Houses of the Holy

[Dirk Riedel]

Country: Lower Normandy, Northern France
Area: Lion-sur-Mer, Calvados
Current Time: 16th October 1943, 18:45 pm
Weather Conditions: Cold, the coastal area bearing a strengthened wind during the evening.




The tall, stout figure of the Wehrmacht soldier appeared from out the military car that cold October’s evening as the Leutnant stepped unto the gravel street of the French commune in Bass-Normandie, the coastal wind brushing sharply against his solemn, humourless face, able to distinctly hear the waves splashing against the rocks and the distant noises heard from inside the near buildings. The Unteroffizier, a long time friend whom the Leutnant had once saved from a rather lethal situation during open fire while they were both still serving in the Deutsches Afrikakorps before Major General Von Hulsen had surrendered the division’s remnants in May 1943, moved out of the car and walked beside him, soon to be followed by a small group of soldiers all of whom the Leutnant knew well since their African days. Dark clouds traversed across the grim and starless sky, promising a heavy downpour in the following hours, while the Leutnant turned his head sideways for one second towards the coast’s direction, staring at the beach’s low tide along the English Channel, made of thin sand, bordered with rocks and cliffs along the surface of which shellfish and crustaceans were to be found, and situated on what the French called ‘Cote de Nacre’, the Mother of Pearl Coast. The local fishermen had long since left for their homes, and an eerie silence had fallen upon the area like an ominous veil to bring doom and despair; there were old, dilapidated houses with their windows shut, a deserted church, small stores that had been closed down upon occupation due to contradicting the Nazi requirements or the owners had either been killed, transported to another place, or chose another means of providing their living. Either way, the car transferring the soldiers around town was the only source of commotion to be found within the commune, the locals in fear having confided themselves within the boundaries of their houses.

The Leutnant was, indeed, a fine-looking man. A true Aryan in his late twenties, with the peaked cap topping his short-cut, slicked back, hazel-blonde hair and his crystal-clear and faded steel-gray eyes of the finest pair through the black irises of which the darkest secrets lay; with his facial features rather sharp and angular, bringing forth a strong jaw and high cheekbones, pleasingly lined lips and a muscular posture, he exuded confidence and strength such as would inspire genuine respect from the men and palpable veneration from the women. There were several minor scars across his neck, and the gravity of his expression only served to further demand respect and discipline from every human being surrounding the group of those heroic and intrepid soldiers who were bleeding for the Fatherland. From his appearance one could tell he was the sort of person who was able to solve every problem through the means of cold logic rather than emotional principles, trusting the mind rather than the heart, more sensible than romantic, less demonstrative than always guarding and shrewd. Numerous women had shown interest, had been enthralled and deeply infatuated with the cold but yet heart-warming and fearless Leutnant who spoke little and worked greatly, who bore no fantasies nor claims of gallantry and heroism, but who instead believed he only acted on sheer discipline and a patriotic love for his country – a man who rarely allowed himself the common leisure of inferior ranked soldiers for the purposes of setting an example and preventing comrades from being let loose at a great extent, if such a thing should indeed happen; a riddle.

The jackboots clicked and thudded across the gravel streets as the soldiers walked along the dark passageways of the district in cheerful voices, some of them singing German songs, others laughing at some crude jokes their fellows were making, and another group looking pleased or curious. They were heading towards a fortress of endless human miseries; it was a cathedral of sacred necessities which had known wartime despair, pain, anguish and desert, bearing within its bowels the shrieks of its believers and unbelievers, the predators’ precipitous dominance and magnitude of power, with the lesser, submissive creatures yielding to their power, those ancient monuments of pain and eventuality, a museum of never-ceasing weaknesses and emotions that was always open to new visitors, exploiters, birds of prey, and carnivores; a museum whose statues and portraits served only to laugh upon these human beings, their ultimate weaknesses, their whimsical desires, what made them bend, what made them laugh, and what at the end of the day made them break, one right after the other, like hundreds of shards of a glass windowpane littering the red-stained floor at dusk. The nearby church had been deserted from the priests and now stood abandoned and solitary, solemn and ominous, and almost heartbroken; all of its disciples had long since forsaken what once had been the home of the Lord, abandoned faith in the name of fear and stopped seeking hope within the religious embrace, for there was none. The Leutnant looked at the front oak doors of a place which had held both euphoria and pain, and, boots thudding against the threshold that bore entrance to sacred passageways of sin and prayer at the same time, he turned the door’s latch and walked in.

[Fredrick Davidson]

A Finnish hand rubbed a clean Finnish chin, it was only that morning when a German razor had also caressed it, the first time in months, the first time the 3rd SS was off the line. Finnish eyes took in every curve and shadow of the reclined figure, that was in the style of a Renaissance painting, although Unterscharführer Fredrick Davidson knew it couldn’t be more then 30 or so years old. He preferred it though, Rick felt that the older stuff had lost it’s spark, it‘s flavor of relevance. While any younger it didn‘t have time to mature, to prove it‘s worth and Rick wouldn’t go anywhere near it. He wasn’t a snob about it, though, beauty wasn‘t what he knew, it was killing. This was just something to do as he waited for the unit to be redeployed. Davidson planned to spend most of his free time in France at this “art house” and the many like it within an hour’s drive from the SS barracks, Just like he did in Germany the last time Totenkopf took a break, and the time before. Since returning to the old country his life was simple. Horrendous terror and unending boredom on the Russian Front and unparallel beauty at rest, there were no mediums for Rick.

With his mouth dry and his fill of the sensual beauty, Fredrick stopped leaning on the wall, gave a nod of approval to the figure, and stepped out onto the communal second story balcony and took a breath of the fresh evening air. A few feet away, a group of three of his subordinates fraternized with two local girls. They heard his boots click against the brick floor and they turned to him, stiffened up, and gave him the Hitler salute

“Gehen Sie dazu zurück, was Sie taten,” Davidson returned the salute, but awkwardly turned it into brushing his hand through his hair, and they turned back to the women. Rick continued his hesitant German, “aber weiß irgendjemand, wo Rottenführer Tähti ist? Er sagte, dass er dabei war, hier herauszukommen, nachdem er getan wurde.”

They said nein so Fredrick let them be and walked to the other side of the balcony to sit on an iron wrought bench. As he waited for the other Finnish NCO, he continued to watch the German soldiers for a few minutes. They laughed and talked with the women, like the normal soldiers. They were good soldiers in battle too, although a bit fanatical in their devotion to Germany. Rick’s relationship with them, and the rest of the SS, started uneasy when the NCO with the funny “Russian” accent joined their ranks. But they soon accepted him when he proved to them that the Finnish were just like Germans, at least where their feelings on the Soviets were concerned.

Fredrick eventually noticed music drifting through the open door. Smooth French jazz that the Unterscharführe couldn’t understand. “Perskules, I need a drink.” Rick turned to catch the source of the expletive that wasn’t part of the song and saw Rottenführer Kimmo Tähti removing a bottle of vodka from his unbuttoned SS uniform as he emerged from the room next door and sat beside his superior. “It’s been what, 5 years since Pennsylvania, I would have thought you would have learned more Finnish then just the swear words by now. German even, or maybe some French so you could tell me what other people were saying for a change,“ Rick joked with Kimmo, only half serious.

“Bah, who wants to hear what a Frenchie has to say, it’s all ‘I surrender’ and ‘I’ll take off my skirt’ anyway,” Tähti mumbled through teeth clenched over the bottle‘s seal, “You want any?”

“No, I think at least one of us should be sober. We are foreigners in an unholy land, and I wouldn’t want our loose lips to ruin the relations with Suomi and it’s important ally.” Kimmo snorted into his drink, “And I’ve been meaning to ask you, did you really need to smuggle that bottle here, this is France after all, we could probably find you some kind of alcohol that you would enjoy?”

“Oh you know me,” Rottenführer Tähti answered in between drinks, “I only drink things I can see through. I respect my body.”

“I doubt your liver can tell the difference.”

“You don’t understand what my liver understands!”

“Look at you, the alcohol hasn’t hit your blood yet and you’re already making no sense.”

