A time like no other

by Warks1999

It was an ever changing world, but a world that would soon be at War, with consequences that would devastate families forever... their family included. A new adventure, setting the characters back in time to World War II. Enjoy :)

49. Dignity Lost

Chapter 49: Dignity Lost

Mass on the nineteenth day of October, in the year nineteen forty-one held the elements to create a fire storm of anger and aggravation. Beneath the otherwise normal scenes of old pensioners gossiping, and young families expressing their devotion to the Lord, other elements were at play. There were many sinners in the house of God that Sunday morning, but some were sinning a lot more than others. There was a spy amongst the crowd, one that was in the employment of the Nazi regime who were carving their way across Europe. Their status as a spy was not fully confirmed by the British Intelligence services, who had Charlene on the case to do so, which meant the rest of the churchgoers were unaware of the game of espionage at play around them.

Charlene was at church too, monitoring the enemy of Britain who knew far too much than they should about the unfortunate demise of Jenny Joyce and her father. The latter was an enemy too, though Charlene believed them both to be from what she'd been told. She was not privy to the real truth, that Jenny had died for the simple crime of having feelings for James, whose importance outranked theirs combined. The fact that she was a poor singer hadn't helped in her crimes, though Charlene had to wonder whether the spy's voice was any better. If she'd have asked any of Erin or her friends as to what they thought, they would have said that the spy's was, not that they knew the spy was indeed what they were.

Somehow though, the spy in Hitler's payroll was not part of the potential explosion. At least not the main part.

That was down to two young women, one of whom had discovered a hidden side to the other the day before that they'd not wanted to find. Having not spoken since one parted company with the other the day before, there was a tension between them that any eagle-eyed observer could have picked up on. Fortunately for them, there was no one bothered enough about their quarrel to try to find out anymore, not even either's parents, who were content on observing the mass without wondering what might be going on with their daughters.

Michelle spent the rest of the day before trying to come to terms with what Clare had revealed to her. Clare was not usually a young woman that was full of surprises, but in revealing herself to be a lesbian, she'd changed that thought in her friend's mind forever. Her initial reaction was an explosion that she soon realised was perhaps too much, though the dark-haired young woman could not find it in herself to feel aggrieved from it. After being friends for so many years, Michelle thought that she knew everything about Clare, whether it be her likes or dislikes or indeed her sexuality. The lack of finding a fella to be with, even through their school years, was explainable by how nervous she was around anyone, but to find out that there was more to it than just that was shocking. She'd never really considered whether or not her friend was in fact not attracted to men at all, thinking it came as a given for young women like them. To admit to openly having feelings for the same sex in the time and place they were living in was enough for a death sentence too, which only made it worse. The last thing that she wanted was for Clare to be taken away or have some form of treatment performed on her like they wanted to do to Molly O'Keefe.

For Clare, the rest of the evening went by quickly. Having avoided even the slightest hint of suspicion from her parents, she'd spent most of the night hiding the tears that wanted to fall from her face. When night came and her parents were finally snoring though, she sobbed to herself in bed as she contemplated what she was going to do. For all of her life, or at least as much as she could remember, Michelle Mallon was there. They might have had their spats, just as all good friends did, but they'd always been there for each other when it mattered. Polar opposites in character, they worked surprisingly well as a team when they put their minds to it. She hadn't outright told her that she fancied her, but the stunned silence she gave when Michelle asked told her friend enough. Michelle was a beautiful young woman, far above anything that Clare could have hoped for, but it was clear that she would never be anything more than a friend to her. Unfortunately, the way in which Michelle reacted to her coming out to her threatened even that, as it appeared that she could not accept the blonde being attracted to other women. Clare knew she was faced with an almost impossible task to rescue their friendship, but try she had to.

The two young women's falling out was the backdrop to a church that was brimming with tension. Although it was not centre stage, nor did anyone else feel it, Charlene too was experiencing tension like no other as she watched on, hidden from the spy amongst them. Michelle's problem wasn't only Clare though, which made it doubly difficult for her to remain focused on the Mass. Father Peter was taking Mass that Sunday morning and their encounter the prior Sunday remained an awkward moment between them both. She was fully prepared to sleep with the good-looking Priest, and she believed she wasn't the first to do so, until his strange demands in the bedroom made her flee. Every time she found herself looking at him, a replay of what he'd asked ran through her head, making Michelle wish to vomit from the constant reminders. Church truly was the last place that she wanted to be.

A sadder scene developed on the middle rows, one which had to be expected though. With her foul moods driving the family up the wall, Erin was made to stand alone on a row, with even the row behind her moving down slightly out of the way. She cut a solitary figure in the row she was stood in, pretending to sing during the hymns and gazing blankly the rest of the time. For reasons that were still unknown to the vast majority of her friends and family, the Autumn brought out a side to her that was detestable at best. There were times when her poetry would have been more favourable to hear than her insults when she was moody, and that was saying something, given how most of Derry's residents hated her literary work. Gerry had pleaded with Mary to let him out so that he could stand with her, but his wife remained adamant that Erin needed to learn. They were far more lenient than they should have been anyway, so Erin instead paid the price for her moods.

Mass seemed to drag on for a lot longer than it normally did, even longer for both Michelle and Clare. Their families were sat well apart from each other during the service, Sean classically having his family up in the first couple of rows whereas the Mallon's sat nearer the back. Michelle always had Clare in her eyeline, no matter how hard she tried look away. Father Peter would often be the other way too, the Priest occasionally fixing eye contact with her even when she was all the way towards the back. At the front, the diminutive blonde was on edge throughout, knowing that Michelle could see her the whole time. She wasn't the only person in the church being spied upon, though she was the only one that was facing the wrath of Michelle Mallon.

When it was finally over, a tense standoff for some and a quiet Sunday morning Mass for others, Father Peter dismissed the congregation to return home or head to the hall for refreshments. Charlene's feet very firmly followed the first suggestion, thanks to the spy that she was monitoring also opting to return home. She would not follow them all of the way, but from a distance she watched on as they walked down the road back into the city. None of the other churchgoers questioned why she was stood by the front wall outside, looking down the road at what was seemingly a retreating figure but Charlene always held an explanation to cover herself anyway. For a young woman who had not been specifically trained in the arts of espionage, she was quite competent at it. Emerald Two would take over the duty again come that afternoon, but it was a nice excursion for the young Kavanagh, who spent all of her time working with the Americans otherwise. Americans who believed that they would be joined by their fellow countrymen in the not so distant future.

As families dispersed in various directions, Michelle became dislodged from her parents. She knew they would be heading into the hall to talk to the Quinn's and Devlin's though, so she made her way there at her own pace. She wouldn't have to face Clare if they were all together, as the blonde would not dare say anything in the presence of her father. That was one of Michelle's other worries, that Sean would find out. He was, for the want of a better phrase in her head, a religious madman who was more dangerous than devoted. There were a few of them like that within the community, she knew, men far different from her own father. Martin was a believer in God, but not in the same way as Sean. Sean was something else entirely. If he found out that Clare was a wee dyke, she genuinely thought he might kill her. It would certainly kill him.

