Okay, this chapter was very difficult to write. One problem with writing about rape is that it can be sometimes eroticised, and I've tried to avoid that in this.

Anyway, this is fairly explicit, read at your own risk.

Clotilde walked into the room nervously, feeling herself beginning to shake. He indicated a chair beside a desk and she sat down.

"So, what can I do for you?"

Clotilde was silent for a second before answering, and feeling a surge of courage she said quietly, "My parents are in the resistance."

Landa looked at her, eyes wide, genuinely surprised.

"That – Mademoiselle – I have known for quite a while. But what is most curious," he continued, standing back against the wall, "and I would like most to know, is why you are telling me?"

Clotilde felt a tear slide down her cheek.

"Because I don't want to be shot. And I don't want Marie to be shot."

Landa snorted, and turned away from her, "I wouldn't have shot Marie. She reminds me of my daughter. You on the other hand – well, I had my plans…"

Clotilde swallowed.

"Now, Clotilde," Clotilde gasped at his using her first name. He began to address her familiarly once more, and said, "you betrayed your family. Now that is despicable."

Clotilde felt a surge of anger in her throat, and she stood up and shouted, "You shot Sophie! That's despicable!"

The man turned and in a reflex action hit her hard, knocking her backwards so she fell against the chair. Clotilde clasped her aching back, and groaned.

Landa smirked, "Maybe I should teach you a lesson about respect, Clotilde."

"Don't you call me Clotilde, you bastard!" She screamed. For some unknown reason, Clotilde could feel herself getting angrier and angrier. "I'm not a fucking child!"

He smiled, and replied acerbically, "Oh yes, I think I should. A girl like you needs to be taught a lesson at some point."

He reached for his gun and fear rose suddenly in her throat.

"What should I do with you, Clotilde?" He asked nonchalantly, taking a step closer to her.

Clotilde's rage fizzled out into fear and she backed slowly away. She could feel her ears buzzing, the blood pumping hard. Landa stood up straight against the door.

"Well, Clo-til-de," He over-pronounced her name, savouring her uneasiness. "You wanted to be treated as an adult, so," he took a step closer to her, "I shall treat you as one."

Clotilde could feel her lower lip trembling. She opened her mouth slightly, trying to think of what to say, but nothing came to her.

Landa's mouth twisted into a smirk. "Clotilde, remind me how old you are." He said, turning away from her. He began to unbutton his grey jacket.

"Fif-fifteen."

"Fifteen what?"

"Fifteen, Colonel." She answered. Tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. She didn't understand why she was so upset – she didn't quite understand what was happening.

He walked towards her, taking long, confident strides. When he reached her he put his finger on her cheek, and pushed her head to the side, and then grabbing her chin turned it to the other side. His eyes travelled southwards and he rested his hands on her hips. Clotilde was startled at being touched, and her immediate reaction was to recoil. Her hands shot to his to try and push them off, and he brought his right hand away only to bring it back, slapping her hard across the face.

"You know, that's quite insulting," He said, in a tone of sardonic annoyance, and snaked his hand around her neck.

At this point Clotilde began to cry, hot tears of confusion and pain. She didn't know why he was hurting her; she didn't know what he wanted. She whispered, "I don't understand" pitifully, looking up at his unsympathetic eyes.

"Oh Clotilde," he began triumphantly, "I thought you were a grown-up, a lady of the world? What don't you understand?"

"What are you going to do to me?" Landa was silent for a second, and then burst out laughing.

"You don't know?" He said, looking at her sharply, inquisitively. Clotilde's face remained blank.

"No – you don't know!" He was almost jubilant.

He closed the gap between their bodies, and pressed her against the wall.

"Clotilde, ma chère (I suppose I can call you that now, can't I?), I'm going to rape you."

Clotilde looked up at him, genuinely horrified. She didn't know what "rape" involved. The only context in which she had encountered it was in the hushed gossip of the town, often accompanied by the gossipers' pity (or sometimes contempt) for the girl involved. Anyway, the prospect filled her with fear.

