(You are currently visiting Pete's Place)
(This Page was last revised: September 28, 2001)
The footsteps were getting closer. Measured, regular, the clack of leather heels on rain-slicked cobbles was the solemn beat of an executioner's drum. Death approached across the courtyard in the guise of a German soldier.
I flattened myself against the sodden brickwork, teeth tightly clenched to keep them from chattering. I willed my body still as the greatcoat-clad guard rounded the corner, afraid that my trembling would give me away. I willed the shadows darker, but the cold silvery light of the full moon dimmed not at all.
I willed the soldier dead.
Obstinately, he kept coming, each step drawing him closer to my position. Surely he must see me now? I could see him clearly; he was young, but there was something in the set of his eyes that spoke of experience beyond his years. I did not doubt that this youth had killed in the defence of his Fatherland, in the service of his Fuhrer--and I did not doubt that he would have little hesitation in killing me. Perhaps a week ago I could have taken him: launched myself from the shadows, locked my fingers around his throat, stifling his cries and, ultimately, his life. Then I could lift the rifle from his cold, lifeless fingers and...
Perhaps a week ago--but now I was weakened by hunger and loss of blood. If I attempted to attack him in this condition, the best I could hope for would be a quick death.
He drew level with me. I held my breath. He took another step, and another, and somewhere in my chest I felt the lightness of a sudden hope. Somehow he had not seen me. The shadows that sheltered me must be darker than I had thought. Slowly, silently, I released the air locked in my chest and drew another sweet breath.
He stopped, and my blood froze. Shifting my head slightly, I watched through slitted eyelids as he began to turn towards me. I could feel the hairs lifting on the back of my neck, and the thunder of blood pounding in my ears seemed loud enough to alert the entire German army to my presence. My lips were suddenly dry, my mouth parched, my throat locked in terror. He looked at me, directly at me. Our eyes met. I felt that my heart would explode.
It was over, now, surely.
But the youth kept turning. The eternity during which his gaze had met mine, a lifetime within a heartbeat, had passed. He peered past me, and I suddenly realised that he was checking that the alley was empty. It wasn't, but I was not about to point that out to him. Apparently satisfied, he stepped closer to the wall against which I pressed. For a few seconds I heard nothing, and then there was the distinctive splash of water being poured against the rough bricks of the wall.
Realisation dawned, and I had to fight the sudden urge to laugh as the young soldier relieved himself in the darkness. Heart still pounding, I closed my eyes and listened as the steady stream of urine gradually eased. There were a few final splashes, and the guard sighed a few words under his breath; I could not make out what he said--and my understanding of the German language was so poor as to be useless--but if asked to translate, my guess would be something along the lines of "Ah, that's better."
The guard adjusted his clothing, straightened his coat, and started back down the alley towards me. He was moving quicker now, his bladder no longer demanding to be emptied, and in a moment he was opposite me. He took another step and then, to my horror, he stopped again. He cocked his head, the moonlight reflecting dully from the metal of his helmet.
"Keep going," I wanted to scream. My fingers curled reflexively. If only I had a knife, the knife that my empty palm itched to grasp, to wield.
Suddenly the soldier spun around, shouting something that did not sound friendly, struggling to unsling his rifle. With nothing to lose now, hoping only that death would be warm, I pushed myself away from the wall. I closed with him before he could bring the barrel of his weapon around, and for a few long seconds we grappled. Then he pushed me away, swung, and the stock of his rifle hit me in the shoulder. I staggered back, fell heavily, sprawled like a corpse on the cold, hard cobblestones. Gasping hoarsely, fighting for breath, I could only look up helplessly as he stood over me, his rifle muzzle aimed unwaveringly at my face.
"Please," I wheezed.
I saw his eyes widen momentarily. He leaned forward for a closer look, and his lips curled into a hideous caricature of a grin.
"Ein Fraulein!" he muttered. That, I understood.
"Ja," I gasped back. "Ein Fraulein."
With all my remaining strength, I brought my foot up between his legs. It was a clumsy kick, and the thick wool of the greatcoat deflected most of its force, but for a few moments, the soldier forgot about everything but the pain. He clutched at his groin and dropped to his knees. As escape attempts go, it would have been more effective had I managed to roll away before he landed on top of me.
I struggled in vain to push him away, to wriggle free, but I was simply too tired, too weak. I strained to reach the rifle which lay discarded on the cobbles, but it remained tantalisingly out of reach. And so we lay there, face to face. His breath was warm and wet on my face, the pungency of garlic and knackwurst masking even the background odour of urine. He blinked several times, forcing his eyes back into focus. Pushing away the pain.
He sat up. With a snarl he raised his arm, fingers balled tightly into a fist. He spat something in German, but it was too fast, too heavy with anger, for me to understand it--but then, I guess a translation would have been superfluous. I could read the rage in his eyes.
I closed mine.
Waited. Anticipating the blow.
His body jerked atop me, his buttocks bouncing on my hips, and then he was gone. A warm rain fell on my upturned face, and I flinched as though he had struck me. Another smell flooded my nose. Thick, warm, coppery--freshly spilled blood.
Cautiously I opened one eye, then the other. Turning my head, I located the huddled body of the soldier lying in a heap against the far wall. He was dead, that much was obvious despite the shadows which shrouded his corpse. Then one of the shadows moved, detached itself from the night as the creature raised its head. Eyes glowed with an unearthly fire in the darkness, and teeth gleamed redly.
"Did he hurt you?" The voice was low, civilised, with bestial undertones rippling through it.
"No, my love," I replied. I raised a trembling hand to my blood-spattered face, smeared my cheeks, licked my fingers. "But I feel so weak. So helpless."
I held my arms out to him. There was a blur of shadow, a gust of wind, and he was there, holding me close, his arms wrapped comfortingly around me. He kissed me, his lips hot against my neck. I felt his teeth against my skin, and then his tongue, teasing me.
"After tonight," he breathed against my throat, "you will never feel weakness again."
"And I never have," she murmured, gazing lovingly across the room at the motionless figure of Henri. He winked at her, blew her a kiss.
"That's quite a tale, Jacqueline," said Gustav after a momentary pause, "but let me tell you about the day that I was brought over..."