Strolling down the side of one the aisles, her mind was still on Clare when she was suddenly grabbed and pulled into a room at the side. Michelle was far too strong to squeal or scream at the action, but it was not one that was welcomed. She knew exactly who it was when it happened though, not having to see his face to know that the assailant was Father Peter himself. He'd been watching her walk away, rushing down the centre of the church whilst everyone's attention was off of him. Trying to get a word with the young woman who'd left him high and dry the week before was not easy when they were surrounded by other people, not least her parents, but he picked his moment well.

"Michelle…". He began softly, still holding her arm.

"Get off me!" She seethed through gritted teeth, wrestling out of his grasp.

When she broke away from him, Michelle took a moment to contemplate the predicament that she was in. Trapped in the small side room, which must have been some sort of storage room as there were all sorts of random items in it, Father Peter was standing in front of the door. She could not simply just walk out, and with the lack of any other escape route, she was cornered by him. If there was one thing that she was not though, it was scared, angry more than anything at having to be forced into the room just to hear his apology. An apology that she neither cared for nor particularly wanted.

"We need to talk about what happened last Sunday". He tried again. "Now I know what I said might have made ye a bit uncomfortable…".

"Like fuckin' hell am I talkin' about last Sunday!". She whispered her shout at him.

"Michelle, yer in the house of The Lord".

"Don't give me that. Ye were more than happy to deface this place when yer pants were round yer ankles last week!"

Sighing, Father Peter put a hand over his face. He'd known the young Mallon for a few years, and she'd always been quite the beauty. There were plenty of women who he'd been with in the past, using his position to get exactly what he wanted rather than following the strict rules around it. The women of the church would often throw themselves at him anyway, all of them prior to Michelle finding his… habits… manageable, mostly due to their lust over him. He was known to give home visits to those in need of spiritual guidance too, though anyone who looked closely at the homes he visited and when he visited them, would quickly cotton on to what he was doing there. The part of prayer that involved the women being on their knees was still in practice, but it was rare for their head to be bowed to the Lord whilst they were on them. Michelle broke the mould though, being the first to reject what he wanted from her, a rejection that he was still having trouble to accept.

"Perhaps yer too young to understand…".

"I am old enough to know what you are!" Michelle again interrupted him in her fury. "You disgust me!"

"A lot of men enjoy doing something diff-".

"Aye right… but the next time ye want someone to shove a crucifix up yer arse and call ye Satan, don't come askin' me!"

Father Peter was not embarrassed by her words, his pleasures bringing him pride rather than humiliation. All of the women he'd been with before had raised their eyebrows at some of his unusual requests, but it stopped none of them from granting his wishes. After all, he was granting them their wishes by giving them his body that he kept well under his robes. He was hardly in the shape that some of the younger men in the city were, and nowhere near in the shape that James was in Italy, but he had a good figure. It was what made him attractive in Michelle's eyes, up until the moment she was asked place a cross where no cross had ever been before.

"Ye movin' or what?"

It hadn't escaped Michelle that he was still stood in her way, blocking her path out to return to the rest of the family. On hearing her question, he seemed to hesitate a little before moving to the side but then quickly moved back. Father Peter was fighting an internal battle as he realised he had her where he wanted her. The problem was, she did not want him.

"That might depend…".

"Ach no, feck off!"

"AAAH!"

His yelp would have been heard by anyone who was passing if they were close to the door, but thankfully for them both, it was not. Michelle had become sick and tired of his behaviour, so much so that she decided to target his main weakness in order to get him to move. Grabbing his sides, she'd driven her knee right into his crotch with no signs of remorse, making sure that it was a full hit not just a glancing blow. Doubling over in pain, the Father stumbled to the side, clearing the way out for the young Mallon who stood over him triumphantly. He deserved it for his disgusting bedroom requests, as well as trying to coerce her into doing something with him that she no longer desired to do. He might have been a Priest who was supposed to be respected but she did not care at all for what title he held. No one put her in a position like that.

"Dick…". She muttered.

Father Peter could not come up with a response nor stop her from leaving, too busy trying to recover from the incredible pain that now existed in his nether regions. He was going to be sore for a couple of days; Michelle really hadn't held anything back.

Back out in the church, Michelle put the incident to the back of her mind, remembering that she was heading back to where her family were supposed to be. Entering the main hall, she quickly located her parents, who were talking to Mary, Gerry and Joe. Orla and Erin were stood rather loosely to the side, the former with Marie in the pram with her. When they noticed Michelle, the three quickly convened away from the older adults. She briefly contemplated telling them about what had happened with Father Peter but thought better of it when she considered it for a moment longer. Telling Orla any secret was always a huge risk, with her habit of accidentally blurting out what had been said at the most inopportune moments. Equally, having any sort of conversation with Erin was a questionable idea at best with her moods being what they were. She could barely stand her friend on a good day, and it was far from one of those days after the encounter with Father Peter. Instead, Marie was the focus of her attention.

"How's my little warrior doin' then". She knelt down next to the pram.

"Auntie Michelle!" Marie cried out.

"Aye it's me. Have ye missed me?"

"Yeah!"

"Well I've missed you, so I have. Do ye want a cuddle?"

Marie looked back at her as if she were stupid… of course she wanted a cuddle! The bond that formed between the two was an unexpected one for a lot of the family, but in the same way that Anna had gravitated towards James during his short time in the city, Marie seemed to enjoy Michelle's company the best. Joe thought that it was a bad omen when Michelle was a troublemaker, not wanting his great granddaughter to become like her when she grew up. His words were harsh though, which Mary recognised, as she could see that the young Mallon was doing everything she could to be a positive role model to little Marie. It wasn't so much as a change in character, she was still the same Michelle who would annoy them with her foul language, but it was heartening to know that she was putting in legitimate effort to support Marie's development without having to be asked.

"Yer lookin' well Marie". Michelle complimented her. "Yer beautiful like yer Mammy".

Orla grinned from ear to ear at the kind words Michelle bestowed upon her, ones that were not sent her way that often anymore since David's death. Next to her, Erin huffed out a sigh to signal her disapproval of the comment, but neither of the girls decided to react to it. It was best not to react unless there was no other choice, as Erin would be ready for a fight in her seemingly endless Autumnal quest to be against the world.

"Thank ye Auntie Michelle! I think yer beautiful too!"

Her heart could have came apart from what Marie said. The girl she invested so much time and effort in was starting to repay her kindness with kindness of her own, which increased a longing for Michelle too. She was still completely terrified of committing to a long-term relationship with a man, but every time she spent any time with Marie, she always came away wishing for a daughter of her own. A little Michelle who she could nurture in her life to be the best girl that she could be, loved by her family and friends alike. Deirdre was not a woman who gave positive opinions lightly, but she'd told her daughter on more than one occasion that she thought she'd be a magnificent mother. Fears needed to be conquered first for her though and the right fella to spend more than a couple of nights of passion with was yet to come along.

"I think yer Marie's favourite still, Michelle". Orla stated bluntly. "Ach, yer goin' to have to put some work in to catch up, Erin".

