Grey in Green

[Dirk Riedel]

Country: Libya, North Africa
Current Time: 21.00, April 1941
Weather: A light breeze has surrounded the city of Libya that spring’s evening, but the air is rather warm at 17 degrees.


It was a truth universally acknowledged, that every man in possession of a good moustache must be in want of a wife.

The superior, commissioned officers dressed in the finely decorated and tailored military uniforms of the Wehrmacht stood in the room with the grandeur and gratification of a dog having just been fed a particularly good meal which was in their position translated as a triumph and a victory against those filthy rats that dared bear illusions on a possible feat of dominance across the land of the endless deserts and the undying sun; in the glory of those days, despite the often burdensome, exhausting and strenuous circumstances and battle conditions, they were nevertheless fulfilled, content and optimistic for the future. Most of the superiors – who were in fact freshly shaved - were married to women they had left behind, but few of them, the older ones, fancied dancing to some charming Italian ladies living in North Africa due to its long-time governance by Italian administrators; and though in battle they proved superb masterminds, in these rare events of leisure they winsomely imposed their presence upon them through the calibre of rank and superiority of skill. Friederike’s eyes flickered at the strong lights, and she momentarily blinked; there was too much noise, too many people and, frankly, too many dresses, the latter of which she was completely unfamiliar with considering she had not been within close proximity to a woman for a considerable time. Certainly she was accustomed to the general noise and a sizeable amount of people, many of them under her command, but on an entirely different aspect – that of the barracks and the battlefield, which in turn made this event particularly abnormal and uncomfortable for someone who was not social by nature and who, furthermore, disliked these receptions at any rate. She was far from the chirpy, relaxed and exuberant type of woman who would indulge in all sorts of mindless concerns and spend a good many hours upon finalizing her decision for the best dress to dance to Strauss’s waltzes along with awkward, well-fed Generals and arrogant Field Marshals in hopes of an accomplished marriage and a more distinguished standard of living.

But she had come to this event wearing her true face, and that was for several reasons – or perhaps just one, a crucial motivation which justified a sudden change of mind in terms of appearance: she did not want her feminine nature eradicated, already having to come to terms with the possibility of it having been partially extricated by now through years worth of dejection and indifference towards it, adopting a new face, a new background and way of living, by extension a new identity, a new self. Little did she, sadly, care about this nature, feeling the drums of war pumping in her blood vessels and through the marrow of her bone, across her spine and within her heart, but the thought of permanently losing what she once used to be was, in the least, quite upsetting. She had attended most social events in her male physical form whenever her participation as a Leutnant was required – and some times more so in order to keep his soldiers in check and ascertain they would not jump on to extremities – but at this point she had played around with the idea and finalized her decision. There were, without question, numerous dangers crawling around this conclusion but the truth was – the laughable truth was that no one in their right mind would even suspect of such a thing as a woman in cognito fighting in the Wehrmacht, which was a strong enough rationale in itself as to warrant a case of confidence when it came to appearing in her true form, although jeopardy always lurked when one least expected it. For this reason alone she liked to keep a low profile at these events (also recognizing the element of hazard in being identified by her soldiers, although they were usually too drunk at such events to distinguish her from a talking llama), now standing next to a wooden table ornamented with a cloth of red velvet, upon which bottles of wine and beer had been placed; she was curiously overlooking at the crowd assembled since six o’clock that early evening, some of them were dancing while others, usually formed in groups according to rank, were discussing politics, tactics and artillery concerns.

The light of yellow and orange surrounding the room also fell upon her despite the fact she made an effort to stand in the dimmest part with the intention to appear as unproblematic and unconcerned as she possibly could, although she felt strange wearing such an attire after all that time; it almost felt unnatural, almost felt surreal to be wearing it – a knitted, knee-length, black dress made of lacework and almost transparent sleeves which she needed in order to cover her muscled arms or else it would appear strange for a woman to be so well-built; then again her hard, muscular ankles were visible in any case for which reason she had tried to find a garment that had a lower cut but living in a poor country such as this one did not exactly offer a wide variety of options and she was lucky enough the merchant at the market in Tripoli happened to have something of interest to her; and as for the hair, well … that was not exactly hers, now was it? At the worst case she should be asked about this, she would insist the uncalled-for build was accounted by the fact she was working at the Wehrmacht’s auxiliary units, which was perfectly within reason and capacity. Elegant, long dark blonde curls falling down her shoulders, though in her natural hair colour, belonged to a rather craftily placed wig she had acquired some time ago; it also felt strange to her originally shaved, clean-cut skull but she was determined to get used to it at least for this evening. Standing tall and imposing despite her otherwise intentions, with a glass of wine in her crossed hands as she was observing the crowd through a pair of shrewd green eyes, her expression was inscrutable but also rather serious; far from cold, but distant, and guarding.

“Friedrich,” an Oberstleutnant addressed a friend between sipping from his wine, “mit solch einem großen Schnurrbart ich hoffe aufrichtig, dass Sie einen Juden dahinter nicht verbergen!”

The surrounding officers laughed heartily, but the man called Friedrich was left unaffected. “Ein Jude?” he responded with a calm smile. “Sie sollten mehr besorgt sein ich verberge Ihre Frau.” There was another round of laughter, this time accompanied by a very loud “Oho!” and the Oberstleutnant patted his friend on the back, smoking from his pipe and was prepared for a witty comeback, until right at that moment –

“Heil Hitler!”

The Brigadegeneral entered the room and the soldiers immediately clicked their jackboots and gave the distinguished man the common salute in absolute disciplined unison that was quite admirable, if not intimidating; and, in a moment of military instinct, Dirk had raised his hand for the sieg heil in perfect unanimity and clicked on the floor as soon as the face appeared from the door, only that instead of jackboots she was wearing heels and instead of a military uniform she was dressed in female evening garments, something which she had blanked out for that split second – alas, the years of military service were a second nature to her, nevertheless she remained calm and unsmiling as several soldiers turned their heads around, amused, and curiously glanced at her. An officer laughed and gently patted her on her back.

“Wenn alle Frauen des Dritten Reichs solchen Geist hätten, würden unsere Soldaten das sowjetische Russland an einem schnelleren Datum bewegen - dann würden wir Sommerurlaube in Alexandria genießen,” he chuckled, looking rather pleased, and clicked his glass against hers. She curtly nodded her respect to him and then he left, walking towards the officers’ circle. And thus the tactical discussions continued amidst the music and the noise.

“… die 88-Mm-Artillerie-Pistolen haben unsere Leistung außerordentlich verbessert, wir werden im Stande sein, sie aus Cyrenaica innerhalb von ein paar Monat zu zwingen – ”

“Lassen Sie uns zum meisterhaft beleidigenden Plan des Wüste-Fuchss trinken, der uns in Ägypten und die feine Sachkenntnis des Deutsches Afrika Korps stieß,” the Brigadegeneral suddenly said, and they all raised their glasses at the toast. A dominance of masculine authority surrounded the room through their loud voices, and somewhere in the corner Friederike also briefly – and secretly – raised hers with a hefty smirk.




Translation

Friedrich, with such a large moustache I sincerely hope you’re not using it as a Jew hideout!

A Jew? You should be more worried I’m hiding your wife.

If all women of the Third Reich had such spirit our soldiers would prevail upon Soviet Russia at a quicker date – then we would enjoy summer vacations in Alexandria.

… 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 –

Let us drink to the masterly offensive plan of the Desert Fox that pushed us into Egypt and the fine skill of the Deutsches Afrika Korps.

[Rolf Jäger]

The gaze of Rolf Jäger's piercing, steel-grey eyes skipped from one person to another in a casual, almost uninterested manner. Even though taking part in such a gathering was a welcome break to the continuous missions, he did not feel that the party itself was really worthy of him. The young Hauptmann's lips curled into a small sneer and shivers of disgust ran down his spine as the sense of being in a crowd that was completely beneath him grew stronger and stronger. The ranks and decorations of the guests mattered little to him, although somewhere in the deep reaches of his mind he knew that he was, secretly of course, scornful for having to salute his superiors and to addressing them in as respectful tones as possible. As much as he loved the military life for all of it's forwardness and simplicity, he loathed having to conform to the same rules himself - he was used to being treated with respect. Still, he wasn't as foolish as to state his opinions openly and he knew well enough that following the rules was required of him... at least for now. Rolf had plans that stretched far further than working as a mere Gruppenkommandeur in the dusty reaches of Africa - he had the skill and motivation for so much greater things and he was certain that it was merely the matter of time before these people would be bowing and groveling before him.

The Hauptmann tilted his chin up and brought the glass to his lips, savoring the refined taste of the expensive red wine. He was standing in a group of three other officers, but had been disregarding the conversation for quite some time now. The sandy-haired Luftwaffe officer was wearing a full formal dress uniform in dark blue colour, complete with a bow tie (which kept constricting his throat and he only barely managed to resist the temptation to rip it off), a vest and a pair of immaculately shiny black dress shoes. It was all very flashy and impressive, the Germans loved their uniforms, after all, and it all seemed to boost their egos quite extensively. Rolf's ego needed little boosting, but he did admit that the finely tailored uniform was at least worthy of his stature. The man brought his other hand to rest on the pommel of the Luftwaffe ceremonial dagger sheathed on his hip and only barely registered the voices of the other officers standing right next to him.

This little gathering reminded him of the ones he had been forced to suffer through back home, courtesy of his parents. His mother had been dragging him to social events such as this one in the hopes of finding a suitable wife for the young baron, but Rolf had always been bored to death by the tedious discussions and faked smiles and compliments. He still remembered feeling the eyes of his parents burning holes in his back at the tiniest slip of etiquette and the memory was so vivid that he only barely managed to prevent himself from glancing around to make sure someone wasn't staring at him. At first he had agreed to play his part as the polite and well-educated son of the baron, but the charade had soon grown tiresome and he had come up with his own fun little games to occupy his time. These included, but were not limited, to things such as smiling very politely while telling someone that they had a very large nose (reminding Rolf of his horse, of course), spilling a drink down a young woman's cleavage and escaping from a dinner party through the window. It was naturally ludicrous to even assume that such boyish tricks would work in a party full of military officials, but the thought made him feel at least slightly better and an involuntary smirk formed on his lips. He wouldn't mind spilling a drink or two down the cleavages of some of these Italian ladies...

"... Hauptmann Jäger? Was denken Sie?" Oberleutnant Sturmer, a young blonde man in service of the Wehrmacht, was staring at Rolf expectantly with two other members of the group, Hauptmann Obermann and Leutnant Arling. Rolf arched his eyebrow sharply and shook his head, as if he had merely missed this particular question instead of having completely ignored the entire discussion. The Oberleutnant shifted his weight from one foot to another and smiled patiently. "Über Rommel, natürlich," the man clarified and Rolf tilted his head slowly to the side, giving him a small shrug. "Oh, er ist ein großer Held, ein militärisches Genie tatsächlich. Aber ich bin sicher, dass Rommel auch schätzen würde, irgendwo anders anders zu sein, als dieser gottverlassene Drecksloch eines Kontinents." His voice was a low, hoarse growl and the men his company looked somewhat taken back by this open criticism. Even though Rolf had only very recently arrived to Africa with Jagdgeschwader 27, he had learned to loathe the place with all of his heart. He hated the relentless heat, the swarms of flies, the local people and also the lack of comforts he had enjoyed back in Europe, but most of all, he hated the sand. To hell with the sand! It messed with the engines of the fighters, it was in his food, in his hair and inside his clothes. Rolf had even noticed that tiny grains of sand had invaded his wristwatch - something he had not even thought possible.

Having whipped his hatred and disgust both for Africa and all the people inside this room to full fury, the Hauptmann yawned theatrically and with a low and unenthusiastic "excuse me", stepped away from the small group of stunned officers, gulping down the rest of the wine as he strode towards the waiter, his eyes already fixed on a fresh glass of vintage red upon the silver tray. He could at least try and dull his irritation with ample amounts of alcohol. Replacing the empty glass with a filled one, Rolf turned around to observe the people in the room, just in time to spot the Brigadegeneral entering the room. As military code dictated, Rolf saluted the higher ranking officer sharply, the heels of his shoes snapping together loudly. Somewhere in the inner reaches of his mind the perfectly executed salute of every soldier in the room made Rolf feel strangely content and proud, but the feeling was quickly replaced with curiosity and amusement when he spotted one of the female guests mimicking the salute - and quite expertly, one might add. She was an odd sight in the middle of all these German officers and dark-haired Italian women, making Rolf wonder just what she was doing here in Africa. Maybe she was wife of one of the officers here? A daughter, perhaps? One of the auxiliaries, invited by someone of stature because of her agreeable looks? Even from this distance Rolf could spot the very Aryan features of the young woman - a well-defined face, a proud and confident stature, blonde curls falling down her back... Yes, she certainly was different and, as far as Rolf could see, there wasn't anyone accompanying the woman either. What a shame! Rolf certainly should show some manners and see that the lady wasn't feeling too lonely amidst all these people. Who knows... Maybe the night wouldn't be a complete waste, after all.

Rolf's sly smirk was interrupted by the Brigadegeneral's words and replaced by a sneer of disdain when he heard the man proposing a toast to the Afrika Korps. What foolishness! There weren't many Luftwaffe officers in the room in addition to Jäger, but he was sure that all of them regarded the Brigadegeneral's words with scorn - he was acting as if the Afrikakorps had done everything on their own, completely forgetting about the important contributions of the Luftwaffe. What a joke, Rommel stealing the entire show! Desert fox, his ass... Rolf definitely needed to get his mind off these smug Wehrmacht bastards basking in the glory of their fast victories - if he didn't, he was sure he would just smash his glass on the floor and yell for everyone to just shut up. He needed a distraction and as it happened, he was just looking at one.

Quickly running a hand over his sandy hair and tugging at the lapel of his blue mess dress jacket, Rolf cleared his throat and made his way towards the woman as casually as possible. He did not hurry and even exchanged a few cordial nods and quick words with some of the guests, as if he just happened to be headed towards the blonde woman purely by chance - but in reality he had all the subtlety of a German destroyer. Arching an eyebrow at the blonde woman, Rolf anchored himself near her and looked around the woman, an overly surprised expression plastered over his face. "Wer verließ solch ein schönes Ding unbegleitet in der Mitte aller dieser deutschen Offiziere, frage ich mich?" It wasn't exactly the best line for striking up a conversation and Rolf was quite aware of it, but he trusted that his stature and handsome looks would be more than enough to capture the attention of this little fawn. Well... She wasn't very little now that Rolf was standing closer to her and although she was attractive indeed, her posture and the cold shrewdness of her eyes made the Hauptmann forget just what he had been planning to do in the first place. The bewilderment was short-lived, however, and soon the man already tilted his chin up in a gesture of self-confidence and pride.

"Entschuldigen Sie mich, ich muss meine Manieren völlig vergessen haben," Rolf continued in his raspy, low voice. "Hauptmann Rolf Freiherr von Jäger." The man extended his other hand at the woman and smiled a predator's smile, his steel-grey eyes locked on the woman in an almost obtrusive manner as he waited for the woman's reaction.


Translations:

"... Hauptmann Jäger? Was denken Sie?"
"...Hauptmann Jäger? What do you think?"

"Über Rommel, natürlich."
"About Rommel, of course."

"Oh, er ist ein großer Held, ein militärisches Genie tatsächlich. Aber ich bin sicher, dass Rommel auch schätzen würde, irgendwo anders anders zu sein, als dieser gottverlassene Drecksloch eines Kontinents."
"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."

"Wer verließ solch ein schönes Ding unbegleitet in der Mitte aller dieser deutschen Offiziere, frage ich mich?"
"Who left such a lovely thing unattended in the middle of all these German officers, I wonder?"

"Entschuldigen Sie mich, ich muss meine Manieren völlig vergessen haben."
"Excuse me, I must have completely forgotten my manners."

[Dirk Riedel]

“Herr Brigadegeneral”, a tall, blonde-haired officer with a proud stature by the name of Max Gruber said in an undertone, attracting the attention of the superior commandant, “einige Offiziere von der Luftwaffe sind auch zu unserem Sammeln eingeladen worden.”

“Haben sie?” the commandant responded as he turned his glance on the man while sipping from his wine nonchalantly, although he slightly furrowed his eyebrows in minimal disconcert.

“Ja, Herr, der grösste Teil der Gruppe ist zurück, um zu stützen, aber einige Offiziere sind gebeten worden, ein Äusseres zu machen,” Gruben continued to explain. “Vielleicht würde es vernünftig sein, wenn Sie einige gute Wörter für sie ebenso anbieten würden, würde es scheinen, als ob der Deutsches Afrika Korps den ganzen Ruhm erhielt.”

“Verdammt! Warum ist nicht irgendjemand, mich diese Dinge erzählend?” he rasped, gulped down some wine and then with the rest of his surrounding company motioned towards the Luftwaffe group standing not many metres away from them to greet and commend them on their bravery and heroic contribution to the war effort.

Sat by the edge of the table, raising the glass of red wine every so often and drinking, the woman’s eyes were observing the small crowd of soldiers and women dancing to the Viennese waltz with a careful consideration akin to restricted amusement; though she was not fond of these social events and such ‘artistic’ behaviour as required to have been nurtured from the elite classes, she was distinctly able to appreciate art whenever she saw it; her brother Julian however, forever enamoured with the fine arts, was superbly capable of joining in these dances and offering his pale, thin, porcelain hand to whichever young lady was worthy of his precious pneumatic attention and concentration – camp though her brother may be, he nevertheless was quite the gentleman when he wished to publicly exhibit such well-mannered behaviour, showering the girls with compliments and words of literature, from Goethe to Schiller, far from the acidic, deadly type of war machine many Germans were reputed to be on foreign lands. The ‘Vienna Blood Waltz’ soon came to an end, the men bowed and the women, with their Italian temperamento, politely curtsied as the music’s final notes signalled a round of applause and more drinks being offered by the few waiters walking around the hall patiently to ascertain every one was provided for. She did not bother clap her hands, this was a mere event for her to attend, nothing special whatsoever, nothing she particularly was looking forward to.

