And then what? Act as if you never cared, that you never wanted to care and then raise your walls again because you are too unnerved to confront what you’ve never had before? I said I only felt for the other Jäger, but the truth is only the weak would prefer the easy, softer side and shrink back from the other … The truth is … I don’t know which one I like best. I like the man who hides beneath, the one who is timid, reluctant and curious; who wants to learn from me, who is kinder and humane. I like the selfish, arrogant Jäger, his power, his strength, his confidence. His crass manners, his nerve. His boldness. I really hate him, still, I despise him, I do – but does that truly change anything? If you think I will just go to bed and sleep, and then wake up, just so you can turn your head away from me and continue with your stupid arrogance, no, I will not.

You are arrogant, but that is not all you are. I know what holds you back from me, I know what makes you curious and thirsty. It is almost like I gave you birth. Your fears, your insecurities, I know of them in the same way as if they would be mine.

And I will not leave until you face them.

Are you scared? Are you scared … of me? You have turned blind to your unease at other times, but not this day, and not this hour. I will not let you go until you are able to look at it in the eyes. You can try to leave but … you are not going anywhere.

You’re staying here with me.