"Erin mean!" Marie cried out.

The blonde was doing her best not to shout at her cousin's daughter, but she resented the implication that she was nasty in any way. Michelle was far too nice around Marie for her own good anyway, Erin thought, finding it odd that she would give her so much attention when she was not even her daughter. Erin did not give Marie anywhere near as much, barely even speaking to her when they were in the same room together. She never went out of her way to be horrible though, which made the comment particularly frustrating as well as having sewn up one of the girl's garments when it had been ripped earlier that week. To Erin, she had some cheek on her.

"She isn't is she, Marie?" Michelle decided to push it. "We might have to get our own back on her, aye".

"Shut up Michelle".

"See!" Marie squealed.

Erin might have been able to get away with a lot during her odd moods, but Michelle was not about to start letting her off lightly with such rudeness. Being proven totally correct, Marie shrivelled a bit in the pram because she knew what was going to come next. As with most arguments that Erin successfully started against the world on her strange, anger-fuelled crusade, it always ended up with a confrontation. Michelle was the latest to fall into the trap.

"What's yer problem? Get up on the wrong side or what?"

"No". Erin snarled back. "But you there… actin' all… nice around Marie like that. Christ, she's not even yer daughter Michelle!"

"That doesn't mean I can't give her any attention, Erin. Why don't you try showin' her some love instead of bein' a miserable bitch all the time!"

In the space of a couple of seconds it was getting out of hand, and Erin didn't appear keen on backing down. Unintimidated by Michelle, who was definitely stronger than her physically, she squared right up to her. Orla didn't quite know what to do when it looked like they were about to fight, looking around to see if she could get Mary's attention, but finding her out of sight as other people were mingling between their groups. She wasn't particularly impressed by Michelle's choice of language either, as she did not want Marie knowing those words. Then again, when they lived with Joe, it would be a surprise if prick didn't enter her vocabulary at some point.

However, fortune favoured the peacemakers as Michelle was dragged away from where she stood staring into Erin's eyes. Orla mirrored the actions, pulling Erin backwards in order to calm her down, not that is stopped her growling towards Michelle. The argument would not last into the next working day, Orla knew, mostly because one of the two would let it go, albeit Erin not being that one. She would no doubt attempt to provoke their friend again, but it would be a useless idea as she would not be riled a second time. If the incident with Father Peter hadn't have happened moments before then they would have still been talking amicably. Michelle was far beyond that point though, raging that the young Quinn did not show any affection towards little Marie.

It took a couple of moments for her to recognise who'd dragged her away from the potential fight too, and they weren't stopping. The person was not someone of particular strength but could be oddly powerful when in the right frame of mind despite their stature.

Clare was that person.

She'd been in the loo before Michelle arrived, but on her way back she'd spotted the potential flare up from a mile off. Her own differences with Michelle were put aside to prevent it, not wishing to see the whole of the group split apart that Sunday. Responsible for a seismic shift in the dynamics of the friendship between them already, there were feelings of atonement for the diminutive blonde in pulling her friend away. In a straight fight between them, there was not a contest; Michelle would have devoured Erin like the finest of Christmas dinners. The friendship that existed between her and Michelle might have been coming to an end, but Clare could at least preserve the one the dark-haired young woman shared with Erin.

Before a complaint could be registered, Clare had dragged Michelle outside and around the side of the church to a spot she'd once spoken to Erin in. She remembered the day well, Erin apologising to her for making comments about James which Clare found offensive, unaware that Erin had already made more than just an apology to James or that he was waiting around the corner. The days of their blossoming young love were long in the past though, no blossoming young love being held that morning after Mass. There was some convenience to the squaring up though, as it gave the small cack attack Queen the chance to speak to Michelle about the day before, not that she thought it would clear the air at all when her friend's mind was clearly made up.

"What are ye doin' Michelle?" She asked in a soft, almost delicate voice.

"What do ye think I'm fuckin' doin'". Michelle answered, refusing to make eye contact. "Erin's really gotta watch herself or one of these days I am going to hit her so fu…".

"No Michelle. Yer not. We've been here before remember…".

After James' death, when Erin's work was nowhere near up to scratch, Michelle had very nearly completely lost it with her friend. Erin did have the excuse of grief at the time, which Michelle did come to understand after some prompting from Clare earlier that year, but there were no such excuses again come the Autumn. Her annually terrible moods were running the risk of ruining their friendship with their severity and if she was going to pick a fight, the young Mallon would make sure that she did not pick another one.

"Ye well she's runnin' out of chances with me, Clare!"

On the second occasion, she did make eye contact, which Clare held. The two instantly knew that any talk about Erin would soon be ceased, the need to talk about their own friendship taking precedence. A friendship that was wafer thin in Clare's opinion, she was going to have to endure some of the toughest few minutes of her life as it slipped away from her very eyes. She was determined not to cry though, trying to remember the better times before she'd even realised who she was. The summers of years earlier, where the four of them would enjoy their days out in the fields playing and exploring the world around them. They were some of the best days of their lives and she knew she would give anything to experience them again. Unfortunately, it was her own choices, or rather feelings, that shut the door to that world of satisfaction permanently.

"Clare...".

"No Michelle. I don't want to hear ye say it… just let me say what I need to and then I'll leave ye alone, I swear".

Michelle went to open her mouth again to protest, but a hand from Clare stopped her. The flow of the conversation was not going to be dictated by her for once, because it would have been far too upsetting for Clare if it was. A young woman who was never truly in control of her destiny because of the forbidden longings of her heart, it was a rare opportunity for her. Most likely, the final one ever with Michelle.

"My uncle Liam lives in Craigavon and I'm goin' to pack up my things and go next week… and I'm not comin' back so if ye can put up with me for one more week at work…".

Knowing the reaction she'd had from Michelle the day before, Clare felt she was ready for the same again when she told her. To be told that it was a good job that she was leaving because of the shame she would bring to the group by being a lesbian, retreating far away from Derry, where her feelings for Michelle would dissolve in time.

Michelle throwing her arms around her was not part of the plan, nor was the almost killing squeeze that she was given either.

"Oh my god, Clare no".

She cried.

Amazingly, Michelle was crying for her. Clare did not expect it all… so all she could do was cry with her, out of the sights of the rest of the community.

"Please… please don't do this!" Michelle begged. "I… oh god, I'm sorry. I've been such a fucking dick… please I… I don't know if I could stand ye leavin…".

Very few things turned Michelle into a sobbing mess, James' eulogy being the last time that she'd properly been ripped apart by unhappiness. Faced with the prospect of Clare having to move just because of her, and her alone, brought her to that point again. There were many foundations in her young life that held her whole character together, making her the Michelle that would run her mouth at the first opportunity and sleep with whoever she damned well please. Even if she may not have approved of all of the behaviours, Clare was one of the rocks from which she built on. A loyal friend, a kind-hearted soul in a time when darkness would so often destroy the brightest of lights, losing her because of who she found herself attracted to could not be. She couldn't survive without Clare, a fact set in concrete rather than a simple opinion.

"I… I thought you were sickened by me… I thought ye wanted me to go…". Clare wailed.