"Don't." She said quietly, almost regretting saying it as soon as the syllable escaped her lips.

" 'Don't?' Is that what you said, girl?" Landa's grip around her neck tightened.

"Please…" she gasped, as she was finding it harder to breathe.

" 'Don't', 'Please' – is this prospec so horrific to you?" Landa asked sarcastically, releasing her neck and allowing her to drop to her knees.

As she fell, Clotilde sneezed as the dust particles of the room found their way into her nose. A piece of mucus landed on his boot. Landa's instinctive reaction was to kick her hard, and he did, with the toe of his boot connecting with her face.

Clotilde fell on her side, and immediately put her hand to her face, curling up at his feet.

"Now now, Clotilde, look what you've done to my boot. It was clean before." He crouched down to the ground and ran a finger through her hair.

"Lick that off my boot, now."

Clotilde was still crying copiously, but she forced herself to lick the boot. The leather had been polished; she could taste it on her tongue. She began to feel sick.

He took a step back and began unbuttoning his shirt. Clotilde felt her stomach seize up; she didn't want to believe that this was actually happening.

Clotilde lay on the ground, with her face downwards. She was shaking, pale and sweating a cold sweat. Her hair had become tangled, mixed with her body fluids. Clotilde was beautiful, but now she looked uglier than she ever had.

As Landa turned and stood before her, Clotilde said gently, "Please don't rape me."

"Beg me." He said, resting his foot on her neck.

"Please don't, please d-don't h-hurt me." Clotilde whimpered.

"That's not really good enough, I'm afraid." He said unsympathetically.

"No, p-please don't. I'm only fifteen!"

Landa laughed, this time harshly, "You're only fifteen? I thought you were an adult."

"No, please, C-colonel. Please, I-I'm only a g-girl." She replied.

Landa pouted his lip in mock sympathy. "No, I still don't think that's really good enough. Turn over."

Clotilde reluctantly turned over onto her back, and Landa surveyed her quickly before sitting at her waist, so that he straddled her.

Landa's hand once more seized her neck, and once more Clotilde let out a futile, muffled cry.

Landa used his other hand to begin to hoist her skirt, and at once Clotilde began to squirm, twisting and turning to get away. Landa was still much stronger than her; there was nothing she could do to escape.

Eventually his fingers reached around her underwear, and in a single movement yanked them to her knees. Clotilde screamed, and Landa, overtaken by a sudden fury shouted in German, "Shut up, you fucking kike!", before slapping her hard once more.

She was as much a rodent to him as any Jew, and the scene was reminiscent of those he had inflicted on Jewesses in the past - he was the hunter, and she would be his prey. However, his slip of the tongue unsettled him for a moment, and in order to regain control he began to hit Clotilde over and over again, balling his hands into fists, each blow harder than the last, until she was completely still. She didn't dare make a move, desperately afraid of him hurting her again.

He then reached his hand once more towards her face, and Clotilde flinched. She murmured, "Please, Colonel, please don't hurt me anymore. I'll do what you want." The tears flowed hot and fast from her eyes – tears of resignation and desperation.

But Landa was not a man who knew pity for anyone. However, he was pleased with her obedience.

"I suppose I should just do this." He said, and Clotilde slammed her eyes shut, and then she said quietly, "Bastard."

She thought that he hadn't heard her, but almost immediately he froze, and then said, "What's that?"

Clotilde was suddenly filled with courage, and said more loudly, "I said you're a bastard."

He was silent for a few moments, and then laughed. He had readopted his mocking tone, "Clotilde, are you trying to provoke me? Do you want me to hurt you? I'll be happy to oblige you."

Clotilde felt the fear rising in her throat again; there was something crazed in his eyes, something mad and cruel. Subconsciously she began to draw her legs away from him, and at once he lurched forward and in a single, swooping movement seized her neck, squeezing harder.

"Am I a bastard, Clotilde?" He asked contemptuously.

