A/N: Since I've been feeling such writer's block recently, I forced myself on a whim to start writing this old idea. I'm posting it in installations every day on my tumblr, and will update here once I get a substantial enough chunk. Seeing as I'm treating this as a sort of writing exercise to get me back in the groove, don't expect the most polished work.
...
August, 1944
Thirst. Hunger. Pain.
The three senses. The three pillars of existence.
Together, they form a perfect triangle. Each side leaning on the other, each supporting the other, connecting in perfect, sharp points.
They say a circle is the perfect shape, but surely they've forgotten about the triangle. A circle is unsteady; just a nudge will set it rolling, and an object, once in motion, can only be stopped by an equal external force. Inertia.
But the triangle—it is perfectly balanced, perfectly stable. The most structurally sound of all geometric shapes. An equilateral triangle is so much more satisfying, so sure of itself and what it stands for.
You know where you are with triangles.
And you know you're not going anywhere.
Thirst. Hunger. Pain.
Repeat.
…
His throat was parched. So parched he could barely stand to swallow the dry rock they tried to pass off as bread. It was only the void of his belly that forced him to squeeze it down the sandpaper tube of his throat. And then the rock bread only reminded his stomach how discontent it was, how much more it needed.
It was a hot day, and his back was beyond the point of sore. It was the constant, gut-wrenching sensation of a knife being stuck in his spine and twisted with every move.
Lift. Carry. Set down.
Repeat.
Everything comes in threes.
I have to get myself a job in the kitchens. Like Feliks. That sly bastard. Left me out here to rot in the sun till the vultures come to strip my pitiful flesh off my ribs—
The whistle sounded.
Back to work.
…
It was red. The triangle, that is.
The triangle was everything. A brand. A badge. An identity.
More like a death sentence.
The red stood out starkly against the white and blue of the uniform. Against the dusty gray-brown of the earth (no grass, never any grass here).
Red as the bricks that filled his vision each waking moment. Red as his eyes as they caught the light when he wiped the sweat from his brow. Red as blood.
Like that blood he'd seen spattered by the fence a few days ago. Someone had been standing too close. Idiot had gotten himself killed. The thirsty earth sucked it up eagerly, you couldn't see it anymore. But it was still there. Blood was in the ground, under their feet. In the water they drank and the food they ate. He could smell it, clinging to his nostrils with every breath.
Especially over near the shoe factory, by the buildings you hoped never to go to. Especially when all those Soviet POWs were being "processed." They looked so pitiful. What were they doing all the way out here, so far from their farms and families.
They saw my triangle. And they didn't love me for it. Ironic; the Kapo never misses a chance to call me a dirty Bolshevik.
Because it's red, my triangle. Red as the fire that burnt up all those Russian farm boys. Then it smelled like burning meat.
…
"You."
The eyes he met were blue. Such a pure, cold blue it made his blood boil.
"Sir."
"You worked as a tailor?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. I need someone to fix some uniforms. You'll report to me tomorrow."
"Sir, I'm sure I know someone else who could do a better job at that. I was only an apprentice, sir."
Why was he saying that? This was the cushy job he needed. But he didn't want to go with that man and his ice-eyes.
A blond brow arched.
"So eager to get back to the brickworks?"
"I'm only concerned about the quality of your uniforms, sir."
"How very considerate."
He could feel the chill of the eyes scrutinizing him.
"You'll report to me tomorrow."
…
August, 1945
"I'm surprised to see you here."
"I could say the same of you."
He stared into the ice-eyes. Like plunging into the freezing sea.
A sneer marred the perfect lips beneath them.
"You let yourself get caught."
"I could say the same of you."
"Thought it'd make you glad."
"Who says I'm not?"
He took in the sight before him. No longer clean-cut, all straight lines and creases. No longer jet-black to accent the gold and blue. Yet he could tell the lines of the body were just as rigid, just as stern, beneath the shapeless gray cloth he now wore. He wondered if, looking out with those cold blue eyes, he saw everything as it had been before, and himself still as master of the place.
He felt sorry for him.
The ice narrowed to slits. He'd seen the pity.
"Don't you dare," he whispered. "This is your chance to lord it over me, so take it, you fool."
"Lord?" He smiled ruefully. "In case you missed it, we have new lords now. And I'm not one of them. They look at me, they look at you, and all they see is the same fascist filth. Funny how that works, isn't it?"