"No! I'd never want that Clare… never".

They held their embrace for a couple of moments, sobbing into each other's shoulders. Emotions that had been waiting to pour out for nearly a whole day were spilled into the seams of their dresses, make up smudging their cheeks. Initially, Michelle was sickened by the thought of Clare fancying her, but their friendship meant so much more. She could not forsake it for that reason alone, her first thoughts that they could not survive Clare's sexuality as a group being completely inaccurate. They could do it… and they would, but the blonde needed to know that rather than feeling the need to flee the city to escape them.

"Christ, look at me… I didn't think I'd get like this". Michelle sniffled, gently pulling herself away from Clare.

"Ye don't look too bad…". Clare smiled before her face quickly dropped. "I… I don't mean…".

A hand on her wrist, soft not callous, stopped her fretting in an instant.

"I understand ye Clare…". She sniffled again. "… look, this isn't going to be easy and… ye know, I can't lie to ye but I'm only interested in fellas".

"Aye… I… I had noticed". Clare stammered, slightly deflated but with a hint of humour.

"That doesn't mean that I should have acted the way I did though. It… it was hard ye know… hearing that because… well I don't need to tell ye about what other people would think if they knew…".

Society would rip poor Clare apart, a fact that she knew but could not change. There was no world in which she could educate those who would be against her, to teach them that what she desired was no crime, merely a different love than to the ones that generations before them had experienced. They would never have to know though, the secret being one that only Michelle would be privy to, locked back away in the sanctuary, but without the web of lies covering over it as protection.

"I can't lose ye as my friend though. None of us can… we need ye, Clare. No matter who you love, fella or not, yer one of us. Pack animals like us can't afford to lose one of our own!"

"I… I don't want to go". Clare whimpered.

"Then please don't!" Sounding a similar whimper, Michelle replied. "It's goin' to be hard to get used to b… but I'm willin' to try… and I think the girls will be if ye tell them".

"Michelle I can't…".

"I know it isn't for me to say… and I don't know how ye must be feelin', but we shouldn't keep any lies between us. We support each other with the truth".

Clare could have probably counted on one hand how many times that Michelle had truly spoken sense during the years that she'd known her, but her words were among the most sensible she'd ever heard. The compassionate young woman may have stayed hidden beneath the rampaging delinquent, but that side of Michelle was still there. Clare never doubted that she cared for their friends and the relationship they held together… and she was right to. It did not have to be in the immediate future that she told Erin and Orla, and in the case of the latter it would have to be done in a way that did not make her shout it from the rooftops, but it was possible. And it needed to be done.

She was a lesbian and that wasn't going to change.

The perceptions of her friends were emotions, variables of life that she could not control but if they had the truth then it was up to them what they did with it. They operated as a pack though, and through the traumatic opening up to Michelle about who she really was, Clare had forgotten that.

She was so lucky to have Michelle as friend because she would never forget it again.

An incredible test withstood, their friendship held again even when it seemed impossible to retrieve.

It really could overcome anything.

---

Berlin

Teeth chattered in the early morning haze.

The calendar told them it was October, but it may as well have been the coldest days of December. Snow might not have greeted them when they woke up, but a layer of ice covered the Berlin ground that October morning. Men and women making their way to work were cold, shivering at the unusually cool temperatures. It could get very cold in the city, but not at that time of the year. It made the mornings far harder to wake up to.

Some had no choice but to wake up early that morning, one of those being Doctor Kurt Van Der Heijden. As much as he would have enjoyed a lazy morning where he could lie around in bed with his beloved Lyla, duty called. He was a man who was far too important to be wasted on mid-morning frolics, an intellect whose influence went right to the top. There were many important cogs in the Nazi war machine from a military perspective, but away from the military and the rule of law, there were few who held as much as influence as he. That did also mean that when he was needed by Hitler, he could not delay at all. If Hitler told him to be at the Reich Chancellery for eight o'clock the next morning, he'd be outside in the reception room at quarter to.

That day called for one of the times where he could not take Lyla with him for his meeting. He trusted her, completely incorrectly, with most of Germany's secrets, but the information he held was not to be discussed with anyone. He himself did not know what to make of a lot of it, but there was clearly something more to what they were looking at than met the eye. He was a Doctor, not a detective, but sometimes the work in his field required the mind of an Inspector to be able to solve the puzzle, putting the pieces together. That part of his mind alongside his remarkable head for analytics was one of the several reasons why Hitler trusted him, as well as his loyalty and his devotion to making Germany become the world's superpower. The same mind was yet to work out the mystery of the Irish woman though, one which posed more danger than he realised.

Hans was the designated driver for their trip out that morning, which would encompass the relatively short journey to the Chancellery, albeit one which was a lot longer that morning. A whole Panzer division, that had been on leave in the city for a few days, were heading out to the East to join up with their comrades, leaving Berlin in full formation. Hans was stuck behind the rear of the convoy, having picked the wrong moment to get going. Kurt, his briefcases full to the brim in the back, was sat alongside Lyla, who was along for the journey, if not the meeting. She needed to go into the city to purchase a few items, as well as pick up their rations for the days ahead.

The Panzers were a glorious sight for Hans, though, who had at one time contemplated joining one of the divisions. When he'd first been assigned to Kurt, he did not know how long the assignment would last and forever the forward thinker, he was trying to plan ahead. A very competent driver of a motor vehicle, a tank was not so much of a step up in his own mind. The controls were very different to that of a normal car, and there was far more weight due the armour, but it was still more than possible. When he'd told Elsa of that plan, she was glad that he hadn't, hating the sight of the steel beasts herself. She'd told him that they were too much of a symbol of war when peace was preferrable, a visualisation of the barbarity that men could throw at each other in their quest to win the conflict for their side.

Once they were clear of the armoured division that were heading out to face the chance of death in the open plains of the Russian fields, the rest of the journey appeared to be clear. Savouring the early morning bliss, he did not drive particularly fast, especially when he had two of his favourite guests in the car. Lyla was always a good woman to have a conversation with, even though they did disagree on certain elements of the war as a rule. Just being able to talk to Kurt again was a blessing, one which he was thankful for every day. Whatever The Führer had decided to call him back for worked beneficially to him to. His mentor and guide back in his life, the rigours of fatherhood no longer seemed as challenging with Kurt there.

"It is too cold this morning". Lyla commented.

"I agree. My feet are freezing and I am in control of the car!" Hans emphatically pointed out.

"You need to get more circulation in them, Hans".

"Now, now Kurt. You are not an actual doctor".

"I am a realist". Kurt replied with a smirk.

There was some truth in his statement, but the Doctor was not unknown to delve into the realms of fantasy himself. He'd hidden away in the corners of his own mind on more than one occasion in the past when it suited him to do so.

"I cannot disagree with that".

"What about me, Kurt?" Lyla questioned in a more seductive tone than she'd hoped for. "Do I need more circulation?"

"You need a big warm cuddle, my love".