“Most things I do don‘t make sense. That’s why I win wars.” And to accent his point, Kimmo smashed the now empty bottle against the metal bench. The group looked over, but they already knew of Kimmo’s antics and just smiled and returned to their conversation of German sausages and French rolls.

---Translation---

Gehen Sie dazu zurück, was Sie taten, aber weiß irgendjemand, wo Rottenführer Tähti ist? Er sagte, dass er dabei war, hier herauszukommen, nachdem er getan wurde.

Go back to what you were doing, but does anyone know where Rottenführer Tähti is? He said he was going to come out here after he was done.

[Dirk Riedel]

Ever since the church had been deserted with the coming of the war and all of its devotees had abandoned the home of the Lord as well, the locals of Lion-sur-Mer had used the empty space to store the remaining pieces of the bombed museum, brilliant works of art, exquisite sculptures, breath-taking paintings and classical antiquities – all of them cheap imitations of a greater art but which served to boost morale within the region and assist the soldiers in sacred awakening during times of weariness and hunger, ideological disparities which knew such fierceness of passion and loathing, times of horror and turmoil. Leutnant Dirk Riedel moved around the hall slowly, tall and imposing, with proud and rough features, but also distant and calculating, looking around him and circumspectly taking note of the surroundings, quiet but shrewd, watching, vigilant, curious, guarding as always – several soldiers were engaged in hushed whispers while stealing glimpses over at the birth of Venus, others laughed in ludicrously loud noises as they openly stared at the unworldly woman, while the rest of the paintings seemed to be glaring at her in distaste for receiving all the attention, abundantly aware of their own glorious reputation, the vicious admiration throughout the centuries and total reverence, even worship, by those poor souls who burned in the temples of art.

The painting of Mars and Venus stood in the middle of the hall, receiving its fair share of hungry admiration; with his head tilted backwards and his eyes closed in ecstasy or thought – which of the two it was the soldiers could not tell – the god of war was lying on his crimson cloak and dressed only in a white loin cloth covering the southernmost bay, while Venus, clad in a white and golden gown and lying opposite him on a meadow, was curiously looking at the god of war, locks of her auburn hair gently falling down and touching her pale white shoulders. The lovers were surrounded by a grove of myrtle trees, the tree of Venus, as three impish-looking, overexcited fauns – the entourage of Dionysus, the god of wine, ecstasy and cult madness – were carrying Triton’s shell, the infamous hunting horn, with the rim of which one of the satyrs was blowing into Mar’s ear. Did they, perhaps, wish to awaken him from the profound narcosis with which Venus had managed to conquer him, thus making him remove his armour and submit to her love? A fourth satyr stood on Mars’ left hand, looking as mischievous as the others. Though Botticelli had wished to express love conquering the natural call of warfare, the situation here within the sacred hall in the forsaken French town was different; in this case, Mars was not sleeping, he was simply savouring the grapes of carnal tranquillity – and the satyrs were looking mischievous for they so desired Venus, loathsome envy overwhelmed their souls when Mars should have received her devotion, attempting to overthrow him from his fervent throne to ultimately win the heart of Venus and lie down with her across the myrtle trees. A young Obergrenadier was sitting in the corner, staring at the painting with a hungry twinkle in his bright blue eyes, dark irises widening in aching anticipation. There was steam in the hall, fumes rising up in circles and reaching the high ceiling, enveloping the chandelier and embracing the dusty candles, fumes from the sighs rising up the throat of Venus, of every Venus, sighs of anguish and despair, rising from the pit of their scathed souls.

Dirk passed by an Aphrodite of Milos, not before turning his face sideways to throw a glance at her – and it seemed, although it might have been a hallucination, the womanly figure had winked at him, her lips slightly curving in the corner to form the slightest smirk, inviting, desirous, and appeared wanting to stretch out her arms and openly embrace the Leutnant, hold him tightly and whisper something in his ear – but then, Aphrodite of Milos had no arms, had she? The Leutnant slightly snorted in amusement, and then walked across the room intending to reach the balcony, when he suddenly heard a soft jazz-swing music played in the gramophone and immediately turned his head over, striding over at the young woman who had decided to so inconsiderately ignore the Führer’s clear orders as far as that particular music was concerned. The girl looked frightened as the Leutnant approached her with a determined stride, and lowered her face immediately, suddenly interested at her hands more than the disc she was playing, clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Diese Musik wird nach den Gesetzen des Dritten Reichs verboten, Sie sollten besser wissen,” he told the girl in a curt, forbidding tone, looking directly into her scared eyes – and a suspicion passed through his mind; “wenn Sie die Juden lieben, in welchem Fall, wieder, Sie besser wissen sollten,” he added slowly, in a warning tone. The skinny, scantily-clad girl began to tremble, and shook her head fiercely in her attempt to reassure the German soldier she had not intended to go against the rules, deeply fearing he was going to punish her severely for such conduct.

“Nein, Herr,” she assured him fierily in broken German, “ich bin nicht. Ich vergaß-”

“Sie vergaßen?”

“Ich meine … der ich nicht … war ich tat nicht … Verzeihen mir.”

Dirk furrowed his eyebrows slightly, and relaxed his shoulders. His intention had not been to distress the girl but impose even upon such a place – anywhere – the rules of the Reich. Using his military uniform and power of rank in order to control human beings had never been, nor would ever be, the Leutnant’s remotest desire – however, he did believe in everything the Führer had proclaimed, and would do everything in his power to have such elementary orders carried through. He noticed how anxious the young girl looked, and internally pitied her for such appalling weakness. It was not scorn or rude laughter, it was genuine pity. “Ändern Sie es zu etwas, dass der Führer das Zuhören nicht einwenden würde,” she simply told her.

“Ja, Herr,” the girl responded, nodding her head fervently, daring not to look back at the Leutnant, but only stole covert glances at him up and down every now and then. Dirk said nothing, but walked past her and right towards the balcony, when he was surprised to find English spoken in an American accent, at which he furrowed his eyebrows, stiffened his shoulders and hardened his features – he despised anything American, so much more when spoken by German soldiers of the Third Reich. He continued listening from the distance, and even apathetically observed as one of them smashed an empty bottle against the balcony’s metal bench. Dirk shoved his hands inside the pockets of his pants, and casually walked towards the small group. He certainly knew there were several groups within the Wehrmacht or the SS circles consisted of foreigners who wished to fight by Germany’s side (and rightfully, as they were going to come out victorious) and naturally had these men wished to extinguish all suspicions of them being spies by speaking American too loudly, they would have done so in other, more effective ways. In any way, Dirk needed to officially have a clear view on their backgrounds, learn which countries they came from and for what purpose they had enlisted in the SS forces. As the Leutnant approached them (Marlene Dietrich’s voice had, meanwhile, surrounded the room), he noticed one of the two men was exceptionally handsome, tall and muscular, with gray-green eyes, and messy dark hair, with a certain quality to him which, though European, was still foreign to that of a German.

“Ihre Papiere,” the Leutnant asked of them as he reached the balcony, his voice curt and guarding, looking at them with a forbidding expectation shown through his cold face as he stretched out his hand. Them being foreigners automatically meant they were inferior to him in significance, their allegiance to the Third Reich and enlistment in the SS notwithstanding. The handsome, sober one did not hesitate in showing his papers, and Dirk looked at him with interest as, for a second, their eyes met. The shorter one, however, appeared rather stiff at giving the Leutnant his papers, but Dirk was so steely, unsmiling and authoritative that the man had no other choice but comply to the Leutnant’s request. “Ihre Papiere, Soldat. Ich werde es ein drittes Mal für Sie nicht sagen,” he told him in a dour voice, and once he had adhered to his request, he looked at the yellowed papers closely, examining each piece of information with particular regard: apparently they had both lived in the Americas for quite a long time judging from their accents, although their nationality – which for Dirk was always the most important factor – was European. “Finnisch?” he asked, his head downwards while looking through the papers. “Fredrick Davidson …” he spoke in a low tone, as his fingers traced the black letters forming the name; then he looked up, their eyes once more locked for the briefest moment. “Der lässt ziemlich finnischen … nicht erklingen, tut es?” he asked the Unterscharführer and gave him back his papers. Their hands touched for one moment and the Leutnant looked through the man’s gray-green eyes; to the Finnish soldier this would mean nothing, but had he seen through the secret beyond the Leutnant’s gray eyes, it would have been different. “Sie meldeten sich, um gegen die Sowjets zu kämpfen?" he addressed both. “Und warum sprechen Sie in der Sprache des Feinds? Das ist deutsches Territorium. Nicht Amerikaner,” he said, his lips curving in the corner to subtly show his scorn for the country.