It was then when she felt eyes fixed upon her, and she did not like it. She did not like being watched, or being stared for any particular reason, by utter contrast to her stupid brother, who always wished to be in the spotlight and often made a fool of himself at such ridiculous attempts. She disregarded this feeling and bothered not turn around to discover who was behind it, not in the least concerned over such an unimportant, though exasperating if persistent, aspect of the night, even though she very well knew her Aryan features were dramatically standing out against the dark-haired Mediterranean females currently occupying the room with their rich, budging at the seams bosoms that seemed to swallow every bit of air inside the room. Be that as it may, she continued taking a sip from her drink imperturbably, until, quite unexpectedly so, a male figure enforced his presence on her, seemingly appearing out of the blue – she turned sideways and her neutral face slightly hardened as she glanced at the Luftwaffe officer who had approached her. She did not need time to realize he bore the same arrogant, megalomaniacal facial expression as befitted the feudalists of the past, and the aristocrats of the present; the sin loosely hanging from the corner of his lips; the foul, unlawful grin and the shape of the condescending mouth, the grin which predominantly glinted from his iron eyes and imposed his overflowing haughtiness and superiority, infecting the room with the sheer magnitude of his bludgeoning self-importance. He was not the first, nor would he be the last she would have to endure for such conduct and general demeanour – the battle of the classes, regardless what the communists were attempting to achieve, in her opinion was eternal and circular, forever violent, forever inevitable.

As he walked closer and stood imposingly before her she noticed he was not much taller than her, possibly a few centimetres, with the same physique as every German soldier was expected to have if he truly wished to serve the Fatherland well. Once he opened his mouth and spoke to her in such a ridiculous way she immediately and openly furrowed her eyebrows, staring at him as though he were the most absurd and laughable creature in the entire world. She remained cold and guarding, her piercing green eyes staring at his own pair of intruding greys with hostility and distance, dignity and defiance. She remained silent for a few seconds in that same posture, proud and austere, her body language rigid and unsmiling. Then she finally decided to speak. “Männer sind Hunden ähnlich. Sie geben ihnen einen Knochen …” she said, her voice hoarse and deep, razor-sharp and cutting like knife, “… sie laufen, um es zu fangen,” she continued, looking away and with her eyes leading his own glance to the soldiers dancing on the hall. “So, in diesem Fall, eine Promenadenmischung,” she finished and returned her gaze back to him meaningfully, her eyes coldly glinting, “aber … bekommen Sie das Bild.”

Unblinking and unyielding, she stood there, refusing to submit to his foolish attempt at chauvinistic condescension, her one arm lying across her other arm holding the glass of wine. He finally introduced himself and her expectations were lived up to; he was, indeed, a ‘Von’ and quite a notorious one, too; word had spread regarding the young Jäger’s activities and demeanour and yet Dirk had never had the misfortune of meeting the man before, now regrettably so. He stretched out his hand but she hardly even glanced at the gesture, easily dismissing it as a hypocritical element of high society etiquette. “Welche Manieren, damit zu beginnen?” she brusquely responded, before she scoffed. “Gehen Sie ärgern jemanden anderen. Jene italienischen Vorbau, zum Beispiel,” she said, and with a cold, sarcastic smile she tapped him on the shoulder with her free hand (which faintly hinted on the strength of her muscles) and turned her back on him, slightly shaking her head in disbelief. Jeder kommt zu mir, – “alle Ficker kommen zu mir,” she finished her thoughts in a mumble as she began to walk away irritably, her fingers looped around the glass of wine as her knuckles whitened from the pressure; those upper-class snobs, they were useless and intolerable and smelled too good than was acceptable.



Translation

Herr Brigadegeneral, some officers from the Luftwaffe have also been invited to our gathering.

Have they?

Yes, Herr, most of the group is back to base but some officers have been asked to make an appearance. Perhaps it would be prudent if you offered a few good words for them as well, it would seem as if the Deutsches Afrika Korps was receiving all the glory.

Damn! Why isn’t anyone telling me these things?

Men are like dogs. You give them a bone … they run to catch it. Well, in this case, a mutt, but … you get the picture.

What manners to begin with? Go annoy someone else. Those Italian knockers, for instance.

Everyone comes to me - all the fuckers come to me.

[Rolf Jäger]

Promptly and quite unexpectedly, the blonde woman turned around, impertinently exposing her back to Rolf while starting to walk away. It took a few seconds for Rolf to register what was happening, and even then he could only stare at her departing figure and seethe in silent anger. She dared to dismiss Hauptmann Jäger in such a manner? Nobody had ever shown such insolence towards him! The blood in Rolf's veins ran quicker, fueled by fury, and his free hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white. The skin at the corner of his left eye twitched involuntarily and his teeth pressed tightly together to hold in the sharp words that had already found their way to his tongue. The sleazy tramp. The filthy harlot. The inferior, presumptuous little strumpet not even fit to polish Rolf Jäger's boots! Numerous insults were coming to Rolf in a rapid fashion, yet, the man sneered and fell into a step behind the woman, following her just as stubbornly as a hyena would trail after a hunting lioness to get his share of the kill later.

Had this insolent female truly just compared him to a dog, or worse yet, to a mutt? Failed to return his very courteous greeting? Turned around and walked away? Just one of these things would have been enough to cause the young baron to fly into a fit of rage and right now he was between deciding which one these things made him feel the most insulted. Calling him a mutt had certainly been preposterous enough, as it suggested that the purity of his family bloodline was somehow questionable and the mere thought of this was just plain atrocious. To hear such slander dropping from the lips of a woman who obviously wasn't nothing more but a peasant herself, was completely unheard of - who did she think she was? It wasn't usual for the Hauptmann to partake in such overflowing courtesies as to actually initiate conversation with random guests in the party, either, so disregarding this act of concession and returning it with such brazen insults was truly offensive, indeed. Rolf wanted nothing more but to release his angry words at this mindless little minx, but he knew that raising his voice and causing a scene would definitely spell instant defeat for him. After all, he was still a Hauptmann of the Luftwaffe and losing his nerves in front of all these other military officers wouldn't actually make him look very good, now would it? No, he would have to be smarter than that and although the flames of anger kept relentlessly burning him from inside, he forced himself to think more rationally.

If the woman had just brushed him off with courteous words, Rolf might not have bothered, but he considered this outrageous behaviour a clear challenge and he wasn't going to let it go unanswered. He wanted to make her face him, to explain her actions and to have her apologize for acting so rudely. It sounded simple enough, although Rolf had already decided he wasn't going to make it easy for the woman - oh no, she would be apologizing profusely enough once he was finished with her. As furious as he was over the female's insolence, somewhere deep inside he felt strangely mirthful over the incident, since it had suddenly turned the dreadfully boring night into something much more interesting. In fact, Rolf avoided overly boring people, but conflicting and aggressive personalities seemed to automatically draw him closer. When there were no opportunities to fly a fighter or engage in some other exciting and adrenaline inducing activities, verbal fights sometimes provided him with a decent substitute. He was very used to winning them, also, and felt confident that this stupid little broad would be feeling quite sorry soon enough.

Hastening his steps for a moment, Rolf managed to overtake the woman and he promptly stopped right in front of her, intending to force her into facing him again. Instead of even having her pace really hindered by the man's efforts, she merely averted the Hauptmann, as if he had been nothing more but an inanimate obstacle blocking her way. The anger inside Rolf flared, as if gasoline had been just poured over the flames, and his eyes flashed with barely contained fury. With a low, annoyed growl, Rolf's free hand snapped out, clamping sharply on the woman's forearm. It wasn't a particularly gentle grab, either, and it might have been strong enough to cause some bruises had the woman been the more delicate type, but this obviously wasn't such a case: Rolf had already noted that she was well-built for a simple blonde and although the Germans much appreciated a healthy and athletic lifestyle for both genders, it was very clear to him now that she was something completely different. As Rolf's fingers curled around the woman's arm, they could register the strong muscles under her skin and his steely eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Women were just not supposed to be like that! Just who was she?

A very slow, strained smile crept to Rolf's lips as he now found himself fighting against the feeling of confusion in addition to just outrage. His earlier resolution to teach this wench some manners had taken on a curious turn and for the briefest moment he found himself wondering if the woman would be even worth the trouble. Still, she had insulted him and he could not let such an affront stand - he was a Hauptmann and a baron, and his status did command a great amount of respect. Certainly he would defend his honour to his last dying breath, if need be, so why wouldn't he demand an explanation from this little peasant wench, also? The skin at the corner of Rolf's eye twitched slightly and his lips distorted into a mockfully polite half-smile, half-sneer. "Entschuldigen Sie mich. Sie müssen meine Absichten missverstanden haben, the words came out in a gruff manner, the man's voice quivering slightly with barely contained anger. The fire still flickered within his grey eyes, but it's flames had somewhat lessened over the man's surprise and confusion Rolf stood rigid in his place, narrowing his grey eyes as he gazed into hers, sternly, as if demanding some sort of swift atonement, lest he might turn unruly. "Ich habe Ihnen einige Manieren gezeigt. Es würde nur höflich sein, sie zurückzugeben." Rolf's words, although polite, rang with resentment and all of his muscles were still tense from anger. He had not often been presented with situations such as these as people, even when he knew they did not like him, would at least fake some amount of politeness and civility in his presence. Rolf's hand still remained clamped over her arm as he stood in front of her, back rigid, eyes blazing. He would make this insolent wench show him respect, yet.


Translations:

"Entschuldigen Sie mich. Sie müssen meine Absichten missverstanden haben."
"Excuse me. You must have misunderstood my intentions."

"Ich habe Ihnen einige Manieren gezeigt. Es würde nur höflich sein, sie zurückzugeben."
"I have shown you some manners. It would be only polite to show some back."

[Dirk Riedel]

Friederike was often not quite the loquacious type per se, mostly resorting to deal with any problems that may arise on a physical level through the means of aggressiveness rather than a calm conversation, not on the grounds of her being the violent type but rather, her intolerance with presumptuous human beings that dared behave in ways which only aspired to humiliate and ridicule people amongst her social circles; while her parents had accepted their place on earth and ‘inferior’ rank in society, bringing up their children with decency and labour, and avoiding trouble with the superiors whenever they could, opting for a peaceful life instead rather than one of a revolutionary upheaval of the lower classes, Friederike had always been the kind of girl to clench her fists and swing a few punches before her parents swiftly intervened; once her family had almost engaged to a serious problem because of this and was only spared the fault due to Berthold Woltermann’s reputation as an apt and hard-working man as a blacksmith. Lara Woltermann’s mouth had grown sore and numb from the countless times she had yelled and severely reprimanded her daughter’s untamed conduct, and then of course there was a problem of her also untamed mouth, speaking obscenities towards anyone speaking ill of her family in turn, whether in their presence or not; indeed, Friederike was particularly gifted in inventing exhilarating ‘terms of endearment’ for those she wished to insult due to their arrogance, insolence or attempt at sheer exploitation. And though her mother would give her various punishments for often swearing like a sailor, such as ploughing in the fields for the entire day without break or other same dull chores, when she grew older Lara would then find the best resolution to this ‘problem’ in forbidding her to drive the family’s truck for some days, perfectly shrew of the fact Friederike loved driving around the valleys and enjoying the crisp air throwing her hair around, relishing on her own personal freedom, sometimes with Julian by her side, sometimes alone. That appeared to have been the most effective punishment for Dirk, as her male friends affectionately called her, would refrain from throwing a stream of invective, at least in Lara’s presence, never dropping a natural habit.

Still, though they were inside a room occupied with highly regarded and upstanding men of the German armed forces, and in which an appropriate conduct was required, the woman found it difficult to remain absolutely in control of her language, otherwise her ability to control herself in every other matter was precisely one of the most significant reasons of her being a respected figure amongst her soldiers. It was also extremely weird speaking in her female voice, if that could be said; through the years of drinking and smoking, the seemingly endless wartime experiences and circling death whenever the troops marched for yet another victory, the slowly decaying feminine side but still present if explored and unravelled, her deep voice had grown hoarse, raspy and with a guttural touch on the edge. Prior her arrival at this social gathering, she had practised talking to herself in a more feminine way, attempting to soften her voice and alleviate the throaty edges to her sound, but hearing herself talk like that was in itself peculiar and almost sordid to her to the point where she had primarily cringed until she became used to it. Her words to the Luftwaffe officer had come out sharp and gruff, for she had not been able to control her voice upon such showcasing of arrogance, but at least it had not been as guttural as she often spoke to her soldiers. Walking away from that sordid human being and holding the glass of wine on her hand, she was grateful that at least she had not appeared at this reception as a Leutnant, for in that case the Hauptmann could easily report her for improper behaviour, the self-important prick that he was.

She felt him moving again towards her and, soon enough, he had come right in front of her, blocking her way, but so accustomed was she to those aristocrats’ sordid perception of a pre-supposed godly control over everyone that she simply brushed him aside – he could have been a mere obstacle in her way – by walking around him and continuing her way, expecting him to just realize he was being a nuisance and leave her alone; and, of course, like all well-bred aristocrats, he did anything but. Deciding to exit the building for a few minutes to forget this unpleasant meeting and allow the man to be distracted by the Italian knockers, as she had put it, she only managed to make a few steps before she, rather surprised, felt a strong hand pull her back and preventing her from moving; furiously taken aback, she wheeled around at his commanding grasp and faced him properly, her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes narrowed irritably, also dilated with disbelief and ferocity. The insolence! Her expression hardened even more to the point where her immense dislike over this situation and his conduct was more than obvious; it was foreboding. “Bekommen Sie Ihre Tatze von mir,” she warned him through gritted teeth as her green-grey eyes pierced through his audacious ones with a forewarning, violent glare; and he did not, merely continued to speak with that foul mouth of his, only exactly proving what a disrespectful thickhead he was and how right she had been in her initial assessment of him and the lack of necessity to know his character better. The constrained and imperious smile, the livid tone surfacing in his gravelly voice, what a cretin.

“Nein, Sie müssen meine Worte missverstanden haben,” she told him in a low tone, attempting to control her voice levels as not to raise anyone else’s attention towards them, but still the glare was there, as was the evident asperity in her voice. “Ich brauche nicht Ihre Manieren, wie ich Ihre krankhafte Selbstsucht nicht brauche,” she assured him gruffly with a detestable grimace, and violently pulled her hand away from his grasp, freeing herself, gulping down the rest of the wine and placing it upon a waiter’s tray with endeavoured control, walking towards the door. She opened it and stormed outside into the strengthened breeze, strands of the blonde hair flying around her, as she huffed to herself, scoffed with annoyance and picked up pace once more to take a walk around the district and calm her nerves, the loud voices and general buzz, the music and tinkling of glasses left behind, peace finally enveloping her mind, until it was suddenly violated by the likes of someone who simply knew not to take no for an answer. A low sound unwillingly escaped her throat from the surprise of being abruptly pulled back, more forcefully than before, and as she was made to turn around she faced the livid figure of the Hauptmann – and did not have time to think over his stubborn as a donkey quality, for she, having lost part of her initial patience and her tolerance having been driven to the edge, wasted no time and – the slap across his face cut through the air hard, razor-sharp and brisk, throwing his face to the right, as she watched him with a wrinkled forehead and furrowed eyebrows.

Dirk was a very straightforward and brusque character, a disciplined soldier, who wished others to realize her intentions and any orders the first time; and thus hoped she had given him a lesson. An aristocrat though he may be, she was determined to get the message across that he could not just waltz around her and claim attention and superiority like some featherbrained, pig-ignorant schmuck with the intellectual capacity of a frog’s gonads. “Kretin,” she rasped angrily, and then turned around to walk away, furious, but she could not help but quickly wheel around and walk back to him with short, sharp strides in those few steps required to reach him, a fierce look upon her hardened face, as she grabbed the collar of his shirt forcefully with both her hands and glared at him with detestation in her bright, glinting eyes. “Sie denken gerade wegen Ihrer Klasse, dass Sie Vorgesetzter zu mir sind? Dass Sie wie Sie wünschen tun und mich wie einer Ihrer Diener kontrollieren können?” she asked him severely, her face distorted into a hateful expression of fury and disgust; this was the exact behaviour she had to tolerate back in Germany by all those upper-class snobs – she was a sensible human being and refrained from being aggressive without the situation calling for it, but this was one time too many and her patience had reached the red alert button.

“Die Arroganz!” she spat in disbelief, as she used her muscled force to shove him backwards, her eyes narrowed into slits of wrath. “Ich bin hier nicht gekommen, um ein Spielzeug für kindische Spiele eines Idioten zu sein,” – she shoved him forcefully again – “ich bin gekommen, um meinem Land zu dienen. Sie wollen ein Gespräch mit einer Frau anfangen?” – and again – “Hier ist mein Rat: ein, seien Sie nicht solch ein Schwanz. Zwei, nennen Sie sie ein ‘Ding’ nicht. Ist das klar?” she spat, wrinkling his collar within her fists as she pushed him ferociously against the building’s wall. “Sie sind nicht in Deutschland nicht mehr, Hauptmann,” she said lowly, her lips pursed into a grimace of revulsion. “Sie können nichts tun, dass Sie hier wollen. Sie wollen echte Manieren? Seien Sie ein Beispiel von ihnen. Bis dahin verdienen Sie nichts von mir rafiniertes mehr,” she said compellingly, and she violently released his collar with a last glare before she turned around and walked away slowly. With a weary sigh, she searched her pocket, finding a packet of cigarettes inside and proceeding to light one; she felt the grey smoke swallow down and embrace her lungs, exhaling fumes from her mouth into the air as she calmed down. She turned sideways and looked over her shoulder, glancing back at him with furrowed eyebrows. He was one arrogant son of a bitch.


Translation

Get your paw off me.

No, you must have misunderstood my words. I don’t need your manners, as I don’t need your egomania.

Cretin.

You think just because of your class that you are superior to me? That you can do as you please and control me like one of your servants? The arrogance!

I haven’t come here to be a toy for some idiot’s childish games, I have come to serve my country. You want to start a conversation with a woman? Here is my advice: one, don’t be such a dick. Two, don’t call her a ‘thing’. Is that clear?

You’re not in Germany any more, Captain. You can’t do anything you want here. You want real manners? Be an example of them. Until then, you don’t deserve anything more refined from me.

[Rolf Jäger]

The woman spun around, blonde hair whipping through the air, her eyes narrowed and dangerous as they settled on the Luftwaffe officer. Rolf refused to look even slightly taken back by her reaction and, instead, his steely eyes challenged hers and his grasp became even stronger. Her voice ringing with intensity and rather unfeminine gruffness, she warned Rolf off and yanked her arm free far too effortlessly for his tastes. Rolf did not have the chance to try and stop her again, as the woman had already turned around and was making good progress towards the door leading outside. If Rolf had ever been very royally and completely pissed off, this certainly was that moment. He could not even begin to fathom the words and actions of this self-important little bitch - she was acting as if his stature and rank held no importance at all! Rolf's eyes darkened with pure, violent anger and blood rushed hot in his veins like liquid fire. He growled low under his breath and, following the woman's example, gulped down the rest of his wine and set the empty glass on the tray of a very confused waiter before hurrying after her.