She'd tempted fate by making such a stupid comment and Lyla was already beginning to hate herself for doing so. Kurt wrapped her up in the warmest hug she'd ever had, practically squeezing and smothering her almost to death as he did. He was dressed in one of his warmest coats, as was she, a warm experience for the Irishwoman as she nestled on his chest. Her depth of responsibility for the Crown was extended to such unpleasantries though, merely to keep up appearances. She could not reject the Doctor's advances, the line of information to Hitler being far too important to lose. The British war effort depended on her cuddling the evil man, a duty she complied with without raising any objections, despite feeling as if she lost her dignity every time she did so.

Unfortunately for Lyla, it did not end there though. Kurt's focus should have been on his impending meeting with Germany's leader, but he was too transfixed on her warmth to do anything else. Affectionately cupping her cheek, he bowed his head down to her, placing a kiss on her lips. Familiar feelings of nausea washed over Lyla from the feeling of having his lips on hers, but her stomach was made of steel that prevented them from ever being anything more than feelings. She did not want to be kissed by Kurt, not wishing for his love when he wanted to give it. Kurt's problem was that he had far too much to give, as the nurse at the camp had found out when they'd began their affair behind Lyla's back. She'd became pregnant thanks to his love, the creation of a child that saw the destruction of her life. The frenzied murder he'd committed was one which would have never have stood the detectives of the day outside of war time, but during it, Kurt could get away with anything. The nurse was barely recognisable should she be dug out of the pit that served as her grave, the resting place of a woman who'd never gotten to experience the joys of motherhood. Lyla was fortunate to have done so, and certainly did not want to conceive with him. After all, she was there to use him for information, not conception. His kisses were becoming far too much for her too, the Doctor moving around to her neck to attempt to draw pleasure from her, though there was scant of it reserved for him.

"Can you keep it down back there!" Hans chastised the two.

Kurt broke off his attentions, Lyla thanking Hans internally without showing any hint of it in her facial expressions. If anything, she made herself look as offended as she could by the interruption, hoping that Hans would notice her feigned annoyance. If she were to survive the war, she wished to return to the stage, where her skills as an actress could finally be used outside of the sphere of espionage once again.

"That is no way to treat the man you are assigned to, Lieutenant". Kurt grumbled, though he was not angered by the young man.

"My assignment was not to taxi you around while you kiss Lyla".

"These things change Hans". Kurt shook his head as he spoke. "As must you".

"Understood… Sir".

Knowing that Hans was mocking him, Kurt was left to shake his head again as the Lieutenant watched on with an amused smile. It was quite distracting having them conducting an impromptu kissing session in the back of the car, especially when there were people trying to cross the road ahead of them. The RAF had been by a couple of nights before as well, leaving the roads covered in debris from their partially successful raid. The raid was a success in terms of the fear it struck into German hearts, but in truth, they'd not hit anything of value other than the road system. There was no loss of life for the fighting men of Berlin, which was the most important thing to Hitler. However, some of those who were in command around him, were beginning to wonder how the morale would fare against renewed visits that might be more deadly.

"These young ones…". Kurt moaned. "… they would have never got away with what they say in my youth. I suspect it was the same in Ireland?"

"Wooden spoons are often used to keep the discipline in the house". She explained with a slight smile, though the thought of the spoon prevented it from widening. "No matter where you are hit with it, it always hurts".

"I will have to avoid angry Irish mothers then". He laughed.

"It would be wise for you to do so".

If given a spoon to use on him, Lyla would have happily introduced Kurt to a world of pain that would reduce him to tears. She was never really one to be too happy to use the spoon herself, unable to remember a time she'd properly wielded it anger. Perhaps it had been the scarring of her own mother's use of the spoon that stopped her, but she found other ways to ensure that punishments were given instead. Still, it would not have mattered with Kurt as he was not her son. He was a despicable man that was happy to murder innocent people in the name of the Fatherland, loyal to the regime that brought terror to not just Europe, but to the world too.

"Your meeting with The Führer was arranged at short notice?" She engaged Kurt again. "I trust all goes well with the war".

"Do not concern yourself my dear, the war is progressing as we wish".

The war was progressing frustratingly well in her eyes. The Russians were being pushed back at almost every battle, valiantly fighting their ground but ultimately finding their positions untenable. Pockets of resistance like Kiev remained, but on the whole, wherever a German Division pushed, it's Russian opponent would drop back. The cold of the winter was already beginning to take shape though, with the Red Army favouring the temperatures the lower they got. Although they could withstand the cold well, Germany's soldiers were nowhere near as experienced in it when it came to fighting. That was why it was imperative that they took Moscow; not only to strike a blow at the heart of Soviet morale, but to also keep their troops warm and sheltered from the horrid conditions out in the wilderness. Bears were also a problem in certain areas, roaming freely to pounce on unexpected patrols that would be ripped apart before they could take the bear down.

"Are the men toasting their drinks in Moscow yet?" Hans asked merrily, hoping that they indeed were.

"Not just yet Hans, but they are close".

"That is brilliant to hear, Kurt!" He replied triumphantly. "We can finally eliminate them and focus on Britain again!"

"I doubt that Britain will want to fight with the Soviets knocked out". Kurt sniggered.

"What makes you say that, Kurt? They fought before when the Soviets were allied to us".

The reaction that was received from her question worried Lyla for a moment. Kurt was not a man that was openly violent, at least not to her knowledge, but the look in his eyes suggested otherwise. She'd noticed similar looks ever since he'd returned, glimpses into a darkness that appeared to have made its home within his body. She did not know of what he'd seen when he was out in the East, and more importantly, what he had done himself. There were mental scars even if he was not the one to be pained from what he'd seen or done. A spiral into the darkness was not unknown for men on such tasks, but the dark that he was entering into was truly frightening to her.

"Lyla, my dear, there is a mental side to the theatre of war that you do not understand". Kurt spoke almost condescendingly towards her, speaking of mentality at the same moment she questioned his inside.

"You think the Soviet's defeat will kill their British spirit?" She asked, stopping herself at the last second from doing so incredulously.

"Why should it not?" Kurt in turn questioned her. "There is no one coming to rescue Britain and no one else for our great nation to target. Little Britain cannot fight on".

"I have told you this before, Lyla". Hans joined in on his mentor's side. "We are too powerful for Churchill and his men".

"I do not deny that, Hans… but were Britain not underestimated before? The Luftwaffe were not successful, I seem to recall".

"Lyla does make a good point, Hansi."

Flickering between his protégé and his lover, Kurt changed sides as the point was made. He'd seen from the reports sent to him at the camp, that Hitler was most displeased by the Air Force being unsuccessful. Operation Sea Lion, the very mission that Britain discovered thanks to Lyla, was cancelled because of it, amongst other things. For the Doctor, he agreed with Lyla's belief that trust in them to eliminate Britain had failed before and could not be given again.

"She does, Kurt". Hans conceded with a sigh. "Although the Luftwaffe will not make the same mistake again".

"No. They will not".