Translation

This music is forbidden by the laws of the Third Reich, you should know better; unless you are fond of the Jews, in which case, again, you should know better.

No, Sir, I’m not. I forgot –

You forgot?

I mean … I wasn’t … I didn’t … Forgive me.

Change it to something the Führer would not object listening to.

Yes, Sir.

Your papers. Your papers, soldier. I will not say it a third time for you.
Finnish? Fredrick Davidson … That does not sound quite Finnish … does it? You enlisted to fight against the Soviets? And why are you speaking in the enemy’s language? This is German territory. Not American.

[Fredrick Davidson]

“Ihre Papiere,”

Fredrick’s ears perked up at the sound of the first non-conversational German phrase he had learned, while he turned to the source, Kimmo bent down to find the jagged top of his broken vodka bottle. This had happened to Rick enough times that it didn’t bother him, and he just smiled to the young Wehrmacht soldier and leaned forward to reach his wallet. Tähti, on the other hand,

“What is this? Communist Russia? I’ve killed hundreds of Soviets and lost as many friends to expect respect from some Wehrmacht äijä! When I g….” Rick shot Kimmo a look that could freeze fire. He stopped mid-sentence and lowered the jagged bottle top he had been waving about. Still frowning, he grabbed his wallet and counted the Reichsmarks inside.

“Meine Entschuldigungen,” Rick spoke to the Wehrmacht man as he handed over his wallet, “Er ist ein betrunkener böser. Nützlich, wenn es unten vierzig, umgeben von Russen ist, und haben Sie nur von eingefrorenem Wodka und faulen Kartoffeln gelebt. Nicht als das nützlich Normandy.

The impatient stranger asked for Kimmo’s papers again, and he handed his wallet and ID over. “Fredrick Davidson … Der lässt ziemlich finnischen … nicht erklingen, tut es?” asked the man and for the first time the Finnish Unterscharführer frowned as he took back his identification,

”Es ist ein sehr finnischer Name.” Rick growled, “Meine Familie kommt aus einer prominenten Linie zurück nachhause bis zu den Kommunisten durch unsere Welt in Flammen im Bürgerkrieg. Aber Suomi kickte ihre Esel dann, Kimmo, und ich kickte ihre 'Kameraden" Esel während Talvisota, und wir werden es wieder tun. Und noch einmal werden wir wiederaufbauen.

He decided not to mention America to the wannabe Gestapo, and when the goosestepper mentioned them speaking English, Rick’s nothing-could-go-wrong smile returned and he gave his go-to excuse, “Noch einmal, meine Entschuldigungen, Sohn, wird Kimmo dort nicht ebenso erzogen wie ich selbst und weiß Ihre Sprache nicht. Viele Russen tun, obwohl, und unsere heimische Zunge auch aber sie Englisch nicht erwarten, verwirrt es sie. Wir stiegen gerade aus der Linie in dieser Woche aus, so sind wir Gebrauch zum Verwenden davon.”

Tähti glared at Davidson when he heard his name among the gibberish and Rick was worried that Kimmo was getting confused, and a confused, drunk Kimmo was not one anyone would want to be around. So, with their wallets returned Rick grabbed a bundle of Reichsmarks and handed it over to his friend, “Here, Kimmo, have another go and let the adults talk. Möchte sich unser neuer Freund innen anschließen?” Fredrick switched from clean English to rough German and back again quite easily, “I’m going to stay out here, take in Normandy.” Kimmo liked that idea, grabbed the cash before reentering the building.

-Translations-

“Er ist ein betrunkener böser. Nützlich, wenn es unten vierzig, umgeben von Russen ist, und haben Sie nur von eingefrorenem Wodka und faulen Kartoffeln gelebt. Nicht als das nützlich Normandy.

My apologies, He is an angry drunk. Helpful when it's below forty, surrounded by Russians, and you have survived off only frozen vodka and rotten potatoes. Not as helpful in Normandy.

“Es ist ein sehr finnischer Name. Meine Familie kommt aus einer prominenten Linie zurück nachhause bis zu den Kommunisten durch unsere Welt in Flammen im Bürgerkrieg. Aber Suomi kickte ihre Esel dann, Kimmo, und ich kickte ihre 'Kameraden" Esel während Talvisota, und wir werden es wieder tun. Und noch einmal werden wir wiederaufbauen.”

It is a very Finnish name. My family comes from a prominent line back home, until the Communists through our world into flames in the Civil War. But Finland kicked their asses then, Kimmo and I kicked their ‘comrades’’ asses during the Winter War, and we will do it again. And once again, we will rebuild.


Noch einmal, meine Entschuldigungen, Sohn, wird Kimmo dort nicht ebenso erzogen wie ich selbst und weiß Ihre Sprache nicht. Viele Russen tun, obwohl, und unsere heimische Zunge auch aber sie Englisch nicht erwarten, verwirrt es sie. Wir stiegen gerade aus der Linie in dieser Woche aus, so sind wir Gebrauch zum Verwenden davon.

Once again, my apologies, son, Kimmo there isn’t as educated as myself and doesn’t know your language. Many Russians do though, and our native tongue too, but they don’t expect English, it confuses them. We just got off the line this week, so we are use to using it.

Möchte sich unser neuer Freund innen anschließen?

Would our new friend like to join you inside?

[Dirk Riedel]

And then God said, Let there be harlots.
And all was good.

It was only ever a cynical or laughable chimera that the prostitutes within the red house were to be compared to Botticelli’s painting of Mars and Venus, and that the woman Dirk Riedel passed by on his way to the balcony was only ever just another cheap femme de joie rather than Aphrodite of Milos, and that the house of the holy was nothing more but a house of pleasure. The fumes raising up in the ceiling in spirals were not fumes of anguished sighing but grey smoke coming from the dozens of cigarettes being inhaled from the many soldiers, embracing not the dusty candles in the chandelier but a dirty lamp hanging overhead from a thin, corroded silver chain that was almost torn apart on the side. Dirk had stolen a brief glance over the deserted church, ironically standing within a few metres away from the building, and before he had stepped up unto the threshold and entered had wasted one or two seconds in thinking how far apart religion was from reality, and how deceived, ignorant and often more corrupt than politicians the local parishes were. The red house was, without question, a fortress of endless human miseries; a cathedral of sacred necessities which had come to embrace wartime depression, pain, agony and neglect, bearing within its bowels the shrieks of its believers and unbelievers, the predators’ precipitous dominance and magnitude of power, with the lesser, submissive creatures – the scarlet-dressed women hoping for a good pay – yielding to their power, those ancient monuments of pain and pleasure, a museum of never-ceasing weaknesses and emotions that was always open to new visitors, exploiters, birds of prey, and carnivores; a museum whose statues and portraits – the many Venuses and Marses to be seen glued against one another – served only to laugh upon these human beings, their ultimate weaknesses, their whimsical desires, what made them bend, what made them laugh, and what at the end of the day made them break, one right after the other. The disciples who had long since forsaken their religion and abandoned the church were now within a house of sins, but also a house which, in certain respects, was holy because it contained the ancient and sacred human quality of carnal accomplishment, amidst the laughter, the drinks and crude jokes, the hopeful soldiers and desperate filles de joie, the lights, the incomplete completion.