He wasn't very far behind from the woman as she stepped outside into the cool air of the night-time Libya and Rolf faintly marked the refreshing breeze ruffling his sandy hair. He had not registered the presence of other people for a good while now and the only thing he could focus on was the woman's retreating form and her blonde hair dancing around in the wind, mocking and taunting him even further. Rage nearly choking him, the man quickened his pace and his hand snapped out to grab the obnoxious blonde by her arm - this time he pulled her back hard, fully planning on teaching the wench some manners. His teeth gritted together in an angry sneer and the muscles in Rolf's right arm tensed, his entire body getting ready to strike the insolent woman. Little did he realize that he had not been the first one to come up with such an idea, as a very sharp and powerful slap cut him across his face and Rolf's head was thrown to the side from the force of the blow. It wasn't the first time Rolf had been hit, but right at this moment it certainly felt like the most memorable slap he had ever received. It made small specks of light dance in front of his eyes and the initial numbness on the left side of his face was quickly building up to a very distinct stinging sensation. The Hauptmann grunted inadvertently and blinked, only barely noticing that the woman had already started walking away from him. Rolf lifted a hand up to flex his jaw carefully (just to check if it had been dislocated or not) and, at least for the moment, a bewildered look had replaced the earlier wrathful sneer.

Even through his confusion, Rolf could observe the woman rapidly advancing back towards him and the Hauptmann straightened his back, ready to confront her with rather offensive words. He didn't have the time to vocalize any of these insults, because the rage consumed female had already grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, growling poisonous words right in his face. Her narrowed eyes were ablaze with unmasked contempt when she questioned the Hauptmann if he really imagined that he was so superior to everyone as to order other people around on a whim. Rolf opened his mouth to answer, but was shoved backwards by the woman with such brute force, he nearly stumbled over his feet. Fast, angry words were spat at him again and this time Rolf managed to register the fact that the woman was calling him an idiot. His face distorted into an angry sneer, but again the woman pushed him back and Rolf was content enough just in the fact that this time he managed to maintain his balance more efficiently. Furious words, another violent shove - Rolf certainly felt the initial feeling of surprise giving away to renewed fury once again and his hateful silver eyes stared at the woman intensely, as if he was trying to slay the woman by the means of an ugly scowl alone.

He would have acted, of course, but again the woman gave him no chance to react and Rolf was slammed against a wall with surprising strength. Air left his lungs, causing the man to grunt involuntarily and he had to draw breath sharply. She was certainly stronger than any woman he had ever met and Rolf could only stare into her burning eyes, so full of hatred and loathing, and watch as her lips distorted into an angry sneer. He felt the slap still stinging on his face and the woman had shoved him multiple times so forcefully that his chest had been left hurting slightly. Adrenaline was surging through his veins now and Rolf let the feeling wash over him, letting it mingle with the faint sensation of pain, feeling how it made his head buzz.

Time seemed to slow down and he felt as if he had ample time to register even the smallest things around him. A gentle breeze touching the side of his face, soothing the burning feeling on his skin ever so subtly. The fingers curled dominantly around the collar of his fine and expensive shirt, knuckles pushing against his chest. The eerie way in which a few stray strands of the woman's blonde hair floated and danced around in the air, like some spectral spirits from an ancient legend. How curiously he could just barely register the rough texture of the wall against the back of his head. He observed the female's subtly painted lips distinctly forming the word Hauptmann, white teeth flashing angrily as she did so. How enticing was the way in which her strangely luminous green eyes narrowed into slits under those fiercely curved eyebrows, purporting only her complete revulsion towards him. He could distinctly make out the smallest change in the gruff and hateful tone of her voice and each word seemed to drop from her lips determinedly, passionately, as if she was the kind of person who never was at a loss of words.

Staring at the woman in his stupor, Rolf realized that beneath all the hatred and adrenaline a new feeling was making itself known and he breathed in deeply as the flames of lust flickered within him, creating a curious combination of very contrasted feelings. The adrenaline made his head hum blissfully, while hatred towards this obnoxious female mixed with the desire to lunge at her, to throw her down on the dirt and claim her, to completely break her will and to tarnish her pride. Oh, how he would have enjoyed her fighting back, yelling those little obscenities of hers while he had his way with her. The thought made his breath quicken and a low grunt escaped from his lips when the woman slammed her fists against his chest one more time before finally releasing her hold.

She walked away from him in an irritated gait, stopping a small distance away to search for something in her pocket. Rolf's eyes closed half-way for a small moment and he rested his head against the wall, trying to grasp at those lingering traces of his strange and oddly conflicted emotional state. Slowly and very assuredly, the man finally straightened up, stepping away from the wall and fixing the collar of his rather crumpled shirt. Glancing down as he did so, he raised his eyes to spy the woman from under his eyebrows, observing as she lit a cigarette and glanced at the Hauptmann over her shoulder. Such hatred in her eyes, such raw ferociousness! Rolf's eyes narrowed for a moment as he went through multiple scenarios in his mind. One had him pressing his Luftwaffe dagger against her throat, another had him wrestling her down to the ground to possess her, third one suggested that he should engage in a furious verbal battle and in the fourth one he found himself just striking her painfully in the face.

The man tilted his head to the side and suddenly all of that previous arrogance had returned to his features once again. Even though his face still stung from the earlier slap, he refused to look defeated and Rolf ran a hand over the front of his uniform, as if looking neat and orderly suddenly held all the importance in the world. "Natürlich bin ich Vorgesetzter zu Ihnen wegen meiner Klasse... Fräulein," there was an even hoarser texture to the man's voice than earlier and Rolf did not even try to hide the fact that his words were meant for pure provocation alone. Somewhere in the darkest, sickest reaches of his mind he wanted her to attack him again - he wanted to see the savagery over her features again, he wanted her to lunge at him so he could slap her back, push against her, force himself into her presence and rip that dress off her. Rolf's eyes glinted briefly with both malice and lust as he started walking towards the woman with slow, calculated steps, as if he was roaming in a courtroom, explaining his case. "Meine Familie hat den Interessen des Heimatlandes für unzählige Generationen und wie alle von denjenigen vor mir gedient, ich bin gebracht worden bis zu, ein Aristokrat sein. Egal wie verzweifelt Ihre kleine Plebejer-Meinung versucht, an der Tatsache festzuhalten, dass wir alle irgendwie gleich sind, wird die Welt wie das nie arbeiten. Oh, Sie können immer Ihre amüsanten kleinen Trugbilder haben, das viel gebe ich zu. Aber Sie werden noch immer wissen ..." Rolf kept a good few paces away from the woman as he circled around her, savoring each slanderous word carefully. " ...dass ich über Ihnen bin. Warum sonst hätten Sie mich angegriffen? Sie werden frustriert, weil, egal wie hart Sie kämpfen, Sie die Tatsache nicht ändern können. Oh! Sorgen Sie sich nicht, ich kann die Logik verstehen, wenn auch solche Handlungen, natürlich, gerade äußerst sinnlos sind."

A sly, mocking smirk crept to the man's lips and his muscles tensed as they automatically anticipated another attack. Rolf knew full well just how offensive his words were, although it did not mean that he did not really believe in them, oh no. He fully embraced the knowledge of his own superiority and had no trouble claiming that a good amount of German people were simply beneath him, he was only being realistic. "Solche Muskeln auf Ihnen der Weg greifen Sie mich wie eine wilde Löwin an..." a low, gravelly chuckle interrupted the Hauptmann's speech as he stopped a few steps away from the female, facing her eye to eye so he could properly witness the effect his words had on the woman. "Ich glaube, dass das sogar für eine bloße Frau leicht war, ebenso stark zu wachsen, wie das, mit einer Geschichte wie Ihrig. Oh, Ja, Bauer-Leben, wie sehr kurios. Lassen Sie mich schätzen... Ihre Hureren Mutter verließ Sie mit Ihrem mittellosen Vater, und als er Sie jedem Mann im Dorf nicht ausverkaufte, kamen Sie, um das Pflug-Pferd zu ersetzen?" Rolf arched an eyebrow at the woman and a slow, devilish smile crept up to his lips, his steely eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated rancor.


Translations:

"Natürlich bin ich Vorgesetzter zu Ihnen wegen meiner Klasse... Fräulein."
"Of course I am superior to you because of my class... Miss."

"Meine Familie hat den Interessen des Heimatlandes für unzählige Generationen..."
"My family has been serving the interests of the Fatherland for countless generations and like all of those before me, I have been brought up to be an aristocrat. No matter how desperately your little pleb mind is trying to hold on to the idea that we are all somehow equal, the world will never work like that. Oh, you can always have your amusing little illusions, this much I admit. But you will still always know..."

" ...dass ich über Ihnen bin. Warum sonst hätten Sie mich angegriffen...?"
"...that I am above you. Why else would you have attacked me? You are frustrated because no matter how hard you fight, you cannot change the fact. Oh! Don't worry, I can understand the logic, even though such actions are, of course, just utterly pointless."

"Solche Muskeln auf Ihnen, der Weg greifen Sie mich wie eine wilde Löwin an ..."
"Such muscles on you, the way you attack me, like a fierce lioness..."

"Ich glaube, dass das sogar für eine bloße Frau leicht war, ebenso stark zu wachsen, wie das, mit einer Geschichte wie Ihrig..."
"I guess it was easy even for a mere woman to grow as strong as that, with a history such as yours. Oh, yes, peasant life, how very quaint. Let me guess... Your whoring mother left you with your penniless father and when he was not selling you off to every man in the village, you got to replace the plow horse?"

[Dirk Riedel]

Small circles of grey smoke were exhaled from her lips and dissolved into the atmosphere as the cold Libyan wind danced through the long, interweaving curls shaded with a golden hue of sunset, hanging loosely down her solid shoulders, her green eyes, slightly narrowed, looking over towards the man’s direction, partially expecting him to voice several menacing threats of doom like a spoiled brat before he waltzed back into the room, partially realizing his kind was perhaps made of steel rather than satin as she had originally supposed, and would therefore not present her with the fortune of his immediate retreat, a trait most unique and reputable amongst the soldiers of the Third Reich. With her eyes shining in the darkness in downright aversion, she slightly wrinkled her forehead in moderate incredulity, as not only did he refuse to depart but, even worse, straightened up and tilted his head on the side as though he was completely deficient in recognizing – or accepting – when he was being an infernal pest she would like to crush with her foot. She scoffed in disbelief and smoked from her cigarette, slightly shaking her head, becoming progressively more annoyed over his renewed presumptuousness at which point he resumed the same arrogant tone. Her face hardened once more at his obstinacy of superiority, for any normal human being would have understood by now how such a ‘conversation’ had been finalized in terms of argumentative outlooks, and how the great chasm separating their absolutely contrasting perspectives was impossible to be bridged. But not him. He continued in the same patronizing way, in the same condescending tone, bearing the same supercilious expression, and she simply knew he was only insisting to provoke her.

The only problem was that, if she had been able to control herself inside the building in respect to the people inside enjoying their leave and the requirement of being civil amongst the superiors – at least for appearance’s sake – even a dog would bite when provoked; the only thing needed was to tread into dangerous waters – and so he would. The nauseatingly courteous ‘Fraülein’ made her downright sick, revolted by the sheer hypocrisy with which it was pronounced. He began walking towards her slowly and she merely stood there, her face austere and awaiting, eyebrows curved over her dilated pupils, and smoking, expecting to see in him some sort of manifestation of an infectious disease, which would in his case most probably be rabies – but he only proceeded to explain the supremacy of his bloodline and how the battle of the classes was a historical fact not to be disputed by the likes of those who wished to progress from the working class to the more elite circles; truth be told, that was a converging point of their otherwise divergent beliefs, for Dirk was a hard-thinking realist rather than a liberal romantic (by contrast to her adorably stupid, insufferable brother), believing how one’s nature as belonging to the lower class could not be taught to act differently in a more refined environment, and categorically refusing to consider the existence of equality in such terms. But her being in a haze of cold hostility and fury at the moment, she could hardly register such a subtle notion, her ‘pleb mind’ more concerned over clenching her free fist and staying calm at this ridiculous display of vaingloriousness.

She vaguely narrowed her eyes as he circled her like a carnivore did to its prey, but remained still and calm, drawing on the cigarette, albeit her expectations of her brain capacity of tolerating such insolence despite her nerves being overstretched had been vastly surpassed; she turned over her shoulder to some extent to watch his movements closely, her face cold but obviously infuriated as a scornful, devious smirk rose in his lips, in which the vain sin was still hanging loosely, like a carnivore, and wondered whether he had as a child been breastfed from a mad, convulsive she-wolf in rabies, like a carnivore, and gruffly chuckled with the knowledge of his all—powerful existence, like a carnivore, looming closer slowly, calculatingly, thriving on her continual, determined silence, little by little circling dangerous waters with each step he took, and each word he spoke, as she raised her chin high in fierce pride, looking at him with a cold sneer hanging from the stern crescents of her quiet mouth – until he stopped a short distance away from her, standing tall and imposing amidst the glory of all his self-importance, when he finally gave her the bite she needed to react in sheer provocation.

Her eyes dilated, her jaw hardened and he must have known he had touched a nerve with that Tartarean chuckle and arching of an eyebrow; everything else obliterated, the faint noise from inside the building, the distant lights from the windows, the argument over his supremacy, the slap, the reception, everything forgotten – and without thinking, she threw herself forwards and prepared to strike him down in anger, but stopped at the last moment a few inches before her clenched fist would meet his face again, her chest heaving up and down from the sudden rage enveloping her, spreading throughout her body with the deadly contagiousness of cholera and threatening to desert reason for sentiment. She openly stared at the scum with a chin held proudly high and her eyes fiercely burning into his mongrel wrought iron orbs with vicious loathing, inhaling deeply but with her mind momentarily numbed to the need for oxygen as she mustered every bit of self-control she possessed to refrain from striking – a task strenuous in itself, considering how family to her was sacred, and how insults of any such nature were never taken lightly, especially when she had been raised by two extremely hard-working, honourable and lovable people, in a respectable and decent home deserving of only praise and admiration. But the self-assured, chauvinistic, egomaniacal mule went as far as this.

She lowered her hand and determinedly opened her fist to disallow herself from the temptation of another slap, instead staring at him with a severe expression through her facial features, cold like a marble statue, and calculating, her thoughts in a fury; it was significant for a soldier to exercise self-control on many levels, an aspect this man was clearly deficient in, but she did her best. The most difficult part was that she could not provide any excuses as to why she should not strike; he had pushed over the limits and thus needed to be punished. Having been raised in a Protestant environment, (her eventual atheism notwithstanding), and due to her tough nature, she regarded punishment as a necessary evil for those who stepped out of line. But she wasn’t going to do it – she could see it in his foul, Mephistophelean eyes, how they craved for precisely this, almost rudely, like the acrobats provoked the animal in the circus to extract any aggressive reaction from it and please the viewers in this spectacle of breathtaking savagery and exploitation; and she refused to obey. She deeply drew on the cigarette, as though hoping the fumes would penetrate her mind and cloud over her rage, but to no avail.

She slightly tilted her head to the side, looking not at him but also nowhere in particular as she pondered over his words for a few seconds only. It was not the first time she had been spoken to like this – on the contrary – but it may have been the first time such an opinion was voiced … with such articulate grace. She returned her gaze back to him the next moment – and smiled. It was not mocking of him, or her, but the entire situation; it was a sardonic smirk, cold and judgemental, but the wrinkle that made the corner of her lips curve diagnosed the notion as one of amusement to his sordid preconceptions, her eyes shining with barely controlled rage, still. “Wenn mein … mittelloser Vater mich jedem Mann im Dorf ausverkauft hätte, vertrauen Sie mir - ich wäre schmutzige Reiche inzwischen gewesen,” she assured him in a hoarse, low tone, the smile not parting her lips but forming a crease in the corner that clearly showed her sneering attitude. “So wie steht’s mit Ihrer Seite, wie?” she asked him then. “Wie steht's mit Ihrer Prominent-Hure, dieser süße hirnlose kleine fianc é von euch zurück in Deutschland, die das das Heu durch einen sich Ihrer Handlanger gerollt wird gegen Sie im Scheiß bewerben?” she easily scoffed.

“Ich bin sicher, dass Sie sich nicht sogar sorgen würden, es arbeitet alles gemäß einem großen Plan, ist nicht es, Aristokraten, die sich mit jedem die Vetter eines anderen und Geschwister und Pferde und Hunde, irgendetwas gerade fortpflanzend, um das shitty im Laufe der Jahrhunderte reinrassiges Blut von ihnen zu behalten,” she spat through a rush of blood channelled throughout her exposed veins. “Ich glaube, dass es ist, was Ihre Art von Leuten während der Weltwirtschaftskrise bedeutete, als sie sagten, dass sie königlich gebumst worden waren,” she said, and suddenly laughed – at his face, genuinely, openly and heartily, her shoulders lightly shaking and her face distorted into an expression of amusement mixed with scornful satire as she held the cigarette from the left hand this time, placing it across her right arm, and smoked; she inhaled but blew it right to his face, rudely, uncaringly, and indifferently, for he deserved nothing more than contempt. “Und natürlich der erklärt, warum Sie im Kopf …” she said, and to his distasteful address as a ‘Fraülein’ she returned the term of endearment with the title of courtesy – “Arschloch,” – in a rasp – “so vergeudet werden,” – and lunged her hand forwards to grab that stupid collar of his if only for the purpose of wrinkling it again, through and through, and messing with his will to play the meticulous laywer, so much more because he deserved being treated like a dog; but clenched her hand into a fist and refrained from doing so, her fist remaining motionless underneath his neck and her refusing to open her fingers, for she felt as though she would have been unable to prevent herself from simply strangling him.