Kurt's words came out as both a warning and a threat. The Führer certainly would not tolerate another failure from his air force, especially when their importance was as large as it was. If Britain was to be turned on again once the Soviets were knocked out of the war, and it appeared that they would fight, the Luftwaffe could not fail again. For all of their dislike of the British, Kurt and Hans both privately had some respect for the RAF. Faced with the unenviable task of defending a whole kingdom when they were so hopelessly outgunned, the British pilots proved to be far more skilful. They'd heard stories of a British Pilot who'd came up against three of their own, who found the aircraft out in the North Sea. Three on one was almost unfair, except what the German Pilots did not know was that it was unfair to them, none of them coming back. The Pilot's name was not known, but if Britain had men like that in their ranks, then it would be difficult for the Luftwaffe to succeed if asked again. Luckily if they were, the pilot in question was locked well away from the war in Italy.

"Forgive me for changing the subject, but I do fear that our friends in Japan may be about to make a mistake".

It was Kurt who forced the change, adding in a point of conversation that rarely made any talks between Lyla and Hans. They had spoken of the Japanese before, but they were not brought up very often, the Lieutenant knowing little about what they did for the war effort beyond anything his Commander told him.

"What do you mean?" She asked, inquisitive about his comment.

"They mean to pick their fight with America, and it worries me".

"It is good, is it not, Kurt?" Hans asked himself. "America cannot hope to help Britain if they are stuck fighting our Japanese friends".

"America is a different enemy to most, Hans". Kurt explained.

"They do not understand the fighting tactics of war in Europe".

"That is not strictly true, Hans". The Irishwoman interjected. "The Americans were involved in the last war".

"I am aware that they were, Lyla, but they were not involved for long enough".

The young Lieutenant displayed annoyance at her failing to realise that he paid attention to such things. He might not have been born when the Great War was fought, but that did not mean that he did not know what went on during it. The Americans were foreign pests in a war that they did not belong in then, once again seemingly ready to be so, should Roosevelt be convinced that their entry was necessary or if Japan forced their hand.

"I hope that my concerns will be listened to". Kurt spoke more softly than usual, scratching the back of his neck. "I am not a military commander but I can understand the disadvantages of provoking an enemy such as America".

"We will defeat them like we have defeated everyone else Kurt!"

"Your confidence is inspiring, Hans. Becoming a father must have brought it out of you".

"My belief in our great nation has never been stronger". Hans continued speaking in his nationalistic ways.

"You are a credit to the country". Kurt chuckled. "Do you not agree, Lyla?"

"Any country would be lucky to have a young man like Hans within its population". She gave a charmingly measured answer, a velvet like tone to her voice.

"The highest of praise, Hans". Kurt nodded to him.

"It is. Thank you for your kind words, Lyla".

"It is my pleasure".

Despite his unwavering faith in the ways of Nazi Germany, Lyla could never find it within herself to be too critical of Hans. Finding a cause worthy to die for was the hope of any man or woman who were thrust into a war, Hans knowing that his cause was to make Germany the world's dominant superpower. The details of how it was achieved were not displayed to the public, or soldiers like him, leaving it to the likes of her and Kurt to know the secrets behind the successes. She wanted to tell him what was truly going on, or at least what she understood to be, believing that fatherhood would have changed his viewpoint on the war when all the details were given. If he were to discuss it with Kurt though, and mention that the source of information was her, she would have been discovered. As much as she admired the young man that she cared for a great deal, she could not inform him of what was actually going on without destroying her own cover. He would have to remain blind to the truth, perhaps forever.

Hans stopped the car outside the Chancellery, where a couple of staff officers were milling around, most likely waiting for Kurt's arrival. When they saw him in the back of the car, they began to walk over, but he waved them away with his hand to give himself an extra minute or two. He used that minute to kiss Lyla again, who tried her best not to recoil from his acidic touch. Every contact between the two was another blow to her heart, another ounce of effort ripped from her in the battle to do her duty. On bad days where she would be consumed by her own negativity, she often wondered how much more she could put up with.

"I should get going". Kurt told them. "The Führer will not be happy if I arrive late".

"I hope your meeting goes well". She smiled sweetly, placing her hand on his arm.

"Thank you, Lyla. I love you and I will see you later".

"I love you too, Kurt".

They kissed again as the words rang in her ears. She didn't love him at all. She could not love a man who would willingly kill innocent people on the orders of one deranged leader, no matter who he was or how attractive he was. Doctor Kurt Van Der Heijden was her lover to everyone else, but to her own heart he was a stain. An hour or more without him was exactly what she needed, as ever since he'd returned, she found the time to be alone hard to come by. There were days when he would go down into his laboratory and finally leave her, but it would never seem to be for long enough. There was also looking after Leo too, and although she loved the little boy dearly, there were days when she could have done without him being there. She hated herself for thinking that way, but the love of Kurt drove her to it.

"Kurt! Remember to find out about Moscow!" Hans shouted out the window to him as he walked off, greeted by the staff officers.

"Don't worry Hans, I had not forgotten!"

Lieutenant Hartmann was left to laugh for himself, starting the engine up again and driving off from where he'd parked in front of the Reich Chancellery. He could not stay parked outside the front of the building all day, instead driving a little way down the road and turning off down a side street. He found a spot, the one that he usually parked in when waiting for Kurt to finish his meetings, killing the engine. In the back of the car, Lyla was far calmer without Kurt there to manhandle her, a radiant grin gleaming of her face when Hans turned around to look at her. He enjoyed seeing her happy in his presence, especially when she was such an angel to his family. No one had done more for the young man, Elsa and their son than the Irishwoman had, and her happiness was vital in his eyes. The happier that she was, the happier they were as a family. She knew that too, finding it painful to know how much respect he held for her, when if he found out who she really was, he would have none at all. She was his enemy.

"I am jealous of Kurt sometimes". Hans spoke honestly and openly, a hand stroking his chin. "I wish I could have a meeting with The Führer".

"What would you say to him if you did?" Lyla almost snorted her response, imaging what a meeting between the Lieutenant and Hitler would look like.

"I would tell him how proud I am to live in his country and how much of an inspiration he is".

"He would enjoy that, I am certain".

"He is a hero".

Adolf Hitler was many things, but hero was not one in the eyes of Lyla Walsh. A murderous brute, deceptively hidden under the guise of wanting the best for his country, he was a man responsible for barbarity in every new country added to Germany's rising portfolio. Whilst he may have been responsible for certain improvements in the lives of the German people, they were all blown away in a tornado of hatred that he'd created in the years since. His attitude towards Jewish people sickened Lyla, who could not believe that a man would wish to end the lives of so many innocent people for simply being different to him. They were better people than he was, caring and loving souls who did not seek the abominations that he did.

"Where would you like to go first?" Hans asked, pulling her away from her thoughts about Hitler.

"I must see about picking Elsa's jacket up from the tailor". She replied instantly.

"Thank you for the reminder… I had forgotten". Hans choked out a guilty response.

"You are lucky that I am not going to tell her that".

"Yes… yes I am. Thank you again".