“Fremd,” Dirk commented on his name, which he still did not find Finnish enough, but he was mostly convinced – from looking at the papers and then from his disposition, usually being able to tell lies and fraud – of his heritage and thus need not pursue this subject. The man called Kimmo appeared a rather hot-blooded, defiant and easily offended human being, not to mention a drunkard, whereas his comrade, Fredrick Davidson, seemed more of the sensible, argumentative and logical kind, one who would not succumb to rage too quickly or start firing shots for no good reason whatsoever. Dirk nodded his understanding once the handsome, dark-haired soldier explained to him the Talvisota event, as a young woman half-dressed in scarlet clothing that was tattered at the edge, apparently from being pulled around by more than one soldiers, approached them and offered the Leutnant a glass of beer; he took a sip, and then returned his glance back at the Unterscharführer. “Ich hörte von den Ereignissen im Winterkrieg. Rücksicht zu Ihnen, Herren. Ihre Mütter sollten stolz sein,” he said, and raised his glass at them in respectful toast, and drank down the beer.

“Die Sache, wird Unterscharführer geklärt,” he clarified. “Einigen Partisanen ist von den Briten im Vorbeigehen als Deutsche geholfen worden, ich muss sicherstellen, dass ich die Soldaten zu ihren Todesfällen aus solch einem dummen Grund während der Erlaubnis nicht bringen werde,” he continued, explaining the necessity to be cautious around soldiers who not only would be speaking a different language but who would also appear rather foreign-looking; the instances of the enemies disguising as soldiers of the Third Reich had not been few. “Ich bin Dirk Riedel, 21. Panzer Abteilung,” he introduced himself, and stretched out his hand to shake the men’s hands; his grasp was firm and hard. Though Dirk was mostly persuaded of the verity in their words and documents he would still keep his eyes open, his vigilance intact and his suspicions razor-sharp, prepared to take action lest the situation proves these two were not being exactly, well, trustworthy. For a person to gain Dirk’s ultimate trust a time of difficulty and painstaking proof was required, for the Leutnant’s nature was thus untamed and rough. Once Davidson asked whether he would prefer to go inside with his friend, Dirk placed the glass of beer on the side table against the balcony’s wall after taking a large mouthful, and then shook his head. “Ich werde draußen für jetzt bleiben,” he said, as he supported his weight against the balcony’s metal plate, looking curiously within the room. “Die Luft ist innen zu dick.”

Laughter was heard, some plates falling on the floor, which was met with more barking laughter and then a gasp, momentarily followed by a girlish, high-pitched screech as one of the women was suddenly pulled off her feet by a German soldier as though she were only as light as a feather, and then carried around the room upon his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, the Unteroffizier’s hands holding her tightly from the backside with a huge grin on his face, and walked up the staircase that led to the rooms upstairs, his friends wolf-whistling after him. Another Mars was salivating over another Venus who shoved the paper of money within her rich bosom, smirked at him and literally glued herself against his strong and muscled frame while one or two satyrs were staring at him with jealousy in their eyes. Dirk smiled, entertained, and turned to Davidson. “Sie scheinen sich zu amüsieren,” he commented with a growing smile, and then pulled a cigarette case from his front pocket, proceeding to ignite a cigarette and take a deep drag from it, feeling the cold air bite against his face. “Sie sagten immer, dass französische Frauen auch … nützlich waren,” he politely put it. “Jetzt sehe ich für mich selbst das ist wahr. Schauen Sie auf sie.” He blew the smoke into the surrounding atmosphere. “Sie mögen Frankreich, Davidson?” he then asked the man. “Sie mögen französische Frauen?” he added with a smile, while his steel-green eyes stared inside the room from that distance as a pretty French girl was laughing at the stories two Germans were telling her.



Translation

Strange.

I heard of the events in the Winter War. Respect to you, gentlemen. Your mothers should be proud.

The matter is cleared, Unterscharführer. A few partisans have been aided by the British in passing as Germans, I have to make sure I won’t lead the soldiers to their deaths for such a stupid reason during leave.

I am Dirk Riedel, 21st Panzer Division.

I will stay outside for now. The air inside is too thick.

They seem to be enjoying themselves. They always said French women were too … helpful. Now I see for myself this is true. Look at them. Do you like France, Davidson? Do you like French women?

[Fredrick Davidson]

As the waitress mostly dressed in a red skirt stopped at the nosing Leutnant, Tähti‘s mouth watered and he stared lustfully at her. Then he noticed the beers, one of which she handed to the Wehrmacht officer. Kimmo would had liked a drink himself, but he had spent his last pfennig for another 15 minutes inside. And before he could try to bring up alternative payment, the woman left like all women in his life to give nourishment to other, wealthier men. With no drink in his hand, money in his wallet, or lady in his lap, Tähti had nothing to do but sit there, and fidget like a distracted schoolboy attempting to be taught algebra as his friend the SS-Unterscharführer babbled with the Leutnant in the gibberish language. He tried to focus on their strange words, and although the champagne he had shared with the 2nd girl, the one with the blood red lipstick and matching hair dye who thought that because he shouted in English with his American accent, that he was a cowboy and a gangster, plus the vodka on the balcony, made concentrating difficult, Kimmo was pretty sure the busybody had mentioned ‘Partisans‘. He had heard of that word plenty of times before, mostly in German stories Rick translated for him, but he wasn’t completely sure what it meant. At best, it meant plain Freedom Fighters, something all Finns could admire, at worst, the word was supposed to evoke the Germans’ hatred for 5th Columnist Jewish Communists. And although the good old Lutheran boy had nothing against Jews, Bolsheviks made his alcohol drenched blood boil. So the drunk Rottenfuhrer’s first thought was that the officer was at the very least grouping Rick and himself with those cowardly communist traitors. His second was to find his bottle shard and mess up the Lt’s strangely appealing face. But before he could show that perfectly crafted bastard why the Russians haven‘t marched through Helsinki, without saying an understandable word, Rick diffused the situation.

“"Ich verstehe, die Kommunisten können nicht Regeln der Verpflichtung umfassen. Ihr Erziehen macht sie Tiere, die nur angreifen können, und wenn das, Schwindler versagt. Wir alle müssen auf dem Ausguck sein." Obviously, it wasn’t the nonsense words that calmed Kimmo, it was the manner that they slipped out of his superior’s lips; calm, reasonable, quick, but patient to show that he understood the gibberish the Leutnant spoke, who then said something about the panzers and stuck out his hand. Tähti wasn’t sure that it wasn’t along the lines of, “the ladies call me panzer hands” and had second thoughts of whenever or not to grab it, but again Fred led by example, and Kimmo followed suit. While the Unterscharführer’s handshake was firm, and authoritive, like gripping a loaded revolver that was pointed towards your own head, Tähti’s was sloppy and loose, he was starting to lose the only war he ever did, the one for control of his own gross motor skills. Even by just leaning forward he almost fell out of his bench.

““Here, Kimmo, have another go and let the adults talk. Mocte sic uner newer fred innoen anschlien?” Surprised, at the sudden switches in language, it took Kimmo a few seconds to figure out that most of what Rick had just said was in English. “I’m going to stay out here, take in Normandy.” He eventually figured it out though and after grabbing the stacks of cash, with one eyebrow raised at the Lt’s possibly disgusting comment, Kimmo Tähti slipped back into the smokey building to see how fast he could get the stack of cash blown.


Over the music and German and French chitchat that filtered out onto the balcony, the echo of smashing dishes accented Kimmo’s entrance back into the building, and there was little doubt in Rick Davidson’s mind that his drunken friend had caused the china to crash. He was about to rush in to Kimmo’s aide and again sort out whatever mess the barely Finnish American had caused, but through the open doors Rick was relieved to see a Wehrmacht uniform excessively horsing around with the women. Davidson could relax, for the moment.

“Sie sagten immer, dass französische Frauen auch … nützlich waren,” Rick nodded in agreement to Dirk’s words, and watched as the officer lit a cigarette. The puffs of smoke he exhaled remind the Unterscharführer of a time, long ago, before the various wars he had so far lived through.

Back in America, like most people, Rick smoked, his personal choice was a brand of short, foul smelling cigars that brought up thoughts of cowboys and the freedom of the open range. But when he signed up to fight for Finnish freedom, he decided to kick the habit. Not only was it difficult to find the American brand in Europe, but cigars were a distraction, a variable, that Fredrick’s body did not need, and the only way he could hope to survive against the Soviet onslaught was to keep himself at his peak.