With a weary grumble of her throat, she slowly unclenched her fist before his eyes, some muscles contracting, but once the temptation rushed through her head again to show him exactly how professionally peasant girls like her could make fancy-dressed aristocrats like him suffocate, she pulled it away. “Aber ich glaube, dass das für einen bloßen Jungen wie Sie leicht war, als eine pisse-schlechte Entschuldigung der Existenz mit einer Geschichte wie Ihrig zu wachsen. Oh, Ja, Aristokratie, wie sehr … preiswert,” she hissed. “Das Sitzen ringsherum den ganzen Tag und auf Ihrer eigenen Minderwertigkeit, welche schnelle Reise der Selbsterkenntnis nachdenkend. Mit einem nichtsnutzigen Sohn erwarte ich, dass Ihre Mutter noch ihren Fehler des nicht Verlierens von Ihnen hinter Ihrer nett polierten, teuren, glänzenden Marke neuer Mercedes bedauert. Ich schätze deshalb, dass sie Ihnen gerade einen Namen eines Hunds gab,” she said and chuckled coldly under her breath, as she finished the cigarette with a last drag; she blew the smoke into the air sharply and in a smooth move instead of throwing it on the ground, she extinguished it right on his fancy little bowtie, pressing it tightly against the black material in case it was not burned properly.

Once she removed the remaining of it, a hole could be clearly seen on the bowtie. She looked at it, perfectly satisfied over the result. “Wer braucht einen Aschenbecher, wenn Sie eine Fliege eines Maulesels haben?” she asked him in a fake earnest tone, and smiled. She curiously glanced over at the dagger hanging by the side of his left hip in a scabbard. “Ich bin sicher, dass Sie wie ein Kind mit Ihrem Daumen in Ihrem Mund schlafen – tun nicht Sie, Prinzessin?” she asked in a low, hoarse voice. “Sie würden nicht sogar wissen, wie man es verwendete,” she told him, and crossed her arms, smirking as she stared at him with provocation in her virescent eyes. “Kommen Sie dann heran. Oder haben Sie Angst welche Scheine ist nicht Gold?”



Translation


If my … penniless father had been selling me off to every man in the village, trust me – I’d have been filthy rich by now. So what about your side, eh? What about your socialite whore, that sweet brainless little fiancé of yours back in Germany getting rolled in the hay by one of your sidekicks competing against you in bullshit? I’m sure you wouldn’t even care, it’s all working according to some great plan, isn’t it, aristocrats breeding with each other’s cousins and brothers and sisters and horses and dogs, anything just to keep that shitty blood of theirs pedigreed throughout the centuries. I guess that’s what your kind of people meant during the Great Depression when they said they’d been royally fucked. And of course that explains why you’re so wasted in the head … asshole.

But I guess it was easy for a mere boy like you to grow as a piss-poor excuse of existence with a history like yours. Oh, yes, aristocracy, how very … cheap. Sitting around all day and contemplating on your own worthlessness, what a quick journey of self-knowledge. With a good-for-nothing son I expect your mother is still regretting her mistake of not losing you in the back of your nicely polished, expensive, shiny brand new Mercedes. I guess that’s why she just gave you a dog’s name.

Who needs an ash tray when you have a mule’s bow tie?

I’m sure you sleep like a child with your thumb in your mouth – don’t you, Princess? You wouldn’t even know how to use it. Come on then. Or are you afraid what shines isn't gold?

[Rolf Jäger]

* Extending a warning to any readers of this thread. The rest of this thread contains quite a bit of strong language, so if you find that offensive, please just... try not to read it!*

A delightful shiver ran down Rolf's spine when he recognized the familiar raw rage in those radiant green eyes, knowing that his words had hit the mark. It was always a fair bet to insult one's family, since it was something that was carefully cherished by most people and making outrageous accusations of one's mother, for example, often yielded good results. Still, even though Rolf had already readied himself for an attack, he would have not been fast enough to avert the strike that the woman next aimed at him. It came with startling speed and the man, purely on an instinct, pulled his head back. The strike did not hit home, but it was not due to Rolf's reaction - the woman's hand stopped only a few inches away from the Hauptmann's face and the man's eyes widened for a small moment with pure surprise. What had stopped her? Certainly it was not a matter of courtesy and Rolf could see the female's chest heaving as she breathed heavily, her eyes still filled with pure, unmasked rage. What was it then...? Had she realized that a physical confrontation was just what Rolf wanted? Or maybe she did not just want to lose their battle of wills. Feeling safer in the knowledge that the woman would not strike him, Rolf's brief surprise was transformed into an expression of smugness and superiority once again. The tension and the pure, unbridled hatred made him feel strangely exhilarated and his muscles tensed as he found himself hoping that the woman would still change her mind and attack him.

Rolf exhaled in an almost disappointed manner when the woman slowly lowered her hand, clearly having to gather every ounce of her self-control to manage that much. Rolf's steely eyes narrowed when he saw that the blonde female was now taking her time to hold on to that feeling and, although the hatred was still there, she smiled slowly, mockingly, as if Rolf was the biggest joke in the world. The skin at the corner of the Luftwaffe officer's eyes tightened with new-found irritation. He felt that his well-deserved victory had been deprived from him and with very little effort, no less. He had been very proud of his own constraint just moments earlier and had hoped that the woman would have given him a proper reason to retaliate - not that he really needed an excuse, but beating her down after another outrageous assault would have provided him with a sweet victory over this obnoxious little strumpet, indeed.

Infuriatingly enough, she continued smoking her cigarette casually, leaving Rolf mulling in his continuously growing irritation and then, very slowly, she spoke, only making matters worse for him. She shrugged off the insult Rolf had directed at her family and deftly changed the subject, inquiring Rolf about his own family relations. The man stood rigid in his place as he listened to her talk, his expression changing little when the woman insulted his fiancé. Such words did little to infuriate him, as the woman was quite right in her disdainful assumption - he did not care what his fiancé Elsa was doing back in Germany, even if it included "rolling in the hay with one of his sidekicks". He held no affection towards the woman and had gotten engaged with her merely because he had wished to silence his mother. She was always harassing Rolf with endless questions about his future marriage and it had been just easier to give her the illusion that Rolf would be settling down soon enough. If Elsa decided to have her fun with some other man, she was more than welcome to do so. At least it would give him a solid reason to finally get rid of her and it might even give him good grounds to cause legal troubles for her family in the process.

Rolf arched an eyebrow slowly, wondering if this was the best the woman had to offer, realizing all too soon that the presenting the question had been a foolish thing to do, even if it existed only in his own mind. The scornful woman went on, insulting his aristocratic background, saying how they bred with their relatives and not only that, but with animals, as well. She laughed, jeering him, mocking him - she even blew a cloud of cigarette smoke right in his face. Rolf gritted his teeth, almost readying himself to slap the obnoxious female for this outrage, but then again... He realized these were merely cheap tricks to make him loose his nerves and Rolf certainly was much smarter than that. He wasn't going to let himself fall into such shoddily constructed trap! He merely raised his chin up proudly, the proper comeback already lingering on his tongue, feeling smug in the knowledge that his words would completely counter hers. Then, very suddenly, the female's hand shot towards him once again, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt and remaining there right under his jaw, crinkling the canvas with vicious strength. Rolf's breathing became just slightly more quicker as he found lust dominating over all other feelings once again. Oh, how he savored her rage, how alive it made him feel! It made blood rush wilder in his veins once again and he could smell the scent of her skin, feel those knuckles violently pushing against his chest. Rolf's heart pounded wildly and he could almost sense the woman's barely contained hatred scorching him so relentlessly, it felt like the merciless Libyan sun had suddenly climbed back up to the sky... or maybe he was only burning from the inside himself? Rolf's silver eyes darkened with primal craving and he stared at the female hungrily, challengingly, just waiting for the moment when she would snap, but then, very reluctantly, she released her hold and drew her hand away. Again! The man sneered at her mockingly, as if to say that she did not possess the guts to do anything else other than to try and make him flinch. Rolf was sure that such a taunting expression would encourage her to do something more. But no... For reason Rolf could not fathom, she would not.

More venomous words left her mockingly pursed lips and Rolf caught every one of them - how he had a piss-poor excuse for existence, how the aristocracy only sat around contemplating on their own misery and how even Rolf's mother had considered him worthless, giving him a dog's name. This was an utterly ridiculous insult, of course, since Rolf had been named after his grandfather and he had adopted his second name, Siegfried, from his great-grandfather, also. He was very proud of his name and nobody had ever even dared to suggest that such a name suited a canine.

As much as he tried to calm himself down, the insults were delivered with such a crisp precision, they made Rolf narrow his eyes involuntarily. He did not want the woman to know that she had managed to have any effect on him at all and still his muscles tensed even more. The brief sensation of lust was once again giving way to irritation and hatred, but he tried to cut those feelings off, knowing that staying on top of the situation was integral for preserving his dignity. He might have managed to counter everything the woman had said with an extensive collection of sharp and witty words, but then, very suddenly, the woman crossed the line. With a low, quiet chuckle, the woman carefully pressed her cigarette against his bow tie, burning the canvas, an affronting smirk dominating her features. She spoke, but the words were left completely unheard by the man as a strange and alarming silence filled his mind for a few seconds. Rolf was frozen in his place, gaping at this open display of insolence and as if through a red haze, he distantly heard the woman comparing the Hauptmann to a toddler, calling him a princess.

Rolf snapped.

His teeth gritted together in a fierce expression of rage, Rolf grasped at the infernal, sordid bow tie, ripping it from his neck in one violent move and causing the topmost button of the shirt to come flying off in the process. Blood rushed through his veins madly as intolerably searing frenzy filled him like some vile poison and he felt himself being transformed into something else entirely. Rolf's eyes were filled with insane, uncontrollable rage and he threw the affronting bow tie down on the ground, stomping on it viciously, as if this item alone was to blame for everything. "VERDAMMT!" the man bellowed, turning his back to the woman, pacing a few steps away from her and grasping his head with both hands, as if something was taking him over and he was still trying to fight for control. If such an inner battle was truly being fought, it was soon obvious that the man had lost it when the first string of obscenities parted from his lips. "Sie unwissender, wertloser Welpe einer faulen, zahnlosen Hure!" the man pivoted around so quickly, dust flew around him in small, transparent clouds. Rolf's face was now a mask of pure hatred and a fierce snarl dominated his lips, revealing a set of gritted, white teeth. His grey eyes were dark under his furrowed eyebrows and his chest was heaving, all traces of humanity lost, as if he was just an empty vessel, filled with all the scorn and hostility the man could muster. "Wer sollen Sie wie das, Sie preiswertes kleines Fotzen handeln?" the man growled in his hoarse voice. "Wie konnten Sie irgendetwas, Sie unfeine Nachkommenschaft einer auf der Krankheit gerittenen Kuh wissen? Sie geben Ihre Tage aus, wie ein Schwein im Schlamm kriechend, denkend, dass Ihr flegelhaftes kleines Leben eine wirkliche Bedeutung hält, dass, wenn dieser zahnlose, übel riechende angeborene Sohn eines Schwein-Bauers Sie bumst, es Liebe ist, dass am Ende des Tages Sie nach etwas anderem Anderem greifen würden als Scheiße, aber nicht! Es ist alles, dass Sie jemals, Sie und Ihre komplette mitleidsvolle Brut haben werden!"

The man took a few steps back towards the woman and tilted his chin up, a maniacal look invading his steel-grey eyes, sandy hair standing up from him having grasped at it just earlier. A wild sneer dominated his features and he exposed his white teeth at the woman, very much resembling a rabid wild dog. "Ja, ich sah Sie, herumblödeln ringsherum in Ihrem preiswerten kleinen Kleid, alles selbstzufrieden aussehend, denkend, dass Sie es in der Welt gemacht haben. Sie müssen begreifen, dass gerade, weil jemand Sie sich vom Eingang des Dieners hat einschleichen lassen, Ihr Leben Wert nicht gerade plötzlich entwickelt, weil Sie noch gerade Scheiße nur dieses Mal in einem ziemlich Verpackungs- sind. Es ist nur ein Trugbild, derjenige, den Sie gründlich genießen müssen, aber es ist zu Ihrem Kopf, das wertlose Weibchen gegangen Sie sind. Der einzige Grund Sie sind hier heute, ist, weil jemand dachte, dass Sie sein würden ein leichter bumst gerade wie ganze Ihre Art. Das, und nichts mehr! Verstehen Sie, Sie Bauer-Hure?" Rolf jeered and stared at the woman, his eyes smoldering with blind hostility.

For a moment it seemed as if the man was finished and he merely stood in his place, breathing heavily after such intense yelling and raging, as if he had managed to burn away the worst of his anger during his outburst. The illusion only lasted for a few seconds and suddenly the man lunged at the blonde female, his teeth gritted together in an insane, violent sneer. Rolf grabbed the canvas of the woman's dress and he roared with fury, his other foot moving behind her ankle more on an instinct than anything else and then he smashed against her, using the force of his entire bulk to bring her down. Small clouds of dust rose up from the ground as the pair came tumbling down, Rolf maintaining his position on top the female, his arms colliding with the woman's chest as he still maintained his hold on her dress for a moment. Then Rolf's hand went for the female's arm, pinning it down on the dusty ground while his other hand rose up, coming down viciously to slap the woman over her face. He had gone past just "teaching the wench" some manners and in his rage he knew he had to break her like the cheap tramp she was. She would learn, yet.


Translations:

"Sie unwissender, wertloser Welpe einer faulen, zahnlosen Hure!"
"You ignorant, worthless whelp of a rotten, toothless whore!"

"Wer sollen Sie wie das, Sie preiswertes kleines Fotzen handeln?"
"Who are you to act like this, you cheap little tramp?"

"Wie konnten Sie irgendetwas, Sie unfeine Nachkommenschaft einer auf der Krankheit gerittenen Kuh wissen...?"
"How could you know anything, you lowbred offspring of a disease-ridden cow? You spend your days, groveling like a swine in the mud, thinking that your boorish little life holds some actual meaning, that when that toothless, smelly inbred son of a pig farmer fucks you, it's love, that in the end of the day, you'd be grasping at something else other than shit, but no! That's all you'll ever have, you and your entire pitiful brood!"

"Ja, ich sah Sie, herumblödeln ringsherum in Ihrem preiswerten kleinen Kleid, alles selbstzufrieden aussehend, denkend, dass Sie es in der Welt gemacht haben..."
"Yes, I saw you, arsing around in your cheap little dress, looking all self-satisfied, thinking that you've made it in the world. You must realize that just because someone has let you slip in from the servant's entrance, your life doesn't just suddenly develop worth, because you are still just crap, only this time, in a pretty packaging. It is only an illusion, one that you must thoroughly enjoy, but it has gone to your head, the worthless bitch you are. The only reason you are here today is because someone thought you'd be an easy fuck, just like all of your kind. This, and nothing more! Do you understand, you peasant whore?"

[Dirk Riedel]

She immediately saw the difference in him once he turned around to face her. In the deadness of the night, she responded to his growl of fury and grasping of hair with a curious expression and a small, satisfied smile rising in the corner of her lips but which soon vanished – at first slightly tilting her head in moderate disbelief, her eyes shrewd and guarding at his sudden violent pulling of the bow tie and stomping on it combined with the tearing away of his topmost button, and as he turned around in moments of what appeared to have been fighting an inner battle his bellowing growl echoed unnaturally throughout the deserted area, such deviating reaction catching her off guard; and when he turned back around to face her with such astoundingly fierce strength, he was not the same person any more. She wrinkled her forehead, eyebrows curved above her dilated green eyes and her face hardened, as she beheld not a human being but a creature that emerged from the darkness mighty and powerful, as though forged through the gates of hell, his silver maniacal eyes burning through her own with untamable loathing as he came forwards, tall and domineering, the rush of obscenities he growled piercing through her entire length and causing her eyes to widen. Gnashing his gritted teeth, the beast of Gevaudan approached her slowly, howling his rage at her, words of deepest revulsion, his face fearsome and dismaying not because he bore the chilling coldness of a marble statue but because he possessed the primitive hunger of savagery hammered through his mongrel mind.

The wind howled through the dancing curls around her, the moon having just appeared from the hills outside Tripoli and hanging from the starless grim sky overhead, as he motioned dangerously closer, spitting his vulgar words of repugnance at her, and from his unearthly essence, as though transformed, a cold shiver went down her spine – any other sensible being would have run away in horror and agony, but she merely stood there, not out of sheer bravery, but so outrageously affronted was she, so absorbed into those chilling, coal-black pupils of wrath, so overpowered at this very moment by the dominant, carnivorous presence that, as though glued to the ground, she had no other choice but remain fixed on her position, unable to move, unable to blink, stripped of the capacity to process anything else apart from the vulgarities spoken with such animalistic force as would have thought it impossible for someone of his own kind, the lucky kind, the given and noble kind, the kind that bedded in luxuries and was fed with cynical lies of vanity and grandeur; no, for the first time she registered the loathsome and violent source of his wild inexplicable nature, and though every word he uttered slapped her in the face one right after the other, briskly, sharply, and mercilessly, and though her stomach had tightened and her chest was heavy with the burden of spiralling hatred, and though her jaw was strong and hardened – her fists were unclenched, unable to defend herself, unable to react, her eyes glassy and unblinking, the blood channelled throughout her veins frozen. And all this may have lasted for mere moments, and through her silence and unmoving figure the repulsion frothed within for such vile, slanderous opinions, her heart beating wildly against her ribcage as a proud sneer suddenly dominated her face, staring at him with blatant disgust as he seethed in anger right before her, a wild desire to beat him down like he had never been before enveloping her guts, seconds before she decidedly took one step forwards –

Everything happened too quickly, and the next thing she knew was that a pair of strong, unyielding arms snatched her and dragged her downwards, a grunt of surprise escaping her throat as her breath quickened sharply from the unpredictable move, wildly resisting but unable to escape his power, and though her instinct forced her hands to meet the earth vertically her back still grazed harshly against the muddy-brown ground – and as she raised her hand to thrust him away he forcefully pinned it down on the soil. With her eyes widened in shock and in fury, she meant to react – before her head was violently thrown to the side with a hoarse groan from his vicious strike that came as unexpected as his transformation to pure savagery. Breathing heavily, she let her face hanging from the side for a few moments, eyes wide, lips half-open and half-closed as they breathed in the chilly evening air, and registering what had just happened. When she slowly turned her head over to face him, his electric silver eyes burned down on hers in an expression that signified such raw savagery as could justify all the wars in the world.

She had simply not expected such strength and power from a nobleman who had probably spent his entire life dining on golden spoons and resting on comfortable, plush chesterfields; when the aristocrats wanted to punish those whom they considered inferior they used others, equally inferior proletarians, to do the dirty work – or since physical contact with the plebeians was apparently below them and utterly disgusting, they simply used objects to implement the abuse, such as whips or projectiles. Not their hands. And should they resort to that, they certainly – through the noble sporting of hunting and fencing – did not possess the same strength of muscle as the hard-working proletarian class did, eternal labourers, breadwinners, and masters of the growing, endless fields. Her face stung from the malicious strike, but she never cowered in fear or showed weakness; she had been through worse, much worse, such as his easy, toil-free mind could never begin to contemplate. And she was determined to win.