Clotilde felt the pressure rising in her head, as no blood could reach it. He's going to kill me. She thought. She clawed at his hand, but he refused to let go. He kept his hands there and Clotilde's eyes began to cloud over. She began to struggle desperately, but eventually the darkness overcame her.

When she woke up she felt moisture between her legs, and as she sat up she realised there was wet patch in the carpet where she was sitting. She looked up and saw Landa standing once more against the door.

"You've soiled yourself." He said coldly, and took a step closer. Clotilde went bright red – she had never felt such humiliation in her life.

"Take your clothes off." Clotilde looked up at him desperately, but he repeated himself, "Take your clothes off – they stink. I haven't changed my mind."

Clotilde took off her socks and shoes while averting her eyes to avoid his gaze, as she pulled her underwear around her feet, tears began to build up behind her eyelids. She fought them back; she didn't want to cry again. He wouldn't have any sympathy for her – it would only contribute to her humiliation.

She stood up to take off her dress, and then stood before him in her bra. She couldn't stop herself now; she had to cry.

"Now." Said Landa gently. "Take off your bra."

She did it while looking at the ground. She couldn't bear to look at him; she couldn't believe that anyone could be so cruel. She dropped it onto the ground, and said quietly, "Please don't do this."

He snorted, "Your begging is becoming tiresome, Clotilde."

He placed his hands on her breasts, and Clotilde resisted her immediate desire to recoil, to pull away, lest he hit her again. He drew the forefinger of each hand towards the thumb, holding her breasts in a bruising grip. In the corner of her eye Clotilde could see that he was watching her, observing her reactions; revelling in her pain. She bit her lip, pushing her teeth together and shutting her eyes. He released her and pouted, perhaps disappointed at the lack of reaction.

Landa grabbed her neck again, and pushed her back until she was trapped between him and the wall.

"Now – let's see if I can make you cry again…"

His free hand shot between her legs, and seizing the hair between his fingers and digging his fingernails into her, began to squeeze. Clotilde whimpered, but kept her back against the wall, trying to bear the pain without gratifying his sadism.

When he pulled his hand away, a sliver of menstrual blood stained it. Landa looked confused, and as he realized the source of this blood, cried, "Eugh!" and wiped his hand on his trousers.

Slapping Clotilde hard once more, he shouted, "You fucking bitch, why didn't you tell me you were on your period?"

Before she could answer, Landa had flipped her over, and pressed her face first into the wall.

Clotilde could hear him fumbling with his trousers, and she began to shake. This was going to happen. She felt him place his hands around her cheeks and then force them apart, and in a slow, prolonged movement, he gradually pushed himself into her.

Clotilde had never felt such pain in her life. She closed her eyes, and tried to close it out, but the sharpness of the pain incurred as he pushed his hips against her made it impossible.

"I must confess, Mademoiselle, that I have never done this with a woman," he said, as he took hold of her arms, and forced them against her back, "Does it hurt?"

Clotilde stayed silent, still shaking as the pain wracked her body. Landa grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, before pushing her head forward to smack her face hard against the wall.

"Answer me when I ask you a question, Clotilde."

"Y-yes." She said quietly.

"Good." He said, after the gentle thud of her body against the wall as he pushed his hips hard against her backside.

"Now, do you want me to hurt you, Clotilde?"

"N-no." Thud.

"You're lying – I think you want me to do this. You want to be punished – you betrayed your parents to save yourself. You're a coward, Clotilde."

"No." Thud.

"Yes, you are, Clotilde."

Thud.

"Tell me you want this, Clotilde."

"Fuck you!" she shouted. Thud.

Landa sniggered, and Clotilde felt relief as he softened and pulled out. He dropped her onto her knees, and sighing she pushed the hair stuck to her face with sweat away.

He walked away from her indifferently and got dressed. Placing his cap on his head he spat, "Put your clothes on and come downstairs. You can watch Maman and Papa being executed. "