But still, Davidson followed the trails of smoke longingly as Dirk spoke. Apparently, although Riedel no longer thought that Davidson was a spy, the Finn was still not good enough for the German to offer him a smoke. A lesser man, or Kimmo, would have brought this up, but Freddy was used to this sort of thing from his ‘fellow soldiers‘. No matter how much they shouted and rattled their sabers against the Communists, eventually the Germans would always show that Nazi meant National Socialist, and all socialist societies were the same. Somehow the regimes turned their citizens into children. Greedy, foolish, always pushing and yelling, never thinking about other people. But with all of their childish antics, the one foolish move Germany had not made so far was attack Finland. Rick had firsthand experience with the Nazi’s war machine, and even with the setbacks of the past 2 years, they could still take on the world, and win easily. As long as they didn’t stab Finland in the back. If they ever attempted where their estranged socialist brethren failed, trying to rape Finland of it’s freedom, Hitler would be signing his death wish. Fredrick Davidson would make sure of that.

“Sie mögen Frankreich, Davidson?” Dirk asked, unaware of his companion‘s innermost thoughts..

"Es nahm Deutschland 2 Monate, um Frankreich zu überwinden, wenn es allein von Frauen und Kindern, jedes Land bevölkert wird, das sich ergibt, ist es Freiheit so schnell ist nicht ein ich würde seit mehr dann ein paar Tagen besuchen wollen." This was the truth, but these words did not leave Fredrick’s lips. Another thing about Germans he had learned by serving next to them was that the concept of freedom was foreign and confusing. And when a German became confused they usually became violent, so Rick only answered Riedel’s next question, about French women.

"Französische Frauen? Sie sind nützlich, aber zu einfältig, für irgendetwas mehr dann ein Nachttisch zu leicht. Oder eine 60 Minute steht mit Frauen hier. Für mich, um im Stande zu sein, jede Art der Beziehung mit ihnen zu bauen, würde eine Frau unabhängig, eigensinnig aber nicht zu anmaßend sein müssen, sonst wird sie gerade ärgerlich werden."

--Translations--

"Ich verstehe, die Kommunisten können nicht Regeln der Verpflichtung umfassen. Ihr Erziehen macht sie Tiere, die nur angreifen können, und wenn das, Schwindler versagt. Wir alle müssen auf dem Ausguck sein."

“I understand, the communists can’t comprehend rules of engagement. Their upbringing makes them animals that can only attack, and when that fails, cheat. We all need to be on the lookout.”


"Es nahm Deutschland 2 Monate, um Frankreich zu überwinden, wenn es allein von Frauen und Kindern, jedes Land bevölkert wird, das sich ergibt, ist es Freiheit so schnell ist nicht ein ich würde seit mehr dann ein paar Tagen besuchen wollen."

“It took Germany 2 months to conquer France, unless it’s populated solely by women and children, any country that surrenders it’s freedom so quickly is not one I would want to visit for more then a few days.”


"Französische Frauen? Sie sind nützlich, aber zu einfältig, für irgendetwas mehr dann ein Nachttisch zu leicht. Oder eine 60 Minute steht mit Frauen hier. Für mich, um im Stande zu sein, jede Art der Beziehung mit ihnen zu bauen, würde eine Frau unabhängig, eigensinnig aber nicht zu anmaßend sein müssen, sonst wird sie gerade ärgerlich werden."

“French women? They are helpful, but too simpleminded, too easy, for anything more then a one night stand. Or a 60 minute stand with a women here. For me to be able to build any kind of relationship with them, a woman would have to be independent, headstrong but not too overbearing, otherwise she’ll just get annoying.”

[Dirk Riedel]

From the very handshake and the general conduct of both men Dirk could immediately understand the difference of nature between the two soldiers, revealing one being that of a strong entity bearing early signs of masculine authority easily accompanied by a collected, controlled sense of duty and a decent amount of honour as well as thoughtfulness, the other being that of an impassioned, negligent boozer who was useful only in the areas of warfare but remained rather boorish and irresponsible outside this realm. Dirk did not exactly form the best opinion of the man called Kimmo Tähti, but then again she was completely indifferent to him, instead offering her attention back to the younger soldier who appeared to be more of the mature, responsible type she preferred to be around with. Once Tähti retreated into the room, she returned her curious glance to the brown-haired man and inspected him closely, a pair of grey-green eyes staring at him with shrewd calmness, her glance dominated by a cold calculation, listening to his words, focused and attentive. She smiled. “So bevorzugen Sie Tiere, die greifen nicht nur an aber … auch Dichtung während der Erlaubnis lesen?” she asked him, her tone lacking the offensively mocking touch it perhaps ought to have been characterized by, instead tinted with shades of lawful, friendly charade. “Sie haben eine fremde Definition des Krieges, Davidson. Ein unorthodoxer aber … ein interessanter, noch,” she finished with a smile, and then tilted her head backwards as she drank from her glass of beer, feeling the cold liquid wash down her dry throat refreshingly.

Some gruff noises and china shattered later, closely followed by female cries of laughter, Tähti was causing a ruckus inside the room and having the time of his life, no less. Dirk ignored such disturbance, now appreciating the soldier’s remarks on French women, her attention by now utterly devoted to him once he proclaimed to prefer those of an independent nature and strength of character, something quite rare in these times they lived in. How Dirk disliked the French; they were useless, pathetic and not to be trusted with anything deviating from the life of occupying a beauty parlour. They simply wasted too much time making their little philosophies, about food, about women, drinking their fine French wine. They were not warriors, just gardeners, wine makers, salon keepers, poodle breeders and hairdressers. She would have never shared the barracks with a Frenchman, let alone a bed. She believed the only fault with French people was that, well, they were so French. “Wie Napoleon hat das gesagte, Frankreich mehr Bedürfnis nach mir, als ich Bedürfnis nach Frankreich habe. Geben Sie eine Schrotflinte einem Franzosen, und er wird gerade wissen, wie man es bumsen wird. Erwarten Sie nicht mehr nicht,” she derided in distaste, and then remained silent for a few moments as she slightly tilted her head to the side and watched him closely. Her eyes shone from the flickering lights in the balcony, as a smile rose in her lips. “Ich kenne jemanden, der Ihre Meinungen persönlich hören möchte. Vielleicht sollten Sie sie eines Tages treffen.”

And she drew out her hand, offering him her cigarette. It was not the momentary longing expression she had seen in his eyes as she had lit it, nor the fact she attempted to be friendly. In her own way, it was a peace treaty, signifying she now considered him an equal, for he had won her over his side with his different perspective on women, the responsibility showcased in each action and word spoken, the depth of maturity that easily silenced her. She smiled as she stretched out her hand with the cigarette, but there was no time for more appreciation even as he received her gesture, for one of the women came from inside the room and walked right in front of them, carrying a large bottle of whiskey in her hands, the curtain of her almond-brown hair falling down her pale shoulders in loose curls and wearing nothing more but an expression of mild serenity as she stopped a few inches away from them, tilted her head back and took a swig from the bottle in self-satisfaction; when she returned her drunken gaze to them, trickles of whiskey was running down her chin, across her neck and travelling through the white lands of her uncovered bodice, smiling smugly at them.

Dirk looked at her curiously, but the next moment the other woman closed the distance between them and forced the bottle on her mouth unexpectedly; blinking at first, Dirk grabbed it with her right hand and tilted her head backwards in a smooth move, submitting to the request, much to the prostitute’s pleasure, whose black eyes widened in anticipation and whose smile spread across her blood-red lips as she watched the Leutnant drink down from her little gift. Eventually, Dirk pulled away from the drink, now half empty (or perhaps half full?), and stared back at the young girl; she slightly furrowed her eyes and then smirked at her in sheer amusement. At that point, however, Venus de Milo snatched the bottle from Dirk’s hands and furiously crushed it against the metal plate across the balcony, whence it broke into a thousand pieces either flying off to different directions or falling down on the floor. With her arms uncrossed, and stealing a glance towards Davidson to observe his reaction, Dirk looked back at the girl with never-failing curiosity as the fille de joie pulled her hands around both of them and brought the three of them together, in the same way sports players did in concentration before the match, her head colliding with the temples of each. “Nous ne parlons pas ici. Nous ne parlons pas. Et vous deux conversation trop,” she mumbled at them in quick, drunken French, laughing.