She stared at him, her face distorted with abhorrence and contempt, feeling his weight crushing against her strong frame in what only caused her disgust. She could now take in the details of his face, the strong jaw, the mole on the left next to his mouth, the freshly shaved face, the red lines meandering in his insane, lycanthropic eyes, the whiteness of his teeth, the other mole on his jaw and the one on the neck, around which she longed to wheel her fingers, and strangle in cold blood. She resisted with animalistic voices escaping her throat, fought to move away, to pull herself up, grabbed his shoulder with her free hand to shove him back but he was overbearing and stronger – unable to move, this time not against her will but against his frame. She fumed, her shoulders shaking from the heavier breathing over the rage completely dominating every inch of her length, staring up at him with revolt in her eyes. She could feel his disease. It was spreading through the infected air between them like typhus, his delirious eyes piercing down on her with uncontrolled ire, and she returned the warm sentiment. It was then that she finally noticed something else hanging from his eyes; it was neither rage nor contempt, and she grimaced in anger.

“Das einzige wertlose Weibchen, das ich hier sehe, ist Sie,” she hissed forcefully, her face completely warped from the hysterical rage. “Und Sie nennen sich einen Hauptmann? Leute wie Sie verschmutzen die Luftwaffe mit ganzer ihrer mitleidsvollen Verwirrung, das ist kein Wunder wir haben Cyrenaica noch, Führer wie Sie mit der Scheiße für den Verstand nicht gegriffen, in zweifellos überprüften Sie sich im Glasspiegel, und es ist, was Ihre Männer, Sie schwache Farce töten ließ,” she ridiculed him hatefully, her eyes radiant with a wrathful glow that burned deeply into his silver orbs, exactly wishing to deride him for the outrageously high opinion he held for himself and knock him down a peg or two, letting him know of the bitter truth. “Sie sind so nutzlos Sie können nicht den Dolch sogar bringen, den Sie so stolz zur Gerechtigkeit tragen! Sie wissen, was das genannt wird? Oh, Ja, es hat Misserfolg genannt! Ein großes Misserfolg-Füttern mit der Befähigung anderer Leute, Ihren schmutzigen Hunger für den Ruhm zu befriedigen, wenn Sie die Guillotine nicht sogar verdienen! Sie verdienen, wie der Hund zu sterben, der Sie, wie ein Weibchen, Schäumen sind!” she screamed at him in a fervent, diehard tone, feeling the dirt and the dust under her legs and the back of the arm pinned down.

“Aber das ist, wie was alle Plutokraten tun, uns für unsere Minderwertigkeit verspotten und uns wie Hunde ausnutzen, uns, Punkt und Lachen an uns verspotten, sind wir Schund, aber wenn es dazu kommt, wollen Sie Ihre frechen kleinen Seidenstrümpfe mit ihren Kostümen und zurechtgemachten Hüten – oh nicht nicht! – Sie kommen, um uns zu bumsen, Sie mögen unseren Schund, Sie mögen uns, im Schlamm kriechend und im Schmutz arbeitend, unsere Mühe lässt Sie sich fühlen, als ob Sie etwas wert sind, nicht es, Sie unfähiger Hurensohn?” she bellowed with all the roaring force her lungs possessed, now absolutely unhinged as her true wild nature finally revealed itself as she stood untamed before him, screaming her lungs out in blind rage, her forehead ablaze, as the wind danced around them and only aggravated the fever engulfing her, the veins exposed in her arms and her eyes widened as she laughed in her frenzied, feral state – a cruel, bitter laugh, loud and penetrating, mocking and almost barbaric, laughing at his own pitiful kind, but it was not just her mouth laughing at him, no, her eyes were too, mercilessly, powerfully, her shoulders shaking from her heavy, hoarse breathing, her heart beating in the same rhythm she ached to beat him, that worthless scum of the earth! The lowest of the low! The vermin of society!

But she would not stop now that she, like a violent force of nature, had been unleashed. “Sie wollen die Samen unserer Arbeit teilen, um Ihren Schaum – uns, die Bauer-Huren wettzumachen! Weiß Ihre dumme Jungfrau, was Sie in Afrika tun, weiß sie den Witz eines Mannes, den sie beschloß zu heiraten könnte den Keim von den afrikanischen Huren irgendwelche Zeit des Jahres bekommen? Weiß sie die erbärmliche Verschwendung des menschlichen Lebens, das Sie sind?” she roared at him, her teeth bared, her voice loud and savage, and tasting like vitriol, as she forcefully spat at his face. She looked at him, breathing quickly. “Weiß sie, wie erbärmlich Sie sind?” she shouted, expecting a response from him in that particular question; she knew the answer, but she wanted him to spit it out, to have his filthy mouth admit it, to finally be able to scream the truth out loud for everyone to hear, the pathetic wasteland of human space, his worthless existence – and her free hand came swinging to brutally slap him, throwing his face aside – and before he could even turn around to face her she slapped him again in her untamed, seething rage, staring at him with fire in her eyes, but it was not enough, no – her hand crushed against the other side of his face forcefully with a growl that came not from her throat but from her very viscera, the hatred and the anger having curled into a fist inside her stomach, stripping her of every ounce of self-control and releasing the animalistic savagery that was now unblinkingly staring at him in the face.

“Kommen Sie aus meinem Anblick in diesem Augenblick heraus, oder ich schwöre beliebigem Scheißgott, den Ihre idiotische an Art glaubt, ich werde Ihren Verstand so hart schlagen Sie werden sie vom Grund kratzen. Hören Sie mich?” she clamoured through gritted teeth slowly, almost choking from the blind rage. “Ich werde Sie zerstören!” she roared, her mind aflame, her eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, as the choleric face stared up at him, her chest heaving heavily up and down, her hand clenched into a fist, prepared to make her promises come true.





Translation

The only worthless bitch I see here is you.

And you call yourself a Hauptmann? People like you are fouling the Luftwaffe with all of their pitiful mess, it’s no wonder we haven’t seized Cyrenaica yet, leaders like you with shit for brains, in no doubt you were checking yourself in the glass mirror and that’s what got your men killed, you weak farce. You’re so useless you can’t even bring the dagger you so proudly carry to justice! You know what that is called? Oh, yes, it’s called failure! A big failure feeding on other people’s competence to satisfy your filthy hunger for glory when you don’t even deserve the guillotine! You deserve to die like the dog you are, like a bitch, foaming!

But this is what all plutocrats do, mock us for our inferiority and exploit us like dogs, ridicule us, point and laugh at us like we’re filth, but when it comes to it you don’t want your sassy little silk-stockings with their fancy dresses and trimmed hats – oh no! – you come to fuck us, you like our filth, you like us grovelling in the mud and working in the grime, our toil makes you feel as if you’re worth something, doesn’t it, you impotent whoreson? You want to share the seeds of our labour to make up for your scum – us, the peasant whores! Does your stupid virgin know what you do in Africa, does she know the joke of a man she chose to marry might get the germ from the African whores any time of the year? Does she know the pathetic waste of human life you are? Does she know how pathetic you are?

Get out of my sight right now or I swear to whatever fucking God your idiotic kind believes in, I will beat your brains out so hard you’ll be scraping them off the ground. Do you hear me? I will destroy you!

[Rolf Jäger]

Feeling the woman struggling beneath him filled Rolf with an exhilarating and self-satisfied feeling. Even through his rage he grinned and the expression came out as a maniacal sneer. He had completely forgotten about his surroundings and he did not see the building next to them anymore, nor did he think about the people enjoying their drinks, discussions and dances inside it's sun-cracked walls. The wind that danced around them seemed to spur him on and he blinked absentmindedly when it carried small particles of dust to his face. His silver eyes were fixated on the woman as he hovered over her, his entire being beaming with the exhilaration of having such power over someone, seeing her struggle and grow all the more furious and maybe, underneath it all, desperate for freedom. For a small, curious moment the scene reminded him of something that had happened several years ago on one of his many hunting trips back in Stuttgart. He had stopped at a rabbit trap and found a red-coated fox trapped from its neck on the vicious steel wire loop. The animal had fought against it's relentless captor so viciously, the fur had rubbed away from its neck and scattered around the nearby area in multiple bloody tufts. Once the animal had spotted Rolf and his horse, it had started struggling all the more furiously and Rolf had promptly raised his rifle and ended the fox's suffering short.

But... This was different. He did not want to see this battle finished too soon and instead, he relished feeling the woman's body squirming beneath him, hearing her grunt and pant as she tried to get away from him. He could feel how strong the woman was, but he was a man of considerable strength himself, having always kept good care of his health - back in Germany he had put both himself and all of his pilots through brisk running exercises each day, knowing how important basic fitness was for a successful pilot. And because Rolf only strived for perfection in everything he set out to do, he had made sure to keep up his strength, both for the sake of being a brilliant pilot and also for the sake of merely looking good. He was surprised of how even these resources were now being put to a considerable test by a mere woman and he had to strain his muscles to hold her hand pressed against the dusty ground. His breathing was coming in strange, shallow gasps and an euphoric feeling over striking the woman slowly filled his entire being. The woman's face had tossed to the side from the force of his slap and Rolf could distinctly see how those subtly painted lips parted slightly and how her widened eyes stared somewhere into the distance. Once she slowly turned her head, he met her gaze gleefully and flashed her a grin that was both violent and victorious at the same time. She had deserved it, the little bitch, and more would be coming, yet. He recognized the rage and disgust seething in those venomous, green eyes, felt her hand on his shoulder, trying to push him away, and all of it only worked to wake up Rolf's lust beneath all of the insane anger. Even if he had just described her kind as being nothing but filthy and subservient, her rage was pure and blinding, and Rolf drank this emotion in as if was some rare, exotic drug.

Even through his insane rage he could see the small shift in her eyes and, like blood mixing with water, something changed in her hateful expression. He returned to the gaze just by crushing the woman's arm more violently with his fingers and tilting his head back, the same feral snarl still dominating his features. The woman hissed poisonous words at him, deciding to attack the Hauptmann with her words after realizing that he wasn't going to give up so easily. Rolf was prepared to disregard her insults and continue schooling her, but even through his frenzied blood-haze he could hear each word and feel their vicious bite within his very being. She claimed that he was fouling the Luftwaffe, that because of men like him they stumbled and lost men needlessly while he simply fed on other people's accomplishments. These words were the most destructive ones that had left the woman's lips so far and Rolf's eyes burned with new-found fury. "Schweige, Sie dumme Hure! SCHWEIGE!"

She would not, of course, and her voice had rose to a hysterical scream and it seemed to belong to something inhumane, to a banshee or one of the Erinyes of the Greek mythology. So forceful and domineering were her words, that even in all of his fury Rolf could not bring himself to silence her. She mocked him, stabbing him with those sharp insults and each hit stung him like the strike of a vicious whip. It was even worse when a guttural laugh poured out from that filthy mouth of hers and she laughed, insanely, extravagantly, while Rolf could only yell at her, spittle leaving his lips as he yelled for her to shut up, but she would not hear him over her own lunatic mirth. In his mind Rolf was ready to do anything, anything at all to silence her, and his fingers dug painfully into the skin of her wrist when she spat at him, yelling obscene words, asking Rolf if he realized just how pathetic he was. An uncontrolled roar of rage left Rolf's lungs and his primal yell held no words or special meaning at all - it was a sheer manifestation of the primitive, wolfish rage which had taken over all of his other senses. He was ready to rip at her throat with his bare teeth and to completely destroy the foul being that kept attacking all of his senses so relentlessly, pushing all of his buttons until he could not handle his own thoughts anymore. As if to protect that rational human side to him, he had transformed to a mere beast, abandoning all humanity, and now he growled and howled his rage at her. This woman.... His enemy. His prey. His hunter. The very poison in his veins, one that burned as it entered his system and forced him to writhe down on the ground, bellowing at the pain that simply refused to let go of his senses.

His head was thrown to the side when a sharp slap connected with his face and for a moment Rolf was brought back to reality, or at least the cruel imitation of it, and he only barely registered the iron taste of blood in his mouth after his teeth clamped on his own tongue. A mixture of gasp and a grunt left the Hauptmann's lips and he did not even have time to feel the full extent of the first strike, when another one cut him harshly across his face. This one left his head feeling light and the man blinked, feeling as if he had just ran headlong into a half-track - for a small moment he could not even properly grasp the feeling of anger again and a high-pitched whine rang in his ears. As if this had not been enough, a third strike caught him square on the other side of his face and again Rolf's head thrown to the side from the force of the hit. This time he coughed, blood spattering on his lips from the cut on his tongue and he only barely registered the woman's growl as she assured him that she would destroy him. Rolf flashed the woman a bloodied, wrathful sneer and, seeing the fist hovering in the air near him, grabbed it with his free hand at a speed that surprised even him. His head still felt muddled, but the pain-induced adrenaline helped him to react to the most obvious threat in a very efficient manner. At first he just struggled against her strength, only managing to keep the hand at bay, but as his senses started returning to him, the man growled and relentlessly brought her hand down, slamming it down on the ground next to her head.

Breathing heavily, his hateful silver eyes fixed on the woman's face again and now his expression was truly that of a vile hellish fiend - his hair was standing up and his eyes burned with barbarian malice as blood slowly trickled down from the corner of his mouth. "Sie Hure! Sie kleines Schlampe! Sie sprechen von Dingen, deren Sie gar keine Kenntnisse haben! Wissen Sie nicht, dass, wenn mein Gruppe den Flugplatz verlässt, ich direkt dort mit ihnen bin, dieselben Gefahren erleidend, das Kämpfen in den vordersten Fronten tuend? Ich bin ein Jagdflieger der Luftwaffe, Sie einfache kleine Schlampe! Polen! Frankreich! Großbritannien! Afrika! Ich bin zu allen jenen Plätzen gewesen, mein Vaterland kämpfend! Sagen Sie mir nicht, dass ich mit den Ausführungen anderer Leute füttere! Ich habe mehr zu meinem Land getan, als Tausende von Ihrer Art jemals konnten!" Rolf's voice had become hoarse from all the yelling and raging and his shouting had an unpleasant, grating tone to it now. Speaking felt somewhat painful and he found himself swallowing blood, but in his vengeful state all of this seemed just strangely appropriate and it fed the flames of his wrath. The man grunted, grasping the woman by her wrists forcefully and with an insane sneer, slid them along the ground to have them rest above her head. The adrenaline had managed to wake those underlying reserves of strength he held in his muscles and with the assistance of this power, he slammed the woman's wrist on top of her other one, so he could finally use just one hand to trap both of them. Rolf let out a labored sigh and crushed her wrists against the hard ground with unnecessary force, just to have some payback.

Like a snake slithering from the cover of dried grass, Rolf brought his head slowly down and locked his free hand over the woman's jaw, blood dripping down his chin as he smirked like some hellish visage from a mad artist's painting representing one of the deepest levels of Hell from Dante's Divine Comedy. For a moment it seemed as if the man was planning to force the rebellious woman into a kiss or maybe whisper something into her ear, but then his head snapped away from her, his fingers releasing their hold of her jaw abruptly. Very nimbly and determinedly, his hand clamped on her forehead instead, fingers grasping painfully at her temples. Tilting his head to the side and admiring the grisly scene as if it was a pure work of art, Rolf lifted her head forcefully and slammed it down against the callous ground, relishing in the fact that she had no means of defending herself. This was not enough for the man and he repeated the procedure, knowing that even if the woman wished to struggle against his iron hold, she would be far too dazed to act on the desire now. Remembering the three spiteful slaps the woman had meted out just earlier, Rolf felt as if he should return the compliment and he raised her head up once more, just to make it connect with the ground again.

Rolf released the female's head slowly, letting his hand travel down her cheek suggestively and new words formed on the Hauptmann's blood-spattered lips. "Und wenn es zum Bumsen Bauern kommt... Wollen wir es meine kleine Abweichung nennen, stimmt das?" Rolf teased in his low, gravelly voice and his silver eyes sparked with malice, a devilish smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. He drank in the feeling of power, his eyes lingering on the face of the dazed woman - they took in the curves of those finely curved eyebrows, the texture of her pale skin and the shape of her painted lips. She had used make-up sparingly, but Rolf considered it refreshing after having seen so many of those Italian knockers, as the woman had called them earlier. Recalling the female's quip made Rolf's crooked smile widen for a moment and he traced her fine, strong jaw-line with his fingers and savored the moment, rough fingers soon travelling slowly down her neck. His eyes followed the path of his fingers and stopped at the neckline of her dress, his eyes lighting up with lust and excitement. A guttural, dirty chuckle formed in his chest as his hand grabbed the canvas of the dress and pulled at it, enjoying the rough ripping sound as the fabric tore up, revealing the enticing milky skin of her shoulder. With a dirty, wicked smile, Rolf closed his eyes half-way and enjoyed the sight of his upcoming conquest. Yes. It could be his own little deviation... couldn't it?


Translations:

"Schweige, Sie dumme Hure! SCHWEIGE!"
"Shut up, you stupid whore! SHUT UP!"

"Sie Hure! Sie kleines Schlampe..!"
"You whore! You little bitch! You speak of things you have absolutely no knowledge of! Do you not know that when my Gruppe leaves the airfield, I'm right there with them, enduring the same dangers, doing the fighting in the frontlines? I'm a fighter pilot of Luftwaffe, you simple little slut! Poland! France! Britain! Africa! I've been to all of those places, fighting for my Fatherland! Do not tell me that I feed on other people's accomplishments! I have done more to my country than thousands of your kind ever could!"

"Und wenn es zum Bumsen Bauern kommt... Wollen wir es meine kleine Abweichung nennen, stimmt das?"
"And when it comes to fucking peasants... Let's call it my little deviation, shall we?"