Elsa had reminded her soon to be husband many times about her jacket, but as usual, it had slipped from Hans' mind. She'd managed to rip it innocuously, when hanging it up behind the door after they'd arrived back from a walk in the Berlin streets as a family. Being able to count on the discretion of the woman who'd come to act as his mother in recent times, Hans was a very lucky young man indeed… and he knew it. There were plenty of women who would have stitched him up, fairly, to Elsa, which would have led to another argument. They argued fairly regularly, the process of loving another human always consisting of such disagreements. One occurred that very morning, just as Kurt and Lyla were waking in the other room. Neither could hear much of what was going on between the two, which intrigued Lyla considerably, as one of the two would usually come straight to her to tell her as well, something which was yet to happen.

"What were the two of you arguing about this morning?" She enquired lightly. "I heard raised voices".

Taking a moment to think about his answer, in his own mind Hans was transported back to earlier that morning, in the middle of the argument. It was a very petulant one, trivial to him, but to Elsa it meant a lot.

"Elsa was complaining about my snoring".

Lyla had to supress a grin. Of course it would be because of his snoring! She hated it when Kurt snored to, though he was not the first man that she'd been with who'd snored his head off while she tried to sleep next to him.

"I hope you did not wake Leo?" She wagged her finger at him.

"I may have done…". Hans admitted.

"Hans! I commend Elsa then!"

"You are supposed to be on my side, Lyla!" He pretended to be offended.

"Not a chance!" She laughed. "You have a whole lifetime of this to enjoy!".

"Thank you for the reminder…". He sighed, remembering that he did indeed have to put up with it for as long as he drew breath. "Come, we must get going".

Making their way into the centre of Berlin, the temperature began to rise as their conversation increased in merriment. Lyla gave him a mockingly stern telling off about his sleeping habits, warning him that if he snored again, she would have to resort to the punishments of the spoon dished out by Irish mothers, as he'd heard her tell Kurt about during the car journey. Hans would not want to be on the wrong end of a lashing from the wooden spoon.

Then again, nor did most.

---

Frank the Pigeon was James' only friend now.

His existence in Italy had become incredibly depressing, with only his avian companion left who he wanted to talk to. Professor Molinari's revelation that the Italians believed that he was a spy left him unwilling to talk, still unable to understand why they'd come to that conclusion. He was many things in his life, some that he was yet to be aware of himself, but he'd never been a spy. A gallant, and incredibly successful Pilot he would accept but an agent of espionage he would not. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest it, having always cooperated with the Professor throughout his time under capture. Disillusioned with the educated man, the two were no longer on speaking terms at all. Frank was never anything but himself around the Englishman, which endeared him to him even more, despite Frank being a pigeon.

"You look like you ate well last night, Frank".

Frank did appear to have put some weight on, something which James had noticed for the past few days. When the pigeon first started to visit the prisoner, he was a very thin bird, if anything a bit too thin. However, since those first few days, he'd eaten very well, becoming quite big. The scales had tipped in the wrong direction, though James could not fault him for eating well in a world where many went starving. It never appeared to impede the pigeon when he took off for flight, his significant undercarriage moving off with him like it normally would without causing any problems whatsoever.

"I know, but I don't eat as well as you".

"Back home I ate well, Frank".

"I'm too far from home. We've been over this".

Thinking of home was a painful reminder for James, as any thought of Derry meant a thought of Erin too. It had nearly been a year since she would have found out that he was taken from the world, twelve long months of forgetting him. It was brutal when he sounded out the words in his head, that she would just forget him like that, but all the same it was what he wanted. She didn't need to spend the rest of her life grieving on what could have been; she needed to go out and live it. He was going to be an afterthought in her mind, there coming a day where she would forget his name, signalling that he was truly lost to her. Orla he knew would be doing the same, moving on from the love of her life in David to a new future, but it would still be one that his friend featured in thanks to Marie. He would think of the little girl he had not met, imagining that she would carry the good looks of her parents with a proud smile, a happy child who did not cry for the loss of her father.

"I would love to go home but I can't".

"My mother? She is in Switzerland, Frank. It is Erin that I want to go home to".

"Don't be ridiculous, Frank! If I came home, she would run to me, I am sure of it".

The hopes and dreams of the Englishman were one thing, but reality was another. If Erin had moved on like he hoped she would, there may be another fella when he got home, if he ever would. Another fella who would at least care for her, but someone other than him which would make his heart break. Seeing her on the arm of another man was something he hoped to never have to witness, wondering whether he was strong enough to survive such a sight. In the eyes of the Captain of the Fleet Air Arm, she was his, and not anyone else's. Unfortunately, the wheel of fate did not see the world through the same eyes.

"We will win the war, Frank. I am certain of it".

"You'll survive, don't worry about that my friend. Whether I do or not may depend on whatever our good friend the Professor has to say…".

Well-ensconced in his conversation with the pigeon, James continued to rabble on about what the Professor's intentions were. It was only a matter of time before the supposed new man would present himself, to likely torture him for information that he did not have. There was little that he knew about the overall strategy of the war, and what he knew of the operations in the Mediterranean was hardly worth an extensive beating for. The likelihood was that Admiral Cunningham would have changed his intentions anyway, as they would have to align with what was going on in the other theatres of war that Britain was involved in. Although his rank of Captaincy was one of incredible superiority, it was not a position that granted him access to the combined efforts of Britain's greatest military minds. During all of the meetings with the Admiral, they'd never properly discussed what the Army was doing for example, and the men fighting in Africa were key to the entire war effort.

Whilst the conversation might have entertained James, Frank was very bored. Having explored the ground for anything valuable, his job was done for the morning. The prisoner behind the bars that held him was never really his reason for being there, though the quiet spot other than the drivelling Englishman was appealing. When the time came, James was not even looking at him, Frank extended his wings and flying away into the cloudy morning sky. Hearing the flapping of the wings, James sighed, as his only friend left him without any warning as usual. Out of allies, it would be another day of hell without speaking to anyone at all. He still had his exercises, which were not being limited at all, but his tongue remained unexercised. Molinari had made a couple of attempts to coax him into talking, but he would not fall for it again.

It was the early evening when the next disturbance came. He'd only seen one of the assistants the rest of the day, bringing along his regular bread and cheese meals as well as emptying his waste bucket for him. James wondered whether they would ever throw it over him to smite him, but it appeared that they were professionals. The man responsible for damaging their fleet was never going to be a popular man, especially when he'd done such a good job of it. They were no doubt under instructions to say little to him, which he would not be angry with them for, as they were only doing their duty. His lack of Italian frustrated him more than ever, as if he could speak the language, he could have at least tried to explain to them that he was not. Sadly, despite Molinari's wariness that he might secretly be able to, James hid nothing from the man. He could not.

The disturbance that he did receive was not one that was expected all. With all of the regular visits to him done for the day, the only other person who might have turned up was Molinari. It was not the Professor that did though, instead it was a woman who walked through the door, having it opened by one of the assistants. Looking up from where he was lying on the bed, James was immediately taken by her beauty as the door was shut behind her. Her uniform betrayed that she was a nurse who must have been there to check up on him, but she could have been a lingerie model for all he knew. She was… stunning.