Translation

So you prefer animals that don’t only attack but … also read poetry during leave? You have a strange definition of war, Davidson. An unorthodox but … an interesting one, still.

Like Napoleon said … France has more need of me than I have need of France. Give a shotgun to a Frenchman and he’ll just know how to fuck it. Don’t expect any more.

I know someone who would like to hear your opinions in person. Maybe you should meet her someday.

We don’t talk here. We don’t talk. And you two talk too much.

[Fredrick Davidson]

“So bevorzugen Sie Tiere, die greifen nicht nur an aber … auch Dichtung während der Erlaubnis lesen? Sie haben eine fremde Definition des Krieges, Davidson. Ein unorthodoxer aber … ein interessanter, noch

Germans, they just don’t understand. “Wir sind nicht…” ((We are not…))[/b] the words were sour but Rick knew that he had to choose his phrasing carefully, or else the German might decide that he was a partisan, again, “tiere, wir sind Männer. Männer wissen wann, anzugreifen, wann die Linie zu halten, oder wann, zu flankieren. Einige kennen sogar Dichtung. ” ((animals, we are men. Men know when to attack, when to hold the line, when to flank. Some even know poetry.))

Riedel seemed to be like most German soldiers. Paranoid, rude, bigoted, obedient to high-ranking Germans to a fault, racist, and ill-mannered. When he had first volunteered Rick may have been blind to his “comrades‘” imperfections, and thought of them as the gallant heroes they tried to portray, but time had soured his opinion.

But still Fred did have chuckle, although softly, to his companion’s shotgun pun. It was true after all, although bad taste to tell it in a French brothel. Still, this moment of humor was not enough to change his opinion of the Leutnant. And still, for some reason, snubbing the Finn of a cigarettes still rubbed Rick the wrong way. It was the main thing he continued to think of as Riedel spoke.

“Ich kenne jemanden, der Ihre Meinungen persönlich hören möchte. Vielleicht sollten Sie sie eines Tages treffen.”

Probably the stereotypical German woman, two sizes larger then her husband and only enough room in her head for thoughts of food, cleaning, and making babies to serve Germany. For a place of enjoyable recreation, Rick realized Dirk was giving him bad thoughts, and it was about time to depart from the soldier, and come into the company of the fairer sex.

“Gut ich…” ((Well I)) Fredrick stopped mid sentence and his eyes tensed up into a squint as he stared over to the Leutnant, who‘s arm was now outreached to Fred, offering the cigarette. The Finn cautiously grabbed it and kept his puzzled gaze towards his companion while he took a deep breath of the ashy German smoke. It was weaker then he was used to, but it was the first tobacco he had tasted in years, and the calming nicotine was quite pleasant. Still though, the last thing the world needed were psychic Germans.

2 puffs to prevent him from antagonizing Riedel, and Rick would return it before giving his goodbye, that was his plan. But before he exhaled, a woman and a whiskey bottle suddenly appeared in their personal space. Rick’s eyes took the long way to get to the professional’s face as she showed off her talents on the bottle. Then it seemed she suddenly noticed the two of them. After only a quick glance to the Finn, she put her attention to Riedel, apparently Rick wasn’t her type. For a moment, Fred lost his displeasure against Dirk, and to the Finn, the latter became just another soldier being force fed whiskey by a French prostitute.

And then, when he was finished, came the customary smashing of the bottle that Rick had to sigh and roll his eyes at. She looked like she was completely wasted, maybe even on something stronger then whiskey. With uncoordinated, jerky movement, she tried to pull the two soldiers in near for her to whisper. But, after bumping their foreheads together, her native tongue only fell upon the deaf ears of Fredrick, who could not understand French.

“Nous ne parlons pas ici. Nous ne parlons pas. Et vous deux conversation trop,” she laughed as she crouched in the huddle, “Vous a deux jamais ont éprouvé la Tour Eiffel?” ((Have you two ever experienced the Eiffel Tower?))

A few words among the nonsense did intrigued the Finn, however, “Eiffel Tower?” he asked. Rick didn’t realize they were close enough to Paris to see the famous landmark. But the woman’s nodding and nonsensical clucking told him yes, while her hand gestures explained that she would show them for money. Fred thought the cash request was odd for something that should be easily seen, although perhaps they were far enough away that you could only see it in by being in a special spot, perhaps the old church’s bell tower. And Fredrick would be a fool not to try to see it when he could, only God knew if he would ever be in France again, this was just a one time mission. So, as he stood up, he tried to explain to the professional, in German, that he would take her up on her offer, but first he had to get some money from a friend. She seemed to understand, and again turned her attention to Dirk while Rick entered the brothel.

Over the general sounds of music, laughing, and shouts of joy, Fredrick could clearly hear one voice above the rest as he entered the busy bar filled with soldiers that were not only trying to give German goodwill to the French civilians, but also syphilis.

“Don’t worry babe, I just came off the Eastern Front and the cold acts as a sterilization.” Kimmo said while resting his head on the lap of a woman wearing the same uniform as the rest of the main occupants. He looked over with disinterest when he noticed Rick had arrived, “Not now Ricksy, I’m trying something different.”

“I just need some of the money I gave you,” Rick spoke through clenched teeth, but then pulled the cigarette from his lips, “This French woman is going to show the Leutant and I the Eiffel Tower”

Suddenly, Tähti was interested, and he sat straight up and started to play with his moustache, muttering, “The Leutant? Eiffel Tower?” “Huhuh huhuhuh” he laughed as he stood up and pulled his French companion up over his shoulder, causing the woman to break out in uncontrollable laughter, but not before grabbing the remaining full bottle of calvados and taking it with her as Kimmo carried her upside down back out into the balcony. Surprised no one around them paid any attention to what happened, Rick took another breath from the cigarette now back between his teeth, and then followed.

After climbing the few steps back to the familiar patio, Fredrick only caught a glimpse of Kimmo entering one of the bedrooms before the wild card closed the door behind him, although Rick could still hear him shout what sounded like “Would you like me to do to you what Russia failed to do to Finland?”

Still without money, and unsure what happened to Riedel and her prostitute, Rick sat down at a table beside Kimmo’s girl, who quickly moved to his lap and took his cigarette for herself. He in turn took a swig of her brandy. Was wissen Sie um den Eiffel Turm?” ((What do you know about the Eiffel Tower?))[/b] he asked, and her answer came in the form of a four fingered slap to the face.

[Dirk Riedel]

The Leutnant could have smiled at the man’s beliefs of war and people, his more sensible and sensitive perspective communicating the existence of a more gentle soul, and Dirk was affectionately reminded of her brother, but then there was no time to appreciate the interesting opinions of the SS-Unterscharführer as the fille de joie had approached them. The beautiful Venus observed them both slowly through her bright, dark blue drunken eyes, her hands resolutely grasping each from the shoulders. “Vous êtes tous les deux si beaux,” she said in her slow, bacchanalian voice, completely mesmerized by the two men before her, and yet there was something cheap and unaffecting in her crapulous fondness for them, while a smirk surfaced in the corner of Dirk’s lips at the mention of the Eiffel Tower; Davidson’s question was never answered and instead the prostitute continued, “Toussez en haut, alors. Vingt francs.” Dirk returned her glance to Davidson as he walked away from them, possibly on a mission to gather coins for the Eiffel, and the Leutnant could already foresee certain technical problems in this escapade of theirs. The girl stared at the man next to her, her eyes glinting as she stumbled towards him.

“Où votre ami est-il allé?” she asked the Leutnant, but Dirk merely pulled another cigarette from his packet and lit it, drawing in deeply and glancing at the sight before him with vague interest. He spoke no French, but the girl’s question was a little more than obvious.

“Ihnen, Sie schmutzige Hure zu bezahlen.”