[Dirk Riedel]

With vicious brutality he snatched her fist and crushed it against the ground despite the resistance she enforced, his nails ripping into the skin of the hand he had pinned down from the other side, as she gasped for breath and growled furiously, her body squirming for the escape which at this moment seemed ridiculous, as with an insane, inhuman flare in his bloodshot silver eyes he howled his rage at her, spittle in his mouth, spit and blood. Poland! France! Britain! Africa! She laughed at his face as though his words – his claim for brave comradeship – did not mean anything, as though they were nothing else but supplementary dirt on the ground she lay upon, for she had been through the same operations, risking her life, offering her being for the same Fatherland for whom he had devoted his alleged valour, with the mere exception that she was fighting from the ground forces, dominating earth while he was dominating the skies. Oh, the ironies of life. Poland! France! Africa! She had lived through the beauty and horrors of war, fed from the army’s thirst for predominance, stood by the dying bodies of friends and shed her own blood and soul for the new World Order that would ensure the master race would prevail upon all other races. Not once had she wept for the lost ones but waved them off with a steel-iron affection as characterised her comradeship, her mind on the tasks waiting to be fulfilled, lands to be controlled, expectations to be met and, ultimately, strength and power to be glorified and praised. She had risen from the proletarian class to a warrior her comrades respected, defied her feminine nature, defied the exertion of physical labour and the demands society blessed upon her as a female, just so that some thoughtless psychopath would come and treat her like a mere object for his own destructive will to desecrate and ridicule?

Writhing under his pressure, she could do nothing more but grunt as his hands locked harshly against her wrist, dragging forcefully against the raw ground and pulling them up above her head, crushing them together and holding them with just one hand; completely immobilized and incapable of reacting in any way, the lower part of her frame crushed under the weight of his build, she felt disabled, painfully crippled and, as it so rarely happened in her life, she felt defenceless, powerless, her fate being left to another man’s destructive will. And that feeling was horrible, tearing through her stomach, ripping her untamed heart. When his hand snapped around her jaw strongly, she did not grunt but merely breathed heavily, looking up at him as he brought his face down, knowing what was to come – and she did not close her eyes, no, she would keep them wide open so that he would see her for what she truly was; she wanted him to see his action with clarity, to force her eyes through his own steel greys and have him feel that he was touching filth, to disgust him – but he was only playing tricks with her mind, in true aristocratic fashion, his hand suddenly and unexpectedly snatching her head, fingers strongly and harmfully pressed against her temples as though he for a moment desired to break her face with one strike.

She gasped as her head was raised, a violent groan shoved from the inners of her throat when he crushed it back against the ground with a booming force, the intense throbbing on the back of her head spreading throughout every nerve and inch within her skull, the rage instantly numbed and everything momentarily forgotten as she closed her eyes in sheer pain – but did not have time to feel it in its entire glory for he impatiently lifted her head up again; she gasped, and was knocked once more back down with a hoarse, guttural moan of distress and anguish. He would not even give her the time to experience the painful after-effects of his barbarism, no, he was cruel and heartless, refusing to let her hang there like a used, cheap toy and go through the horrible twinge of pain enveloping her. An eye for an eye. She did not struggle as she felt his fingers pressing against her head for a third time, and the inevitable crush came that eventually left her lying on the ground as though unconscious, her face rolled to the side and hanging motionlessly, her eyes closed. She wrinkled her forehead intensely, and slowly began to feel the inconceivable throbbing of her head, the aching pain numbing every other feeling, too light-headed to react to the fingers now slowly touching her cheek in a way that would have otherwise only caused her disgust. She groaned in pain, slowly turning her face on the front, her eyes opened to meet the sky, almost rolling behind their sockets, her lips half-opened as she breathed in violent gasps of air, the struggle in her hands by now minimal.

His voice passed through her with the briskness of air; she heard him clearly but responded with complete inaction, eyes staring up at the grim, starless dark blue Libyan sky, half-open, half-closed, heaving and panting, distantly feeling his warm hand slowly but firmly journeying down her fevered skin and tracing along her white neck, hungrily, the sin hanging from his quiet, hoarse laugh piercing through her entity ever so faintly; she remained unblinking, not even as the tearing sound of her dress being ripped broke through her ears, the violent force he used shaking her upper body as skin collided against fabric and tore it apart down vertically and beyond, revealing the muscle power of her shoulders. She was not surprised, this had been relatively one of his predictable moves, and she merely lay there, hands pinned above her head, going through her dazed state, her head throbbing viciously, hardly able to withstand the insane animalistic force he was possessed with. With her resolve obliterated, she lay there like the cheap whore he thought she was, in her cheap torn dress, like a cheap rugged doll finally given up to her master’s will, for him to break her, desecrate and humiliate her, ridicule her in the worst possible way, to destroy her pride and watch as she would finally rest in shame – and if there had been any remotest movement of resistance left in her hands and body it had by now subsided completely – and when she moved her glaucous eyes to his face, there was neither rage nor hatred there but, strangely enough, she looked impressed. It may have lasted for a mere second, in a momentary glint, now replaced by an impenetrable air. She seemed overpowered, and eventually conquered as she stood motionless underneath his entire bulk, no longer fighting, writhing, no longer groaning, but inhaling deep doses of air in heavy, silent breathing, and looking crushed.

Defeated.

The wind slapped against her face sharply, clearing her head, slowly alleviating the pain, her mind racing; thinking, feeling; a rush of emotion channelled throughout her previously frozen body, his last words echoing around the walls of her skull, again and again. Deviation. Somewhere in the far distance her mother was screaming at her, as though in slow motion, sucked in by the mists of time, as her hair was being savagely pulled by one of the classmates back at school, her fist throwing a punch in return, brawling in the rain, drenched in dirt and mud, or her jaw being dislocated by one of the farmer’s oldest sons and her snatching him in a headlock - or shoving a young man’s head through the river’s freezing waters after he had beaten down her brother. It was her own sub-conscious method of self-preservation, instinctively reminding herself of the times she had been in such situations, and every time she had faced them with unbroken will, blood and an iron fist. Her eyes dilated again as she looked at his face, his eyes half-closed as they savoured the sight of her skin, the fabric further ripped vertically across the bosom upon her own dazed condition. Deviation. A proud sneer slowly crept up in her lips, and she frowned, slowly shaking her head.

Paralyzed from her upper body, with her frame crushed under his weight, and inevitably trapped within his devilish embrace, the chances of her freeing herself were close to nil. In short, she was fucked. Trying to breathe calmly, she slightly stretched her legs and realized she could only move her right leg a little on the side; taking advantage of the fact her subsided struggling had him less concentrated on keeping her on a leash and more on her freshly revealed flesh, her green eyes glinted with a touch of menacing intentions as she slowly slid her leg across the back of his shin; at first it appeared as a simple, natural movement but then it became suggestive, disgust overfilling her insides once more, her rage presently tamed after the multiple head collision; under other circumstances this would have normally set her off to a wild round of feral beating, but not this time. This was a different circumstance, and she understood she could not fight against his maniacal force for long; it would be to no avail, he would not give up, as neither would she. So she went along, relaxing her body furthermore despite her deep nausea, slithering her long, strong and muscled leg upwards in a slow, almost gentle manner so as not to awaken suspicion, his last words now utterly occupying her mind on repeat, determined as she was to win this little war.

She stared at him once he looked up, her face ridden of anything that would betray her, just the common controlled anger through her green eyes, now slightly narrowed as she felt with great annoyance the same ripping sound penetrating her mind – and in a swift, smooth move she forced her leg inwards and gave him a good kick up his crotch. The moments that it took for him to react – she took advantage of his retreating grasp and freed her hands away with a violent shove – and as he busied with tending to himself she used her force to snatch him from his shoulders and throw him on the side, sent him rolling on the ground, his uniform messed by the dirt and the dust. She immediately sat bolt upright but due to the head collision everything blackened for a second and she felt incredibly dizzy, resting backwards again with her hand stretched vertically against the earth to support her as she closed her eyes and groaned in pain. Her fingers pressed against her temples and softly massaged them in soft, slow circles, but she could not distract herself with this pain, the foaming rage engulfing her soul again as she turned over her shoulder and stared at him lying with his back against the ground, looking rabid in his rage and ready to strike her once more – but she would school him with some proper manners. She crawled on her fours and snatched him from his open collar, crushing the fabric within her fist as she dragged him.

Her face contorted with rage, she struck him with a violent slap that threw his face aside, and snatched him from the collar again, curling her hand into a fist – and punched him with a loud grumble inside her throat, her green eyes wide open from the insane, unadulterated revulsion which sprang from his crude, raw attempt at such primitive exploitation, her iron fist smashing against his jaw and sending him to the other side, but she would not release him, no, it was too late for that, too late to tolerate and forget his arrogance and insolence, too late to control her feral hatred and untamed strength, too late to pretend his shocking strength and power could overcome her disgust. Locking her hand against his neck, she glued his head against the ground as she hovered above him, the veins in her hands popping out like metal chords, her lips curved into an expression of enraged frenzy as she sat upon him, holding his head forcefully down; she stared at him for mere seconds before she punched him with her right hand, and then one more time just to let him know how simply powerless he could be despite his blue-blooded heritage, just how human he was, like all the rest of those plebeians he loved to ridicule and laugh at amidst his own self-importance; how weak he could be, how vulnerable! How pathetic. She knocked him on the ground with another punch, raging, her throat howling hatefully, throwing him on the left side, then on the right side, and on the left again, in a cruel dance macabre, to the left, to the right, one two three four, and swinging.

Glancing at the blood dripping from his mouth, she gripped tight from his collar, not wanting him to go unconscious, not now that it was her turn to teach him exactly how those peasant plebs could deal with aristocratic arses such as himself. She stretched her hand and snatched the dagger from the scabbard on his left hip, holding it firmly in her hands, feeling the pressure against her whitening knuckles, feeling the temptation to mark him, show the world what a useless dog he was, and as she brought the silver, shining blade down and pressed it against his neck, her fervent eyes stared into his dark greys with disgust and wrath – she tightened the grip around the dagger, and tilted her head down to cause the damage, breathing heavily and with her chest heaving up and down in her torn, ripped dress … but drew no blood. Instead, with a cry of fury, she used it to ferociously tear the buttons of his uniform’s jacket off, one right after the other, but then the knife became a nuisance – no! – she was going to do it with her own bare hands, ridicule him herself, and so threw the dagger aside as she snatched the remaining buttons of the lower part, her fingers roughly locked around the knob sewn on to the garment and tore it apart, and then the next, violently, feverishly, her forehead ablaze and her hands working as though they were dealing with the most fatal disease she needed to rid humankind of, eventually all the buttons ending up thrown somewhere around them, she cared not where.

She forcefully opened his jacket in a scratchy noise and pulled off the sleeves, first the right and then the left, pulling herself to the side as she snatched him from his neck, eyes rabid and ice-cold with fury, lifting his head forward and then slapping him, throwing him back downwards with his stomach facing the ground, blood mixed with dust, and dust mixed with spit. She yanked him backwards from his hair, slightly raising his head from the ground as she stared at his back, and then slammed him back down, her hands proceeding to pull the jacket off, and when she did, she threw it away hatefully. She bent down and yanked his hair again, this time bringing herself lower instead, as her chin touched his shoulder, smelling the filthy, tainted blood on his face, and rasped to his ear, “Sie verdienen es nicht. Sie verdienen nicht einen Kämpfer genannt zu werden.”

She let his head go forcefully, and slowly rose, her chest heaving up and down, panting, but she calmed it down willingly, slowly standing upwards as she looked down on him with disdain. And when she stood in her full height, she used her foot to push him from the right side and turn him over slowly – lying with his back against the ground, he could now see her, tall and imposing, the proud chin held up high as she was wrathfully staring him down, the black dress ripped from the neckline downwards to her bosom, one foot by his right side, the other by his left, standing there supremely, a conqueror. A victor. She slowly came down, slightly bringing her face lower as she glanced at his bloody jaw, her eyebrows curved this time not with rage but curiosity. She stretched her hand and traced her fingers across his jaw, not forcefully but with an almost shocking calmness, travelling up his mouth and slowly, almost gently, touching the lines in the corner of his lips at the point where the upper joined the lower part, wiping off the blood – and brought the finger closer to her mouth, tasting the blood at the edge of her tongue. She wanted to know. She wanted to know whether she was right. A grimace instantly resurfaced, and she spat the blood back on his face with a hateful scowl. “Bitterer ... gerade wie dachte ich,” she said in a low voice, hoarse, and poisoned with disgust.

She rose once more, looking down on him, and then roughly dragged her high-heeled shoe across his stomach, slowly, painfully, up to his collarbone, and finally resting on his jaw, pressing against it roughly, for she was the conqueror. The predator. “So … von Jäger … wie tun, mögen Sie uns Bauer-Huren?”



Translation

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve being called a fighter.

Bitter ... just like I thought.

So ... von Jäger … how do you like us peasant whores?

[Rolf Jäger]

The rage that had just manifested itself in such a sudden and turbulent manner had now given way to another feeling entirely and shivers of pleasure and exhilaration ran down Rolf's spine. He grumbled low in his throat as he saw the woman giving up, simply submitting to him and lying there like the little peasant slut she was. He could see that her sudden tranquility was not only because of the solid hits she had taken to the head, no, there was something else to it. The woman had finally realized that fighting was simply useless and that if she struggled, she would only end up humiliating herself even worse. A languid, victorious smile lingered on Rolf's lips as the man enjoyed his conquest, his fingers travelled over that milky white skin that seemed to set his mind aflame. It seemed that no matter how boorish he considered these peasant people, at least they knew when to submit to their betters. Maybe the knowledge was written in their very genes, a natural survivor from the times of feudalism, he could not say. The only thing that mattered right now was that she now lay there defeated, ready for him to toy with, ready to be humiliated even further and dragged into such depths of degradation, she would learn her place and remember it for the rest of her life.

Still, there was nothing wrong with enjoying the moment and Rolf allowed himself the time to study her. Very carefully and slowly, he traced a path from the female's collarbone to her shoulder with his fingertips and lowered his head to enjoy the smell of her skin, as if he was appraising a glass of fine wine. His eyes drank in the sight hungrily and a silent sneer of lust lingered on his lips when he felt the yearning inside him growing and the intoxicating sensation filled his mind with several engaging scenarios. Then he could feel it, the female's leg travelling slowly up his shin and Rolf's fingers froze in their spot for the moment, his silver eyes narrowing. He raised his head and could see the woman looking back at him, expression blank and unreadable even when her leg continued rubbing against his, seductively, invitingly. Rolf's eyes sparked with amusement and surprise and a crooked smirk formed at the corner of his mouth. "Oh... Alles Sie Frauen ist dasselbe. Ich sollte gewusst haben. Alles, was es nahm, war eine kleine Überzeugung," Rolf mused, his voice low and raspy. His breathing quickened and he stared at the woman fervently. "Aber es ist ganz richtig.. Ich werde Ihnen gerade geben, was Sie wolle- AARRRGH!" The words were cut abruptly when a solid kick caught him in his nether regions and all of his senses were suddenly ablaze with completely different, unpleasant physical sensations. The horrible, sharp pain was still travelling from his crotch to other regions of his body when the woman pushed him away and forced the pained man to roll off her, landing on the dusty ground with a loud thump. Pain dominated his entire consciousness and right then and there Rolf did not see nor did he care where he was. Grunting and writhing, Rolf pressed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, just so that he wouldn't cry out in agony.

The pain was still there, but the worst brunt of it had already worn off when Rolf started picking himself up, rolling to his back first and muttering offensive words under his breath. That little bitch! Rolf opened his eyes and sneered in anger at the woman, seeing himself strangling her, slamming her head against the ground again to pacify her, anything to get back at her for succumbing into using such dirty tricks, but this time he was not met with the gaze of a broken, tamed female, but that of a feral beast. The man did not even have the chance to get up from the ground to defend himself as the woman already crawled to him on all fours like a predator, closing up the short distance between them with surprising speed. The woman reached him in the matter of few seconds and grabbed the collar of his shirt, raising his upper body from the ground with remarkable strength.

A vicious slap connected with Rolf's face and stung his skin like fire, feeding the flames of his own anger further. Rolf met her gaze once again, his eyes narrowed in distaste and his face distorted into a sneer that would have looked more fitting on a ferocious canine than a human. "Sie warten gerade-" His words were cut short again when a fist slammed into his jaw, sending such incredibly strong waves of pain through his head that any thoughts of retaliation were hopelessly forgotten. His head lurched to the side and his grey eyes were wide from astonishment when he slumped down on the ground, feeling a strong hand immediately pushing against his neck, nearly making him choke. Rolf could feel a sudden weight on top of himself and the man's eyes bulged in their sockets, hands desperately searching for an attacker he could not see anymore over his own confusion and pain. A fist connected mercilessly with his head once again and because his head was held against the ground, his body could not even try to deflect any of the brutal force of that blow. He felt himself succumbing into darkness and it felt much like the feeling he remember sometimes experiencing when almost falling asleep, only to be awakened to a horrifying feeling of falling down. It would have been easiest if he could have remained in that black silence, but instead he found himself snapping back to reality, just in time to experience the second strike that caught him square on the side of his face again. Rolf's body had gone almost entirely limp by this time and he rode on unreal waves of sharp pain and primal panic - he wasn't sure if he was trying to say something or not, if his hands were trying to push the attacker away. As if distanced from his body, the third punch seemed to happen to someone else, someone that looked like him and someone whose feelings he could somehow register, but they weren't really his feelings, not his body wracked by that horrendous beast that was now throwing him from side to side as if wanting to tear him apart.

Rolf's eyes almost rolled over and he swallowed blood on an instinct, not putting up any resistance at all when the woman grabbed him by his collar once again. He groaned low in his throat and struggled to keep his eyes open when his body pushed him towards a shutdown mode to protect his mind from the gruesome pain that was pounding all over inside his head, gnawing viciously at his temples and making his jaw ache. His ears registered the sound of steel being drawn and only because the woman was holding him up did he manage to stay somewhat upright. He could feel the ice-cold blade appearing on his throat and he swallowed blood again, trying to focus his eyes on the woman to see if she really meant to finish him off. Even though Rolf had never been a quitter, right that moment he felt that it might have not been such a bad thing to have one's throat cut open - it would have at least ended this inhumane suffering of his and he would have gone somewhere where it was dark, cool and quiet, where no pain could possibly exist. Oh, wouldn't it be amusing, finding a Luftwaffe Hauptmann in Libya, outside this building, his throat cut open? Here lies Rolf Jäger - An unfortunate victim of a Libyan outlaw. He would have laughed at the thought if he had possessed the ability to do so, but instead he just stared at the woman, not really seeing her. Rolf blinked slowly in his stupor and waited for the moment when the steel would bite into his skin and draw blood... but it did not.