A roll of blue eyes. "You should learn to take your victories where you can—the small as well as the large."
A grin spread wide. "Does that mean you surrender?"
…
August, 1944
The cloth was slippery under his fingers. He liked the feel of it.
But there was no time to think about that. ObersturmführerBeilschmit had given him one hour to finish work on two jackets.
He hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd only been an apprentice.
And it was so damn hard to keep the cloth in place when it kept sliding around like that, slithering like some great snake draped over the sewing table.
Yes, it was like snake skin.
…
Impassive blue eyes surveyed his work.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. One sleeve. Two sleeves. Three sleeves. Four sleeves—
A strong hand snatched the seam ripper from the table. With a flick of the wrist, his work was undone.
"Sloppy. Do it again."
…
September, 1944
"Weill, I'll be needing you again. The formal uniform this time."
…
"Don't just stand there, Weill. Make yourself useful. Tidy up the living room. My man's left it a mess again, incompetent oaf."
…
"You're off the Klinkenwerk, Weill. You'll report to me daily. I was forced to let my last man go; I do hope you'll do a better job than him."
…
"A family of Prussian Junkers? I don't believe you."
"It's true, sir. My mother came from the Von Braun family. Weill is my father's name."
The Obersturmführer smirked. "So what were you doing as a tailor's apprentice if you've got a cushy little estate in the East waiting for you? Or—" he eyed the triangle, blazing red, with icy contempt—"was it beneath your high ideals to accept your family's legacy?"
He did not rise to the bait. "The title and estate were passed down another branch of the family, sir. They didn't approve of my parents' marriage."
"No, I should think not." The officer brought his glass to his lips. A sip of golden liquid. "So you're Aryan then?"
Fiery eyes ventured up to meet ice. "There's quite a bit of Polish blood in the Von Braun line, sir."
Another sip. A cool, steady gaze. "Mm, shame."
…
October, 1944
"Weill? …Weill!"
His eyes snapped open. He stared in dismay at the stack of papers remaining next to the typewriter.
He'd face the consequences of his nodding off later.
He stumbled to his feet, darted out of the study and to the entryway where the officer stood with a peeved look on his face.
"Didn't you hear me come in?"
Always, that sheen of cultivated civility barely restraining a seething temper beneath. Like the ice might crack at any moment, and with a terrible roar crumble into the tempestuous sea.
He would rather that the ice-man stay frozen, intact.
"Excuse me, sir. I was working, sir."
The arched brow. It looked threatening, but he knew by now that it was a regular occurrence; a warning, but not dangerous in itself.
"I wasn't aware the typewriter was so loud, nor you so hard of hearing."
The ice in that gaze put heat in his cheeks, thickened his tongue in his mouth. But he was saved from answering.
"Well, do I look like I want to stand here all evening in my coat and boots?"
"No sir, sorry sir."
"Ah—what have I said about that word?"
He faltered.
"…I had best not have cause to apologize, sir."
"Exactly."
He rushed to attend to his routine duties.
Take his coat. Hang it on the rack, with the shoulder seams aligned just so. Place the cap on the shelf above.
Follow him to the living room. Prepare his cigar. Pour the scotch.
Kneel. Ease off the first boot. Then the second.
If the officer placed a foot in his lap—tonight he did—rub it. Work his thumbs into the balls of the feet. Continue until the tension had gone from his rigid body, as far as that was possible.
He had never seen Obersturmführer Beilschmidt completely relaxed. The man was a constant, taught line, like the string of a violin.
He finished, and stood to the side. Waited for further instruction. None came.
He refilled the scotch glass when it was empty, brought the ashtray when it was needed. The officer never glanced at him.
Finally: "You're dismissed, Weill."
"Sir."
…
Kitchen scraps were the best part of the job.
At least I'm eating better now. Even Feliks is jealous.
A smirk crossed his lips as he peeled potatoes for the officer's evening meal.
Do you cook? he had asked.
Only the basics, he had responded.
Good. I like simple meals.
It was always that way with the officer. A new task, a new demand. Pointed questions, and no matter how unappealing he made himself appear—as personal tailor, secretary, cook, gardener, butler—the Obersturmführer appeared unconcerned. Merely expressed that it would be unwise to disappoint.
He'd always been a Jack-of-all-trades, never developed expertise in one area.