And though the prostitute spoke no German either, she caught the word ‘Hure’, as combined with the man’s contemptuous tone and his reverting of gaze, as though believing he was to catch syphilis by simply looking at her – and her eyebrows furrowed as she further irritably stumbled on her feet to get closer to him. “Je connais des hommes comme vous,” she told him in quick, angry, drunken French. “Vous croyez que vous êtes au-dessus des simples soldats … parce qu’à la différence d’eux … à la différence d’eux vous nous trouvez ainsi … ainsi au-dessous de vous – ainsi sans classe!” she spat at him with resentment. “Si bon marché! Mais à la fin du jour … je serai celui auquel vous courrez. Vous savez pourquoi? Parce que vous et moi sommes inventés de la même connerie! Vous luttez pour une cause vous ne pouvez pas même comprendre, obéir à certains crétins qui vous donnent des ordres et ne donnent pas un fichu si vous mourez – vous savez pourquoi? Parce qu’ils ont leur gras selves tous agréables et sûrs, avec leur complet stomachs de foie gras comme ils vous regardent donner votre haleine pour un peu de guerre shitty – je me vends pour les gens comme vous pour deux ou trois pièces vaines. Remarquez une différence … mon jouet de garçon? Parce que je … ne fais pas mais sûrement.”

Dirk turned his glance to the girl, his forehead slightly wrinkled and looking at her curiously. “Sie wissen zu viele lange Wörter für den Volksrube, der Sie sind,” he simply responded. But the girl had neither understood nor heard his words, partially drowned in a world of her own as she closed the distance between them and grabbed his opened collar, thin fingers twirling around the shirt underneath as she pulled the man towards her direction, her drunken eyes inviting, her lips opened as she began to hum an indistinct tune under her breath, walking backwards and slowly pulling the Leutnant along with her. Dirk did not oppose – acting the part of being a man both physically and mentally – but merely looked at her curiously, her figure curving from one side to the next as she moved with the slow music, the dancing shape, the appearance of her as another Aphrodite of Milos which would characterize her with features of virginal liberty if, by any chance, she were not, well, a cheap whore. Her back touched against a door situated in the corner and the next thing Dirk knew was the brisk creak that was never heard above the music as he shut the door behind him.

“Quel est votre nom, monsieur Arrogant?” the girl asked him, now standing a few metres away as the dark crimson light fell upon and enhanced her features, the nude bosom, the white and wavy livery she wore around her waist in the form of a sarong, the same smooth material Aphrodite would be seen wearing, if at all, in all those paintings; Dirk leaned against the door leisurely, smoking his cigarette, and gazed at her for long. “Friedrich? Non, c’était l’autre cochon plus tôt – mais j’ai donné une claque à ce sanglier stupide, ses mains ont travaillé comme un carburateur! Hendrik? Non, Hendrik était un imbécile si trop idéaliste, sirupeux. Je suis à bout des noms allemands, dites-moi ainsi,” she spoke in her crazy, drunken voice – and Dirk could not make head nor tail of anything she spoke whatsoever, except for the first sentence.

“Dirk,” he said. “Es ist Dirk.”

“Il est–un–que?” she asked quickly, blinking.

The Leutnant sighed wearily. “Dirk”.

“Derque,” the girl slowly pronounced, and slightly tilted her head to the side in mild confusion. Dirk frowned, all he could think of being how he had taken all this trouble and suffering to be where he was, just so in return to be rewarded by having a French hooker pronounce his name like it was some fucking beauty salon. Well … he would drink to that. It seemed, however, the prostitute had thought of this earlier, for she strode to the small wooden rickety table against the wall and grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine that was soon glued to her lips as she stumbled back to him, her head tilted backwards while drinking at the same time; then, she laughed at him, and in an animalistic way wiped the wine that had tainted her mouth red, slowly trickling down her neck and across her open bosom, as she approached him and slung one arm around his waist.

“Sie sind zu viel betrunken, legen Sie das weg,” the Leutnant said, and in a quick movement stretched his arm and thrust the bottle away from her hand, to which she passionately protested – “Non!” she screeched, fighting against him as she attempted to pull the bottle with all her might, despite how hopeless it was. “Legen Sie das weg!” Dirk commanded in a military tone, and yet the lass proved deaf to his order, for she struggled in small whimpers against his frame, insanely, bitterly and still willingly, but Dirk simply snatched firm hold of it and put it out of her sight. “Non!” she cried angrily, her chest heaving up and down. “Je n’ai pas dit! Derque, vous et moi avons un grand problème de communication, mon bonbon,” she informed him, and once she calmed down, her gaze fell upon the door. “Mais où est votre ami?” she demanded impatiently. “J’ai cru qu’il a voulu connaître la Tour Eiffel en personne.”

Dirk sighed, quickly catching on the meaning of her words as she mentioned the Eiffel Tower once again, and wished to make a few things quite clear. “Ich sorge mich über den Eiffel Turm nicht, ich sorge mich über die Londoner Scheißbrücke nicht – ich gebe einen verdammten nicht, wenn Sie ihm die ägyptischen Pyramiden zeigen, was für Ihr Name ist – ”

“Emmanuelle.”

“Was?” he asked in confusion, frowning at the sudden inexplicable interruption.

“Emmanuelle,” the girl repeated softly, and there was something genuine in her drunken eyes as she spoke the word, perhaps fond of the fact there was a soldier – as she perceived it in her current state – who desired to know her name.

Dirk remained quiet for one or two seconds, his eyebrows slightly furrowed at her abrupt change of facial expression. “Gut … Emmanuelle … ist es ein schöner Name, aber –” But then he knew not what happened, for the harlot had eagerly jumped to his side and glued her crimson, wine-spilt crescent bows against his own – perhaps it had formerly started as a surge of affection from the fact the young girl had, wrongly and due to her inebriated state as well as the communication problems, perceived how the German soldier not only had desired to know her name but also did so out of a purer intention than the ones her other companions usually harboured – but then it turned into bitter hatred as though he and the rest of his kind were the sole reason of her current situation, that without the invasion she would have been something else, something better, and so she hatefully bit him, and Dirk, taken aback by her reaction altogether and unable to do anything until now, pulled away as he felt small stains of blood trickling down his mouth.

A high-pitched, insane fit of laughter escaped her lips at having caused him pain such as the one she had experienced, but Dirk was hardly concerned about her foolish, impulsive actions as much as she was about the fact the girl, in her highly intoxicated state, was singing a song, jumbling words together, stumbling around the place and laughing wildly at the same time, the man frowning as he listened to the words, words that oddly sounded like –

“Sind Sie … singend ein sowjetisches Lied?” he asked her slowly, narrowing his eyebrows.

Having mysteriously caught on the word ‘soviet’, the woman simply teased, “Peut-être … peut-être non. Je suis assez communiste pour partager cette pièce avec vous,” she purred, his lack of comprehension notwithstanding, and came back to him, gripping her claws onto his torso, but he hatefully forced them away. “Vous cochon arrogant!” she screamed at him in rage but he had had enough of her whims – he snatched her from the waist and crushed her with her front against the wall as his frame grazed against her back, her head forced to stay on the side, his hands imposing her arms up on the wall. “Hören Sie mir, Sie schmutzige Hure zu,” he spat at her. “Sie wimmern über Ihre Situation, aber das ist ein verdammter Palast verglichen damit, was ich in der Vorderseite habe miterleben müssen. Ich sollte Sie in den Gräben werfen, dann würden Sie wissen, welcher echter Schmerz ist! Mindestens werden Sie bezahlt für etwas wie das! Ich werde bezahlt, töten zu lassen und mein Scheißleben zu vergeuden, Sie trampeln!”

And she merely laughed at him.

“Oh, das ist komisch, nicht wahr?” he whispered in a hissing tone as he let her turn around in laughs – and once she did, a groan of pain escaped her mouth as his hand struck against her face and threw it to the side, meaning teach her dense, spineless kind not to laugh at the brave soldiers who were fighting for their Fatherland. Touching her cheek with her hand, she shot him a hateful glance and then ran to the door, entering the brothel’s main room. The soldiers turned around to look at her with confused faces, some women shook their heads in secret knowledge, and the girl merely stumbled around the couples, singing loudly in an off-key voice that covered the music presently played on the gramophone.