Instead, the woman growled angrily and ripped into his mess jacket with vicious precision and Rolf could hear the faint metallic sound of the blade landing on the ground when she discarded it. As some of Rolf's senses slowly started returning to him, he could better register the continuous, furious tugs on his jacket and he realized that the woman was systematically ripping out the buttons and throwing them away. Even though he could not follow her train of thoughts, Rolf felt momentarily relieved of the fact that the woman was attacking the jacket instead of him. It gave him enough time to realize that the earlier stupor was starting to wear off and all of his senses were slowly but surely getting bombarded by ever-growing waves of burning pain. A low groan of agony formed in his hoarse throat and he realized that he still did not possess the coordination or strength to defend himself. Maybe he wouldn't have to... Maybe she had grown tired already? What did she want with his jacket? Rolf's tired, pained mind pushed these questions aside and he found himself just being thankful for the fact that, at least for the moment, he wasn't getting punched in the face. In fact, he could have played this particular game longer, but after the woman ran out of buttons in the jacket, she pulled at the piece of clothing viciously and Rolf found himself being slapped down on the ground once again. He landed on his stomach with a low grunt, still in too much of a daze to even soften the fall with his hands and the impact cleared the air from his lungs. Rolf inhaled quickly and found himself breathing in sand and dust, which in turn caused him to succumb into a violent fit of coughs, blood spattering on the ground.

The merciless female did not give him time to cope with any of this and instead, strong fingers grasped Rolf's hair painfully. He grimaced when the woman forcefully lifted him up, just to rip the jacket off him while he could only cough, still trying to get rid of the dust. Rolf slammed painfully down on the ground, only to feel those cruel fingers curling around his hair again. Unable to do anything at all, he groaned and cringed at the burning feeling over his scalp, hoping that all of his would just end soon. His breathing came in raspy, erratic gasps and he could feel her warm breath on his skin as she whispered poisonous, gleeful words into his ear. Not fit to be called a fighter. The words pierced his mind hurtfully and he winced when he felt the fingers releasing their hold and he could already anticipate how his head would connect with the ground painfully once again. He was right, of course, and down he went once again, his temple slamming against the callous ground, just further inciting the already existing agony.

If there was anything positive to say about the pain, it was waking up his survival instincts, urging him to do at least something and Rolf tried to focus on that feeling. His fingers dug into the dry mud and dirt pushed under his fingernails when he gathered up all of his inner resources to force his body into listening to him again. How he hated feeling so powerless, so completely unable to do anything at all! The flames of anger flickered somewhere in the reaches of his mind and the muscles on his arms contracted, answering the primal feeling. Rolf's mind raced and he found himself imagining how he would completely surprise the woman and met out some vicious payback. These thoughts made him almost smirk and Rolf felt completely elated... at least up until to the point when he felt the woman pushing him with her foot, turning him around on the ground. No! No, goddammit! He could only weakly roll around to his back, groaning and gritting his teeth, still swallowing blood. He slowly raised his gaze and focused his eyes on the woman, even though he knew what a smug expression he would be seeing and how much he would hate it.

She stood there, her feet firmly set next to his sides, blonde hair whipping in the wind as she looked down on him like some ferocious Amazon of the legends, a goddess of strife, a Valkyrie. It was difficult to think that this same woman had just earlier been lying down on the ground, trapped under him, all fight having completely left her body. A proud, victorious expression had replaced the short-lived melancholy and she now carried herself in the dominant, confident manner of a conqueror. Even within his own thoughts Rolf would not admit that what he felt towards the woman was respect, no. It was something else, more of a... fascination, a curiosity towards her strength and ferociousness. Never before had he met such a woman or even dreamed that someone like her could exist and, like often happened to Rolf with all things curious and challenging, her presence had completely enveloped his mind and filled them with questions. He still hated her and quick, angry images of his fingers curling around her neck flashed through his mind and he could hear the sound of her gasping furiously for air. But he also realized he still lusted after her, even if it just for the sake of dominating and breaking her and he could not place one feeling over another. For a very brief moment the confusion over these feelings reflected through his grimace of pain and Rolf was suddenly reminded of how weak he must have looked right now, compared to her.

Rolf cut his thoughts off with abrupt, angry force and met the gaze of her green eyes sternly, completely refusing to look beaten, not wanting to give her that pleasure - in fact, he much resembled a stubborn dog that would take a vicious trashing from its owner and would still not cease from growling and flashing its teeth as long as it still could draw breath. He had never received such a beating from anyone and certainly not from a woman. He watched her crouching down and even though his instincts told him to move away, he held his head perfectly still when the woman's fingers touched his face. Rolf was expecting it to be some vicious trick and his entire body tensed, waiting for the upcoming pain, but instead he felt her fingers travelling calmly, even gently, on his bloody jaw, travelling to the edge of his mouth. There was confusion in Rolf's steel-grey eyes when he saw the woman bringing the finger to her own lips, to taste his blood.

He should have known that this was just another one of her insults and she spat the blood at him, cursing it's bitterness. The female rose up slowly, still relishing the sight of her fallen foe as she brought her foot up. This time Rolf could not prevent himself from flinching and grunting when he felt the painful, sharp heel of her shoe pushing against his stomach, travelling upwards over his chest, grating over his collarbone and finally coming to a stop at his jaw. Rolf winced and immediately cursed himself for even reacting on the pain, but he could hardly do anything about it. Unable to move his head, he turned his grey eyes towards the woman, defiant, challenging, even though he was in no condition to put up any fight at all. Rolf had never looked as beaten as he did now: blood ran down his jaw, only slowed down by the dust that clung to his skin. His expensive white shirt (minus the uppermost button) was mostly the colour of dirt now, as were the previously neat blue pants - an inevitable aftereffect of rolling around on the ground. Rolf's light-brown hair had also taken on a dusty appearance and it had been left standing up from all the grasping it had been through. His muscles were sore and his head was pounding and the pain made his breathing come in fast, laborious heaves while he just laid down on the ground as the he woman pushed the sharp heel of her shoe against his jaw. Yes, Rolf might have been the very image of defeat, but his eyes reflected only brazenness and pride when he stared up at the woman and heard her asking him how he liked the peasant whores.

Rolf had to gulp down blood and when he first tried to speak, all he could manage was a hoarse whisper that slowly but surely grew in strength with each word. "Sie sind sicher viel mehr praktisch als aristokratische Frauen," Rolf rasped, not even trying to avoid the sharp heel pushed against his jaw. The man had to draw a few breaths before he could continue. "Und.. Ich hatte Recht... Sie haben wirklich die Kraft eines Ackergaul. Aber ..." Rolf had to swallow blood again. "Sie haben auch die Manieren von einem." The man sighed after managing to finish his sentence, having thrown a compliment disguised in an insult at her - well, at least as much of an compliment as he was ready to share. Rolf was past cheap, low-shot insults and for that moment he felt that the woman deserved at least some recognition - this was his way of showing it. "Ich weiß Ihren Namen nicht sogar und.... Ich bin aufgelegt, dass wir einander für immer gewusst haben," the man flashed the woman a bloodied and lopsided smirk, defying all common sense in all of his insolence. She could kick him, strike him and insult him, but he simply refused to admit defeat. He did not believe in defeat and instead considered the situation a minor setback. Well, granted, a very painful and humiliating one, but still, just a setback.


Translations:

"Oh... Alles Sie Frauen ist dasselbe. Ich sollte gewusst haben. Alles, was es nahm, war eine kleine Überzeugung."
"Oh... All you women are the same. I should have known. All it took was a little persuasion."

"Aber es ist ganz richtig.. Ich werde Ihnen gerade geben, was Sie wolle- AARRRGH!"
"But that's all right.. I'll give you just what you wa- AARRRGH!"

"Sie warten gerade-"
"You just wait-"

"Sie sind sicher viel mehr praktisch als aristokratische Frauen."
"You are certainly much more hands-on than... aristocratic women."

"Und.. Ich hatte Recht... Sie haben wirklich die Kraft eines Ackergaul. Aber ..."
"And.. I was right... You do have the strength of a plow horse. But..."

"Sie haben auch die Manieren von einem."
"You also have the manners of one."

"Ich weiß Ihren Namen nicht sogar und.... Ich bin aufgelegt, dass wir einander für immer gewusst haben."
"I do not even know your name and.... I feel like we've known each other forever."

[Dirk Riedel]

The dark grey sky hanging overhead was starless and grim, but at least it seemed to bear a smoother texture that alleviated the deadly essence howling through the atmosphere in the form of a strengthened, cold wind blowing the curls of her blonde hair around her face as she stared down at him with shining, proud green eyes and an expression of sheer austerity through the tautened muscles of her face. She expected him – she wanted him – to give up, to furiously admit defeat and finally acknowledge how her peasant values were held on a superior level to his own ridiculed aristocratic lifestyle and how worthless he felt after such merciless treatment which only served to prove precisely how human he could be, stripped of every privileged defenses he had been accustomed to and goaded with throughout his meaningless, sordid existence. But he did neither of these: he merely grimaced in pain and then looked up at her in the same unyielding, defiant and proud stature as had characterized her when she had been writhing under his strong frame what seemed to belong to a long time ago, though it really had been only moments.

Though defeated he was, beaten, and kicked away like a disobedient dog, the appearance of weakness and vulnerability which controlled his body did not reach his eyes, which, wrought with iron and steel-gray, refused to look away from her in a last defiant act of self-respect and even lingering arrogance which prevented him from ever divulging to his self of the fact he had been conquered by someone whom he had considered as mere filth, no less, the opportunity to force his destructive will on her having been snatched away from him seconds before he could accomplish his desires, but he would reap what he had sewn, and unquestionably he only just had. With her shoe pressed forcefully against his jaw and imposing her absolute dominance upon his overpowered being, she closely observed him as he silently struggled in his attempt at proper speech, her power not once subsiding, her authority not ever being put to question. The noise his throat made as he gulped down the blood shed pierced through her entire being, his hoarse whisper ringing through the walls of her mind with an undesirable force she never cared to examine, but which would linger within, as his frail voice strengthened and conceded to the fact her peasant heritage was in terms of practicality superior to such noble supremacy.

As his next few words transferred through the cholera-infected air and scrawled inside her brain, she remained motionless at his comparison of her to a plow horse, that devious, cunning insult accompanied by what she could only assume was a favourable remark, her expression severe and proud throughout his raspy words, her eyes fixed upon his defeated figure and with her face hardened and intolerable. Until something he said caused her forehead to slightly wrinkle, as her eyebrows curved above the green orbs and she stared down at him with confusion mixed with curiosity and interest. Her name. Looking at him with a forbidding silence that was only ever violated by the sharp rasps of his guttural voice as he continued talking to her with a determination of spirit she had rarely seen before with her own eyes. Her brother might have been the feather-brained, naïve and quixotic type of human being to believe in such metaphysical allusions, yet she only believed in the power of science and the solutions it brought on people’s lives and on the government’s resources – and though there was nothing quixotic whatsoever in his voice (nor did he appear to be the kind of person susceptible to such easiness of mind), she still listened to him with that same confused interest before she effortlessly dismissed him once that same, arrogant, remarkably self-sufficient smirk rose across his lips, stained with blood, stained with unadulterated sin and a deplorable lack of remorse over his own supercilious poise; she furrowed her eyebrows, and the shoe’s pressure against his jaw strengthened under her command, showing him the call for military obedience to those who were above him.

But she could not forget or ignore his bloodied request. To the soldiers fighting alongside her, they knew not her true identity, her twofold nature, the personal struggle she had to undergo with herself in order to maintain a barely held balance as she proceeded from battle to battle, obeying to the human call for violence and war, relishing through it on her masculine quality of strength and power; and though they missed on her former, double life, this would not change the relationship she had with each one of them, that of deep-rooted comradeship. So why could she not answer such a simple question? Who she was, the girl or tomboy she had once been, the years in Hannover, seemed to have belonged to a distant dream, a completely different world that lay eternities away from this reality – the reality of war – although she knew the dreams of that girl, the hidden motives and secret aspirations, she could feel that young girl’s thirst to belong to a group to which she would prove her worth, as so she had done in the military, a group that better defined her nature rather than the dull, meaningless lives of women succumbing to a state of inertia and objectified existence. She knew that girl very well; she understood her wild, untamed spirit as she run through the forests or swam through the rivers – so why could she not answer such a simple question?

“Riedel,” she said, breaking her forced, thoughtful silence, her voice low and deep, slightly guttural but with a smoother texture to it as though she was confessing to something he ought to remember. For that was her deeper desire in the pit of her stomach, in the fist clenched within her viscera, demanding of him to know by whom exactly he had been humiliated, who had been the one – the mere woman – who had brought shame to his heritage by thwarting him, the peasant whore to have overpowered a rude aristocrat foaming in painful streams of arrogance and grandeur; an undying thirst inside her swarmed through her body in the blood that pumped in her heart as she, in all her fierce pride and simple, uncomplicated rural beauty of mind, craved for him to be aware of his own pitiful insignificance through just one single name. It was all she could share, and all he needed to know. A surname, a title of address, a characteristic extracted from her true whole name and which denoted the secrecy beneath the carefully devised word, a code name he could not break – an enigma he could not understand.

Green pierced in grey in search of a reaction, and as she slowly moved her hand downwards and roamed through the small pocket on the left part of her black dress, she reached for the now crushed packet of cigarettes and drew one out, all the while staring down at him, her eyes cold, unblinking – and before she smoked, she slowly pulled her shoe off his jaw and back on the ground by his side, always remaining above him like a deity ensuring its worshipper’s loyalty upon its temple, or a captor inspecting its prey before it devoured it. But she did not wish to devour him, such was not her nature; her ultimate determination was to prove to him how utterly defenseless he could be under the proper circumstances, how each human being, irrespective of class and social status, could come upon a situation in which they would feel as powerless as an orphaned animal, as weightless as a summer leaf being ripped from the tree on the first cold winter rain, as life would scalp their bodies from the inside out and reap their souls with no mercy and no fear, right to the marrow of the bone, to the final crushing sentiment – he needed to know how worthless he could be if life decided to present him with the occasion, how no class and no wealth could ever provide him with the security of constant gains without always taking something away, and how disrespect by an aristocrat who had never strived his way through success towards the proletarian people and the endless labours they were subjected to was not a mere matter of revenge for such injustice; it was inherently the battle of the classes that would never cease, never fade, never discontinue resulting in prejudice and hatred within a society’s own bowels, people fighting one another, hating one another, with the same intensity and force she hated him for being what he was. Unworthy of privileges.

The grey fume entered through her lips, slowly, the orange glow lighting her eyes in a way which only exposed their true colour to him. Grey-green, like the Wehrmacht uniform she was wearing; but that he would not ever know. There was something there in the deep corners of her mind which remotely acknowledged curiosity and keen interest upon his defiance – she saw through it, and it was not arrogance, not a screening of his persistent self-importance or obstinacy, it was the kind of indignation akin to self-respect that characterized those of a proud, fierce nature. She could understand that; she would never condemn it. But she would condemn his insolence of spirit. His pride in refusing the call for defeat made her inwardly curious as she stared at him openly, examining his rugged facial features in search of something that would allude to the source of such inner strength of character which would allow him to stare back at her, ridiculed, humiliated, but not vanquished forever; each time it had to be a new conquest afresh, each time she would have to prove her point until he would finally realize the clarity of truth behind her actions, for she was a woman who preferred them to words. But this was an unnecessary thought; this was the only time she would ever see his mongrel face again, and endure his insolent personality as though forged through the fires of hell, for she would never again have to school him over a lesson well-learned. “Sie müssen sich Ihren Platz in der Welt zu lernen, Jäger,” she told him, her voice a curious combination of austerity and gentleness as she looked at him with fiercely burning eyes. “Und es ist nicht hier, nein. Es ist dort unten.” And as eyes connected with the force of wrath equally shared, grey in green, she could have sworn a lingering thought which had previously distanced itself from the corners of her mind reappeared, ever dominant and claiming recognition.



Translation

You need to learn your place in the world, Jäger. And it’s not up here, no. It’s down there.

[Rolf Jäger]

A small, slow trickle of blood travelled down Rolf Jäger's chin and snaked down his throat, but the man did not notice it, for his attention had been completely stolen by the blonde female standing over him, still pushing the heel of her shoe against his jaw. He stared up at her, his grey eyes ever defiant and prideful, even though his current situation seemed to give little cause for such insolence, but it was something he simply refused to shake, for it was a characteristic that defined much of what Rolf Jäger was. He wasn't prideful just for the sake of his blood-line, not for his money or stature, although all of these things often seemed to play the most important part in his self-sufficiency. No. It was a matter of his very nature and without his pride and relentlessness, he would have been just another dusty aristocrat. Of course he had been raised by very high standards, like most of his kind, and the fact that he was the only heir to von Jäger's properties had made him feel important and irreplaceable at an age where such words had been completely foreign to the child.

Even as a small boy he had known his worth and why wouldn't he had? His mother would be ever coddling him while his father - strict and distant as he was - was always worrying over his safety. Rare had been the moments when Rolf had not been accompanied by a servant of some kind when he had been just a boy. Still, somewhere in the deep reaches of his mind Rolf knew that he had always been a very lonely child and that his childhood had not been the normal kind. Having lost his friends (as much as they could have been called such) as they aged and went to school while Rolf stayed at the Jäger estate listening to private teachers, he had never truly had anyone to talk to. Certainly, the servants had always been attentive, serving to his every childish whim, but when it had come to true friends, Rolf had never had any. He still secretly and scornfully remembered the days when he had pressed his hand against the windowpane of the old manor castle, knowing that other children were spending the sunny day outside throwing stones into water, catching bugs, dirtying themselves in the mud and enjoying other childish games while he would be ever trapped by his own blood, studying history and politics, trained for the future. He had been told that great responsibilities lay before him and for that he needed both knowledge and skills, which had been force-fed to him all his youth. His small child's mind had tried to grasp these concepts the best he could and he had tried to understand, although these thoughts had filled him with fear over failure. No, failure had been simply out of question and as comfortably as he had lived in the middle of all that abundance, it had been made very clear to him that the choices had been already made for him, there would be no room for back-talking, no room for his own aspirations.

Still, he had ever been the rebel and more than once had he paid a dear price for it. Even though his father had very rarely resorted to physical violence, his demanding and serious presence had usually been enough to scare him back in line. He knew that other sons might have joyfully grasped their father's hand upon meeting him, exchanged warm greetings, but Rolf's world had always been ruled by the old-fashioned code of von Jägers. No, when his father walked into the room, he was expected to snap to attention, only talking when given the permission and always giving clear, prompt answers when presented with a question. His childhood had been practical, strict, geared towards a goal that had been decided for him and here this woman was, thinking that the aristocratic life was only about lounging around, that it didn't come with a price. Joining the Luftwaffe had been the only thing Rolf had done of his own stubborn will and he held on to that decision with fearsome desperation. He would still respect and uphold the old ways of his family, but he knew that the war had given him the opportunity to outshine even those expectations. This woman could never understand it, she could not see past her heedless hatred towards the aristocrats. Maybe they were both blind in their hatred, ancient prejudices living in their very blood, passed from one generation to another. Not that Rolf, even understanding this, would have let go of his opinion about the peasant caste - they had their uses and tasks, menial as they might have been - and Rolf knew things would forever remain the same.