Never thought that would come in handy. Wonder if I'd still be alive if I were still at the Klinkenwerk.
He'd seen a few of the other fellows, since then. They looked at him with mistrust in their eyes. A mix of envy, awe, and hatred. As if he were some pampered prince, as if the stately house on the edge of town he went to work in every day were his own, and not just another sort of prison.
There was one difference, though, between the two. This new prison was not a triangle. It did not have a watchtower at the median point of the front side, with a view of the entire area. It did not have barracks stationed in radial array, so that each pathway between was visible from that one, central point.
In short, it was possible to hide, in this new prison. Whether in the kitchen, the study, the living room, he often found himself alone. Able to retreat into his mind. Imagine, even, that perhaps he were the master of this house.
The fantasy only went so far, though. There was a guard outside, of course. And when the Obersturmführer returned, everything changed. The relative ease he felt when alone was sapped from his bones until they were dry and brittle. The officer was the focus, the center of everything.
Then, I haven't left the triangle after all, have I? He becomes the center point, from which all else radiates. He is the watchtower from which there is no hiding.
He is the center of the world, isn't he. My world, at least, and what else matters? Each person exists in a world of their own; of their own creation, if not their conscious control. And mine is centered entirely around him.
The uniforms must be pressed. The meals must be hot. The reports must be flawlessly typed. The cigars must be trimmed just so. The cushions arranged, the curtains drawn and closed, the windows opened and shut, at just the right times, the shelves dusted, the books organized, the dishes washed the shoes polished the hedges trimmed the grass cut the bed made the tub scrubbed the carpets beaten the firewood stacked for the nights are growing colder the clocks wound the files sorted the scotch glass must always be kept filled.
Sometimes, he pretended he was doing all this for himself. But it was difficult.
No, I haven't left the triangle at all.
…
April, 1945
It was worse than the Schuhläuferkommando.
The roads were just as rough as the terrain he'd been made to walk back then, round and round the test track, ill-fitting Wehrmacht boots on his blistered feet; but now the road seemed without end. Back then, he knew, at the end of the day, it had to stop. There would be a reprieve, however slight.
Now there was no guarantee. He'd seen men drop dead with exhaustion back then, too, but it was nothing like this. Back then, if a man stumbled, he could get back up and keep going. Now, one wrong step, one clumsy move—
The sound of a pistol pierced through the drone of thousands of stomping feet.
We're never going to stop. They're going to march us to death, as long as it takes till every single one of these pitiful bone-bags has fallen and has a bullet in his head.
Thirst. Hunger. Pain.
He had left the camp behind. But the triangle followed.
Through the sea of heads, he thought for a moment he caught sight of gold and blue—but he couldn't be sure.
…
October, 1944
"How long have you been here, Weill?"
His eyes stayed focused on the foot in his lap. "Since 1939, sir."
"Before or after the start of the war?"
"Just after, sir. Almost exactly five years ago."
"Hm. You've done well for yourself."
"How do you mean, sir?"
"You're still alive."
Now he looked at him; met eyes with a hint of cold amusement playing over them; had to look away.
"Yes, sir."
"And your offense?"
He bristled.
"I was accused of antiwar agitation and being a communist sympathizer, sir."
"Accused of? So you deny it?"
"I don't deny that my views of the government and the war are not favorable, sir."
A sneer curled the officer's lip. "So you would let your country be overrun by the Bolshevik hordes? You're the most despicable sort of traitor."
The blood coursed swift through his veins, pounded in his ears.
"Not every political dissenter wishes to see the country incorporated into Stalin's empire, sir."
"And yet cowards like you would undermine our Führer's efforts to deliver our people from Stalin's aggression. While the fine young men of this country fight and die as martyrs, your likes shirk their patriotic duty and work to bring down our great nation from within."
His hands remained calm and methodic as he worked on the foot, but he saw red.
"And those who can manage it praise the sacrifices of the dead from their comfy desk jobs far behind the front lines."
Like a striking snake, the foot shot up and into his jaw, bowling him over backwards. Pain blossomed through his face.
He'd known he was treading on dangerous territory, but it didn't make it hurt any less.
"I could do far worse for an impertinent comment like that. Don't try it again, Weill."
He grimaced, got to his knees. "…Yes, sir."
He pulled the other foot into his lap.
"So, are you a communist?"
"I flirted with their Party in the past, but never joined. I would cautiously consider myself a Social Democrat, sir."