“Be healthy, live well! Chase the damn fascists away from your huts!” she shouted insanely in Russian, Leonid Utyosov’s famous propaganda song in the Soviet Union, as she circled around the dozens of men inside the room, until she found her beau, her second companion, the one who had walked away earlier and stumbled towards his direction, her arms glued against his shoulders as her eyes, wide open, sang the words for him in pungent loathing, in disordered revenge. “Chase those bandits, shoot them, beat them!” she screeched furiously, and laughed manically. “Spare neither bombs nor weapons for them! Chase those bandits, shoot them, beat them! Spare neither bombs nor weapons for them!” she screamed at him, while Dirk watched from the near distance, the small dribbles of blood dried in his mouth as an Unteroffizier approached him, asking him if he were all right. The Leutnant briskly nodded. “Sie ist ein Scheißkommunist,” he muttered. The Unteroffizier was surprised, but then he nodded curtly and went to inform the rest of his group. And soon enough, the whole room knew of the girl’s true allegiance. “Sie ist ein Kommunist!” the men barked in rage, and circled around her like predators ready to swallow their prey as the women looked at one another in fear. And all that was heard inside the room for the following moments was the men’s loud, wild demands as they glared down at the drunken girl, were the same words, again and again.

“Schlagen Sie sie! Klatschen Sie sie! Klopfen Sie sie! Schießen Sie den huren Linken!”


Translation

You are both so beautiful. Cough up, then. Twenty francs.

Where did your friend go?

To pay you, you filthy whore.

I know men like you. You think you are above the common soldiers … because unlike them … unlike them you find us so … so beneath you – so without class! So cheap! But at the end of the day … I’ll be the one you’ll be running to. You know why? Because you and I are made up from the same crap! You fight for a cause you can’t even understand, obey some morons who order you around and don’t give one damn if you die – you know why? Because they have their fat selves all nice and secure, with their stomachs full of foie gras as they watch you give your breath for some shitty war – I sell myself for people like you for a couple of worthless coins. Notice any difference … my boy toy? Because I … for sure don’t.

You know too many long words for the uneducated rube you are.

What is your name, Mister Arrogant? Friedrich? No, that was the other pig earlier – but I slapped that stupid boar, his hands worked like a carburettor! Hendrik? No, Hendrik was such a starry-eyed, syrupy fool. I’m running out of German names, so tell me.

Dirk. It’s Dirk.

It’s-a-what?

Dirk.

Derque?

You’re too drunk, put that away.

No!

Put that away!

No! I said no! Derque, you and I have a big communication problem, my sweet. But where is your friend? I thought he wanted to experience the Eiffel Tower in person.

I don’t care about the Eiffel Tower, I don’t care about the fucking London Bridge – I don’t give a damn if you show him the Egyptian pyramids, whatever your name is –

Emmanuelle.

What?

My name is Emmanuelle.

Well … Emmanuelle … that’s a beautiful name, but –

Are you … singing a Soviet song?

Maybe … maybe not. I’m communist enough to share this room with you. You arrogant pig!

Listen to me, you filthy whore. You whine about your situation, but this is a damn palace compared to what I’ve had to live through in the front. I should throw you in the trenches, then you’d know what real pain is! At least you’re getting paid for something like this! I’m getting paid to get myself killed and waste my fucking life, you tramp!

Oh, it’s funny, isn’t it?

She’s a fucking communist.

She is a communist!

Hit her! Slap her! Beat her! Shoot the whoring leftist!

[Fredrick Davidson]

“Would you like me to do to you what Russia failed to do to Finland?” Kimmo Tähti shouted as he entered into the noisy room Rick had rented for the night, but he quickly realized that it was void of any sexy times. This annoyed the Finn, and he returned to Rick, the brandy, and his whore in a sour mood, made worst by the Frenchie’s response to an innocent question involving her, a particular landmark, and the only two men in the brothel that truly knew the price of freedom.

Kimmo rubbed his cheek as he watched the woman leave the well used cigarette on the table as she stormed off. Next time he’d make sure to pay after she served her purpose, so to make sure she doesn’t run off with his money when they run off in horror. For Kimmo, it seemed like they all did that, eventually, but this time he didn’t even have to take off his pants.

“I’ll choose our next companions, Kimmo.” Fredrick suggested. It seemed the ones Tähti always found had either the weirdest kinks or the strictest morals. “Oh but yours are so boring,” Kimmo shifted his voice into a high pitch Italian accent, that could have been what he thought Frenchwomen sounded like, ‘No, it’s cold in the street!’ ‘I don’t care if it’s unloaded, get that pistol away from me!’ “Yeah yeah,” was Davidson’s reply, as his friend grabbed the deep red calvados bottle. ”Hey wait. I thought you didn’t drink bran…”

The last syllable froze onto Rick’s tongue, and the bottle hung only a few millimeters from Kimmo’s lips as both men became distracted by a sound. It was a voice, singing out a song over the chitchat that poured from the barroom beneath the Finns. Although the words were muddled and incomprehensible through the rest of the clatter, both soldiers knew what the tune was, and a rage swept over them for not only was it a Soviet propaganda song, but the last time they heard the evil melody they lost a beloved comrade.

For a small lonely garrison in the frozen middle of nowhere Russia, the Soviets in their huts seemed pretty cheerful as they sang songs and warmed themselves with vodka on that dateless night that Unterscharführer Davidson led his platoon on an ambush. Like it had been ever since the Winter War, Rottenführer Tähti was closely followed by Lukas Susi, a young native Finn who had wandered into the American Volunteer camp looking for food, but stayed for the instant friendship with Kimmo. Ever since the Finnish-American had arrived back in the old country, he was a loner, even only speaking with Davidson when he needed a Finnish translator. He basically took Lukas on as a son, for he knew that without him, in the heat of combat, Lukas would probably get himself lost and slowly die of hunger, even though he was probably the most ferocious fighter of the entire platoon.

On that dreadful evening Tähti and Lukas once again led the charge against the Soviet garrison, but in the hut-to-hut fighting soon became separated. Without Kimmo’s supporting fire, his friend bit off more then he could chew, and it was only after the Finns had captured the outpost that they found his lifeless body. That night was the first time Rick saw Kimmo cry.

“LU!” Kimmo shouted out from the balcony and splashed both Fred and himself with alcohol as he shook the bottle towards the heavens. “Quiet down, Kimmo,” his superior tried to use calm words, “This isn’t the place to make a scene.”

Suddenly the source of the music became known to them, as Dirk’s prostitute entered the balcony, singing her traitorous song and followed by a large crowd of soldiers, shouting that she was a Communist. She began to mockily dance around the two foreigners in German uniforms. Already tired of whorish insolence, Fred grabbed her and muttered into her ear, “Ich bin nicht Deutsch , Ich bin Finne“ ((I’m not German, I’m Finnish)) She understood at least half of what he said, and she smiled, expecting leniency. What she got was the back of his hand across her bare flesh with such force that it pushed her into the crowd around them. The slap gave the Germans the nudge to start beating, punching, and kicking her themselves.

“LLLLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUKKKKKAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” Kimmo again shouted and lifted the bottle above his head, but this time, he rushed forward and smashed it against the Communist’s skull. The crowd quickly separated from the now crying body lying in a reddish puddle of blood and brandy. But the Germans soon began to surround her again, thinking that Kimmo was done. He wasn’t.

Kimmo grabbed the still burning cigerette butt from off their table and tossed it towards the commie. The alcohol burst into flames, and she burst into a banshee shriek. Again the crowd rushed away from her, allowing her to hobble to the balcony and leapt down to the ground floor. The Germans crowded the second floor handrail, trying to watch as she rushed off . The crowd was so tight that by the time Kimmo and Fred pushed their way to the front, the whore was gone, hidden in the empty city. Kimmo could only spit onto the burn mark now on the stone floor and walk sullen back into the bar, while Rick lowered his head and nodded to himself, disappointed in Kimmo, not only because he caused such a horrific scene, but also because he didn’t kill her completely.

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

Moderation Post:

The foll9owing CP has been issued:

Riedel - 10CP

Davidson - 9CP

-JT