But her.... She certainly must have been an exception to the rule with her fiery, untamed spirit. There was such life to her, something that seemed to glow from beneath her very skin that made him feel so drawn to her. What they said about moths and flames seemed very fitting now, although Rolf would make sure that as enticed by her fire as he was, he would not be the one getting burned. But still, she was a challenge, Rolf mused. Definitely a challenge.

Even from his rather demeaning and difficult vantage point he could see the fierce curves of the woman's eyebrows furrowing in confusion and contemplation when Rolf asked to know her name. She either had not been expecting the question or it had been presented in a confusing manner and Rolf found himself observing the changes in her expression. The moment of confusion was short-lived and Rolf's self-sufficient smirk seemed to awaken the woman's anger once again because she pushed the heel of her shoe more forcefully against his jaw, making the man wince and grunt under her gesture of dominance. Even through the pounding pain inside his head and the ever painful pressure on his jaw, Rolf could not find the reaction hateful and instead, it only peaked his interest further. How commanding she could be, how overwhelmingly violent and strong. His silver eyes stayed on the face of his adversary as he waited for the answer, trying to make out those small changes in her demeanor as she remained silent for a small while. Maybe she was contemplating on if she should tell him her name at all? Or did she simply think that Rolf wasn't worthy of learning her name? Or was it the fear of some sort of retaliation she was expecting after handing a Luftwaffe Hauptmann such a vigorous trashing? No... It could have not been that, because she must have known that Rolf would never tell someone how he had been beaten by a mere woman. There was something else there, secrets hidden beneath those fearsome eyes, just as elusive and surprising as her sudden, relentless fury had been. How he wanted to rip at those secrets and reveal them as brutally as he had just moments earlier exposed her pale skin for his own enjoyment, how alive the thought made him feel! No matter how thoroughly he had been kicked, slapped and punched, he still desired to ravage her entire being, both mentally and physically. Rolf knew he wouldn't be satisfied until he saw this woman completely conquered at his feet, submissive and meek, the way she should have remained in the first place. The task lay clear and compelling ahead of him and in his mind's eye he could already see their current places switched, the thought filling him with at least some sense of satisfaction and anticipation even when the pain was still insisting on dominating his entire being.

The low and rather guttural voice of the woman broke the silence and Rolf arched an eyebrow once he heard her name. Riedel. The name repeated itself inside his mind and he studied it carefully, as if was the most precious clue about her identity he had yet come upon. It was quite obviously her surname and for some reason she had chosen to withhold her first name from him - maybe for the sake of protecting her identity or just so that Rolf could not corrupt the name with his arrogant words and demean it. It sounded like a strong and simple name, much like his own was, and Rolf stored the name almost obsessively in that little part of his mind that was now completely dominated by this mysterious female. He felt the pressure on his jaw easing up as the woman slowly withdrew her leg, lighting a cigarette. Rolf allowed himself to breathe out, letting out a muffled cough in the process, but never once did his gaze leave the woman as he observed her watching down at him, the ember lighting of the cigarette illuminating her well-defined face in an almost eerie manner. She still remained standing over him, as if just to continue exerting her dominance over his beaten figure and Rolf raised an eyebrow slightly as his hand moved slowly to touch his face. The moment his fingertips touched the side of his jaw, he winced in pain and displeasure, but after a while he brought the dusty sleeve of his shirt up, carefully wiping the blood, spit and dust away from his skin. It made him feel a lot more presentable, even though he knew that in his present state if could have not been nothing more but a hopeful illusion. Nevertheless, he wiped the other side of his face also, although plenty of dust and blood still remained and most of it had been merely transferred on to the sleeve of his white shirt.

Languidly smoking her cigarette, the woman spoke again, telling Rolf how he should know his place in the world and that it was, indeed, down at her feet and not up as he had originally assumed. Rolf looked back up at the woman, staring her in the eyes for a small moment and then he rested his head against the callous ground once again, the corners of his lips withdrawing into an amused smile slowly before responding to her words with a mirthful, raspy laughter. His barking laugh lasted only for a few seconds before it was cut abruptly by a furious fit of coughing when the man found himself breathing in his own blood. He had to cough and swallow before he could breath easier again and Rolf's hand travelled over his lips to wipe away the blood spatters. "Oh... Ich merke es jeder Weg nicht. Obwohl ich zugebe," Rolf coughed again, but then the same crooked smile crept to his lips once again when he mischievously turned the meaning of her words into something much more suggestive. "Ich zog wirklich es vor, auf der spitze zu sein."

With serious, newfound determination, Rolf propped himself up with his elbows and releasing a painful grunt, turned to his other side. Just having raised his head up from the ground had caused his entire world to change back into that torrent of hellish, burning pain and he blinked his eyes when his vision flashed bright white for a small moment. Oh, how much easier it would have been to just remain down on the ground where he could have waited for the worst brunt of the pain to pass by, but no. He had to show her that he refused to be dominated by her, that he wasn't the dainty little aristocrat she had mistaken him for. Rolf gritted his teeth, tiny drops of blood spattering down on the dusty ground and he pressed his eyes shut as he gathered all of his willpower to ignore the warnings his body was now continuously screaming at him. The pain was bombing him from all directions and he felt like he was being trampled by an entire herd of wild horses, but still, he refused to give up. He had to crawl in the dusty ground to get his feet away from the woman and then, even when his mind was exploding from sheer agony, he grasped at that proud determination and with the help of his hands, raised himself up from the ground.

Supporting himself with his other knee and his hands, Rolf clambered up in front of the blonde woman and very slowly and carefully turned around, wobbling precariously on his unsteady pair of legs, swallowing blood and appearing as if he might come tumbling down any moment now. He only barely suppressed a cough and raised his silver eyes to meet hers, his somewhat pained expression beaming with obvious joy over his own personal triumph. "Bekanntlich... dass es sehr grob ist, ganzen zu haben, was Spaß und Ihren Partner wunsch verlässt. Vielleicht würden Sie es gern der andere Weg wieder versuchen?" Rolf asked in hoarse voice, dismissing the rational voice inside his head that was telling him to shut up and instead he flashed the woman a snide, albeit also a slightly pained smile.

Trying to keep the gaze of his defiant eyes on the woman, he had to work very hard in hiding the fact that all of his concentration was consumed with fighting against the pain and simply not keeling over to the other side, but he still only managed to look like a very seasick man who had just spent two stormy weeks on a very small boat. But he was standing and, right now, that was all that mattered to him. In his mind, he was already the winner.


Translations:

"Oh... Ich merke es jeder Weg nicht. Obwohl ich zugebe. Ich zog wirklich es vor, auf der Spitze zu sein."
"Oh... I don't mind it either way. Although I admit. I did prefer to be on top."

"Bekanntlich... dass es sehr grob ist, ganzen zu haben, was Spaß und Ihren Partner wunsch verlässt. Vielleicht würden Sie es gern der andere Weg wieder versuchen?"
"You know.. it's very rude to have all that fun and leave your partner wanting. Maybe you would like to try it the other way around again?"

[Dirk Riedel]

A smirk. That is all she was going to receive from him, a mere smirk. No sign of surrender, no bitter words of shameful defeat, not from him, whose pure pride would not tolerate such further ridicule despite her evident dominance at this point. He refused to obey to such a call, though lying under her absolute command, defenceless and powerless, beaten down but not broken, humiliated but still resistent. It was a strange notion, but she inwardly, secretly held a light touch of regard for such conduct, even a peculiar shade of appreciation; it was almost how she would have behaved were the positions to be altered in reverse, yet she did not explore these impulsive perceptions for what predominantly lay before her was an arrogant, insufferable idiot who did not deserve walking upon the ground, the soil for which others had strived their entire life to cultivate and spent generations and generations taking care of what the government could so easily exploit. And he was only smirking, a reaction which irked her but the rage in her eyes was no longer there, it had subsided through the means of her final authority and control, replaced by the common expression of displeasure and annoyance, as combined with a keen interest pertaining to his utterly nonsensical rejoinder, frowning, and pondering the source of such strength.

Though she did not show it, the sudden barking of his laughter, momentarily to be substituted with a violent pound of coughing, was unforeseen, her green eyes shining above the cigarette’s orange light with a retaining austerity throughout her facial features as she stared down at him, curious, yet unyielding. He was laughing. Curving her eyebrows, she remained in her position above him with her legs on both sides of his defeated frame and did not allow a moment of questioning as to whom had the upper hand here. And it was not him. He spoke next, and his words left her face impenetrable, although she continued taking in every expression of his face as he uttered his mild obscenities in a calm, self-satisfied tone for which she could have broken his face again – but she would not. She had taught him a lesson already, and though at this point he refused to acknowledge its effects, like all spoiled brats, he would come around soon enough; she could have carried on with her beating, but she simply did not possess that rage that had previously subjugated every ounce of her body, now refusing to backhand him not simply as a matter of fierce self-control but, more significantly, owing to the lesson having already been delivered, to the point where she only expected him to savour the results and realize his insignificance. Perhaps it would take him some time – she was certain it would – but at the end he would discontinue his struggle of self-respect and prideful indignation, recognizing defeat. There was nothing more she could do to prove her point; now it was up to time to backhand him fiercely and break his pride, showing him the truth, the truth he feared to see.

She slightly frowned but remained motionless while he used the force of his elbows against the soil as a support to raise himself, motionless through his struggle to crawl away from her in his attempt to pick up the fallen pieces of his pride, simply staring at him as he turned away from her, grunting in pain but resolutely fighting against the soreness and the physical anguish to lift himself up and be able to properly face her like the man she did not believe he was. She could clearly see him moving unsteadily from side to side, hear his hardened breathing and the grumble inside his throat, and yet he turned around and looked at her with a strong, relentless determination in his eyes as he also refused to drop his sheer cheek, instead opening his bloodied mouth to offer her yet another quip. She did not respond; she merely stared back at him, absorbing his undeniably courageous act which other beings of his noble kind, or even peasants, had not exerted as they lay down on the ground, beaten up and with broken jaws. They had not possessed such strength of character to be reborn and rise through the ashes like a phoenix; they just stood there, embittered and furious, the next time decidedly taking action through the slick means of the power of social status and rank rather than the power of character. His red-tainted lips were graced with a mocking smirk as he provocatively spoke to her, and she could not help but wonder – did he really think such stupid talk would change anything? That she would suddenly have second thoughts and jump into his arms like the frail, insecure, worthless, cheap hooker she was not? Or was he only doing his best to infuriate her? For he did not possess such power any longer.

She stared at him silently, her face stern and unmoving, as he wobbled in his frame. This time it would be effortless; she need not curl her fist into a punch, there was no need for so much as a slap – all she needed to do was outstretch her fingers and give him a mild shove; he would fall down like a cheap, broken toy, back to his place, so that she could move on to crack his spirit and break his confidence, tear apart every remaining ounce of self-respect he had and smash his defiance away until he was writhing back on the ground, back where he belonged, helplessly, and ultimately defeated. All it took was for her to merely move her fingers, and as she took one step towards him –

She smiled. With the grey smoke piercing through her lungs and then exhaled from her nose, dissolving into the atmosphere, she drew on from the cigarette one more time, the orange glow showing upon the small smile risen in the corner of her lips, before she finally let it drop on the ground, thence crushing it with her foot, exactly in the same way she was going to crush him unless he behaved. She crossed her arms and came closer, intimately examining him. “Sie sind erbärmlich,” she whispered in a low, slightly grating voice, looking at him pitifully, the condescending smile widening as her lips parted, the contempt piercing but almost serene. At least he had a sense of humour, however stupid and immature. She clearly knew his words had not been intended as a joke, but that is how she received them, effortlessly dismissing them as anything else despite his purpose being otherwise. She closed the distance between them in one unhurried step and stretched out her hand towards his face, her forefinger lightly touching the corner of his lips like before, with her middle finger proceeding a second later as though it were a following note played on the piano, slowly brushing across the length of his upper lip, wiping off the stains of blood smoothly, with the harmony of a symphonic orchestra, the precipitous tranquility almost odd posterior to the exchange of brutal violence, her eyes staring not at his vibrant, searing silver greys but the task ahead; he looked pathetic, and unfit to be called a German soldier in that weakened appearance, bloody and beaten, however arrogant and confident he might have been throughout. She would put this right. She had defeated him rightfully – it had been an unquestionable victory, regardless of his persistent proud stature spurning her dominance – and was now sending him off back to the reception. She had given him a lesson he would remember whenever his foul mouth was close to insulting her kind again, and which had been enough. Unlike him, she knew where to draw an end and come to a halt. It was not so much a matter of self-control as it was a matter of sense, maturity and responsibility.

At any rate, the undeserving rank of a Hauptmann notwithstanding, he was still a German soldier fighting in the air force, and she would not give him permanent damage; all Germans in the army needed to be respected for the high cause they were struggling for, and even those arrogant ones with their heads in the clouds would be treated severely and brought back to earth. Nothing more, nothing less. The back of her hand travelled down to his jaw, her fingers, now tainted with a vicious shade of crimson, drawing on the pale skin as white intermingled with red; in her silence and stillness, this was her own way of acknowledging whatever bit of nerve and dauntlessness he possessed throughout her harsh treatment. She could feel his hardened breathing tingling her nose, or his frame wobbling as he was barely able to stand up in his full height without tumbling over, but still continued with what she felt as her duty, in almost military concentration, devotion and presicion, firm yet unforceful fingers wandering around the desert of his chin and upwards, crawling across the lower part of his lips and cleaning off the blood. There was nothing affectionate in this response, nothing remotely tender or thoughtful – it did not even border a cordial, friendly approach, but instead, her moves were sharp, precise and quick. It may have been cathartic, but it would not dry off the sins lingering in his lewd, provoking eyes.

She pulled her hand away, the blood contaminating her skin and trickling slowly underneath her nails, but she ignored it; alternately, she clasped the second and third button in the front of his shirt (the first having flown off due to his furious tearing apart of the bow tie) which had been unfastened from his violent treatment – and straightened his shirt, as her hands then reached upwards to neatly fix his collar, in quick, sharp moves, pulling it together and rearranging it in turn; though her face was serious throughout, what stood there mocking him was not a smile in her lips, which were simply stern, but a glint of her eyes. Despite that, her hands worked meticulously, even strictly, as she blew the dust away and readjusted him, so that he could go back to the reception without looking like a complete moron. The bloodstains were still evident on the sleeves of his shirt, however, as was the dirt, and his dishevelled hair, missing button, dirty pants and altogether shoddy appearance did not help, either – and she knew it. In truth, she did not really care as to make him look better – or, at least, less filthy – when he would walk inside the building; this whole act was nothing but mere mockery, a show of contempt, as though to wordlessly tell him how no matter whether his clothes were tailor-made and his shoes were shining or whether they were filled with soil and dust, he was still the same worthless bastard.

She finally raised her eyes to meet his, and the derogatory smirk rose on her lips. “Also warum gehen Sie nicht voran?” she told him in a slow, scornful voice, which though may have appeared inviting, was in truth utterly mocking. “Lassen Sie mich Sie sehen noch einmal versuchen,” she said, her smile widening, the feral rage no longer dominant in her features, keenly replaced by laughing scorn and contempt. She challenged him to cling to his words, to move forwards and make his promises true just as she had made hers, but she knew perfectly well he could not; she was only openly ridiculing his inability to so much as stand steady on his feet, much less attack her in another attempt to break her will and ravage her pride – an inability she had been the master of. For she always kept her word.

She just smiled at him rudely, and as he suddenly moved forwards in an aggressive manner, he almost went tumbling down before she quickly held him up with her strength, her one hand grasping him fiercely in his shoulder and underneath his arm, reaching over to his back, as her other held him from his waist steadily. It was a pity; he had spent all that determination and strength to lift himself up, it could not go to waste! Yes, there was pure mockery in such a notion, but she was staring at him, no longer smiling, her eyes no longer blatantly deriding him, for she merely wished to make something very clear, for the last time, once and for all, and never again. “Egal wie hart Sie versuchen, oder wie viel Sie es wollen – egal wie umfassend Sie mich dafür verspotten, wie wertlos Sie über mich nachdenken, und wie preiswert, selbst wenn ich bin, ich Ihre Hure nie sein werde,” she assured him in an impassioned, consuming, angry but still controlled voice that sounded in the atmosphere with a ringing force even though the tone was low; there was no derision in her eyes, and her voice bore no controlled vehemence, the rage was not there, vanished somewhere no one knew of. There was no rage, but there was raw fury that made her eyes shine with passionate pride. “So können Sie zu Ihrem netten Empfang zurückgehen und etwas von ausgezeichneten Wein Ihrer Klasse haben, jetzt wo ich es mit meinem Schund nicht verderben, und zu jenen Ihrer Aufmerksamkeit würdigen Frauen aus der Oberschicht zurückkehren kann.” For they were clearly more refined, as his words had never failed to delightfully mock her of. “Mindestens werden ihre Hände mit dem Schmutz und Blut nicht gefüllt.” And the fingers of her hand holding his waist widened, dirty and bloody. “Sie sind offensichtlich viel lieber als ich werde jemals sein. Aber berühren Sie mich wieder nicht jemals,” she warned him in a quiet, albeit fierce voice, her eyebrows fervently curving above the green eyes that stared at him with brutal honesty and hateful anger. “Tun Sie nicht,” she hissed in a forceful whisper, and as she had given him the balance needed to stand up on his feet, she let him go. Taking a step backwards, she stood there before him, in all of her wretched simplicity, with her hands hanging down by her sides, his blood and dirt on her fingers.




Translation

You are pathetic.

So why don’t you go ahead? Let me see you try again.

No matter how hard you try, or how much you want it – no matter how extensively you mock me for it, how worthless you consider me, and how cheap, even if I am, I will never be your whore. So you can go back to your nice reception and have some of your class’s excellent wine now that I can’t taint it with my filth, and return to those upperclass women worthy of your attention. At least their hands aren’t filled with dirt and blood. They are obviously much better than I will ever be. But don’t ever touch me again. Don’t.