Obersturmführer Beilschmidt snorted. "Social Democrats? The weaklings who humiliated and betrayed this country before the entire world?"
"Otto Braun's coalition government in Prussia was stable and effective until his illegal deposition. I put my faith in the democratic process to pave the way to a brighter and respectable future for this country. Sir."
No response. He didn't dare look up into the ice-eyes.
Finally, an amused huff. "You're an idiot, Weill." Then, softly, almost as a private afterthought: "An idiot with convictions."
He continued his task in silence.
Just when he thought the officer would pull his leg away, satisfied with the massage, he spoke.
"Take off my sock."
He blinked. "Sir?"
"Do I need to repeat myself, Weill?" A dangerous tone.
"No, sir."
He obeyed the order.
The officer leaned forward and unclasped the buttons along the side of his calf, then loosened the laces that went up to the knee. He hitched up the pant leg.
"Look."
A long, ragged scar extended from the ankle up the calf and disappeared under the hem of the pants.
"I was on the front in the East for 18 months. Belorussian partisans set the mine that nearly took off my leg."
The officer pulled the hem of his pants back down.
"That will be all this evening, Weill."
…
November, 1944
Sometimes now, he noticed the officer limping slightly. Especially when it rained.
How did I miss that before?
He observed the stern silhouette, the severe profile, from a distance.
Maybe because he looks so damn proud all the time.
…
The ice followed him.
He could feel it, everywhere he went. Even when Obersturmführer Beilschmidt was not in the room with him.
Like an ice cube sliding down his spine.
He shivered.
He rarely dared to look the officer in the face. But he was sure the officer's eyes rested on him often.
When he was typing up the officer's handwritten reports in the study, and the man came in to fetch a file or look over his assistant's work.
When he was standing at attention by the dinner table; Obersturmführer Beilschmidt had ordered him to stand where he could see him, rather than behind his chair.
He kept his eyes focused on the wall ahead of him, but he could feel it:
Ice, sliding down his spine.
His hands trembled when he refilled the officer's wine glass.
One time, Obersturmführer Beilschmidt grabbed his hand after he'd placed the bottle back on the table.
The grip was harsh.
His breath caught; his eyes jumped to the officer's face before he could help it.
"You're trembling, Weill. Have you caught cold?"
He swallowed. Those eyes. He couldn't look away from those eyes. They froze him in place.
"No, sir." The words barely scraped out of his throat.
"Then clean up your act. You dripped on my table cloth."
His eyes darted down to the white cloth. It was marked by a stain of red.
"I'll clean it right away, sir."
"Don't you think you had better wait till I'm finished eating?"
"…Yes, sir."
The grasp on his hand was released.
His fingers tingled with cold.
…
April, 1945
"It won't be long, now."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"The Red Army gets closer to Berlin by the day. Soon the order to evacuate the camp will come."
He felt a cold panic seep into his gut.
"What will you do, sir?"
"I will follow my orders." Blue eyes regarded him coolly. "And you will follow my orders."
"Yes, sir."
"Collect some food for yourself from the kitchen. Enough for a few days. You shouldn't have to wait too long."
"Sir?"
"You won't be coming with us."
…
October, 1945
It was raining. A strident tattoo beat on the tin roof of the barrack.
His fingers worked on the leg of the man lying before him, experience guiding them to the spots that would help ease the tension in his muscles.
"Do you think they're trying to bore us to death?"
With a surprised laugh, he glanced up at the man's face.
"They'd be doing an alright job at it."
The man wrinkled his nose in distaste.
"Not even keeping us here for anything useful. Just locking us up to rot. If someone took the initiative to organize some work details, we could get something done. They have able-bodied men here, while outside these walls the only ones left to clear away the wreckage they wrought is the women."
He peered at the man's disgruntled face.
"Are you telling me you would rather have been imprisoned here when your lot was running the place?"
Blue eyes darkened at that. The man didn't answer.
"Well, anyway, I'm not so sure they want us to rebuild that quickly," he continued. "That might be the point."
His stomach protested loudly. There had been no soup left for him at lunch that day.
He grimaced. "And if they keep slashing rations, we won't be so able-bodied anyway."
The man before him let out a frustrated sigh. His blue eyes remained distant, his brow furrowed.
But as the skilled hands worked over his leg, the tension slowly drained from his face. The blue eyes closed.