The brunette was nearly as tall as he was if he were to guess, with long tanned legs that he'd never quite seen the like of before. There didn't appear to be a gram of fat on her; even if most of her skin was covered by her uniform, he could tell. Her hair fell almost perfectly down her shoulders, not overgrown or unkempt in any places. Her eyes were green, like his, an inviting colour that spoke of intrigue and mystery to him when he looked directly into them. She wore makeup, though little of it, not needing to do so in order to look beautiful. There were plenty of women who required it to make themselves standout, but the nurse who'd came to check in on him was a natural beauty. Being the Gentleman that he was, James deemed it important that he introduced himself to her in the hope that she at least might speak to him in return. It was a vast upgrade on the nurse who usually came to visit him.

"Good evening". He put on his poshest voice for her. "I have not seen you before".

"I… am new". The woman replied hesitantly in English.

"Do you speak much English?"

"A little".

Her accent was just as strong as Molinari's, but with a distinctly different dialect. Molinari appeared to be a local, James immediately deducing that she was not. He may not have known the Italian language, but the toning of the words was not the same as when Molinari spoke. She made her way over to him, a smile on her own face as she came to check up on him. It was already a lot more than what he got out of the other nurse, who would be very rough with him despite the injuries he had at the time. There really was no need for a nurse to continue to check up on him, but if the one that had turned up in his room that evening was going to turn up every day, he was beginning to believe a reshuffle in his thoughts was required.

"My name is Maguire, James Maguire". He told her, the name crisply rolling off of his now working tongue.

"Giovanna". She replied

"It is lovely to meet you, Giovanna".

In a more social setting, such as a pub or a dance hall, he would have reached out to press a kiss to her to her hand, but with the risk of her screaming for help, he thought it unwise. It did not matter though, as he finally had someone to talk to other than Frank, whose habit of flying off without warning was quite aggravating. Giovanna could not simply just fly away, though she did hold some seemingly angelic qualities which may have said otherwise.

"There is no need to check me over. It would be a waste of your time… but please, sit".

Offering her a spot on the bed, the nurse hesitated. Her job was not to sit on the bed of the prisoner and exchange stories, it was to find out whether his injuries were causing him any problems. The fully healed James did not suffer from any relapses whatsoever when it came to his legs or his shoulder, his only wound being the one to his heart by being locked away from all those that he cared about. She was not going to let him convince her to stray from her duty, staying stood stock still where she was.

"I see". He dejectedly commented, looking out to the bars of the window.

"You are not hurt?" She asked, staying professional.

"No".

"Good. You are a beautiful man".

He wasn't quite sure if he'd heard her right at first, but the compliment was made. It was a compliment that was followed up by nothing else, the Italian woman turning on her heel and making for the exit. It had been a long time since a woman had made such a comment about him, the only woman gracing his life in recent times being the nasty nurse who did not approve of him. Giovanna did not seem to care that he was English though, looking past his nationality to see the man before her eyes. He liked to think that she was not wrong, as he did take good care of his body, but it was refreshing to hear. The chance to get to know her better may have slipped from his grasp that night, yet it was not completely over. If she did indeed return as he hoped she would, there was a second chance in trying to lure her into a chat with his charm. His eyes still remained drawn to her legs, tanned and silky…

No

Dancing around the flames of temptation, his foot had not gone in but was feeling the burn of what he was doing. To admire her beauty was one thing; being struck by it and staring was another. She might have been a very attractive young woman, but his brain suddenly reminded him that he did not know her at all. Away from her professional outlook as a nurse, she could have been absolutely horrible, evil in fact. She may have even been an agent of the Italians themselves, trying to uncover information from him that he would not give up freely. A seductress to tease him into relieving himself of his secrets, the prize that they desperately sought. Chastising himself for acting like a child around her, he was reminded that he could not yet trust her, no matter how lovely her legs were. Loyalty was everything to him too and she was not his love. When he looked into his heart, he could not say that the Italian woman was even remotely close to holding the same position in his emotions as Erin was.

The photograph of the two of them enjoying the pleasant sunshine back in Derry was crinkled badly at the sides, but her smiling face was as clear as it had ever been when he looked at the picture again, having retrieved it from where it was kept under his pillow. Every night he would sleep with both her picture and the wooden spoon under there, the only two survivors of his old life before the war. Professor Molinari did not see the spoon as a weapon, perhaps knowing that it was not as powerful when not wielded by an Irish mother or simply dismissing it as weak. Giovanna might have been a gorgeous young nurse, who any man's knees would have buckled for, but one look at Erin was all he needed to know that she was a level above. Erin was the Queen of his heart, the vibrant beauty of his dreams. No woman could hold a candle to her; he just needed to be reminded of that sometimes.

Eyes that were weary were soon teary too. Erin's perfect figure that he painfully remembered having under the tips of his fingers, was no longer accessible. She was not going to be the next woman that walked into the room nor was he ever going to see her again. The hopes of escape were fading rapidly, the realist within him telling him that whoever was being sent to torture him would be along soon enough, ready to do whatever they pleased. No torture would get close to the torture his heart was already under from not being with her though. Without the official band to confirm it to the world, Erin was all but his wife, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with… to have children with when the time was right. Love was the most effective tool of them all, as love could be manipulated and turned against those who held it, from something as simple as longing. If some thought that being tortured was hell, James believed he was already experiencing that hell before facing the rack.

The luck that always deserted him seemed to be taking its hold on him again.

At least that's how it appeared to the Englishman, but the truth was far detached from his correct reality. There was more to the evening disturbance than he'd realised, too focused on Giovanna's beauty to think about her strange reaction to him and her quick exit. She was certainly not put off, as she'd told him he was a beautiful man, although it was a comment that she walked off furious about. She could not deny that his muscular figure made her cheeks find unexpected warmth, but that was not what she was there for.

The other nurse that had been so harsh to him, had been taken ill herself, leaving a position vacant for a nurse who would spend most of her week at the local hospital. Intrigue was sparked though, when rumours spread of the additional time each day that was spent away at the mansion of the Professor. The interest of certain Italians was piqued, especially when the role was in the city of Taranto, a city that held specific interest. It was the city where the Italian Fleet was attacked, but the importance to those Italians was not from their own side, but from the supposed enemy. The leader of the attack who had not returned to his aircraft carrier. They'd tried to find him before and turned up nothing but the elements surrounding the rumours of the nurse's job were enough for them to at least investigate. Acquiring the position was easy enough for her too; a rather revealing dress was enough to convince the doctor at the hospital.

She was not there to look after him that evening at all. She was there to discover who the mystery patient was, once the role had been explained to her. The staff at the Hospital had no idea who it was, only explaining that the Professor would tell them everything. Molinari made her sign more forms than she could ever remember seeing in her life, effectively signing her life away. To him and to anyone else, she was a beautiful, harmless brunette who only desired work in her chosen profession. Except she was not.

Giovanna was a traitor to her country.

She was an agent of Britain, in a similar capacity to Lyla Walsh.

When she had helped her cousin Domenico attempt to find him before they'd been unable to find anything, with no connection to Taranto themselves. Fortune had it though that she was able to move with her parents, her father being an engineer required in the salvaging of the ships that were sunk in the harbour. She had no love for Mussolini, much like her cousin, and her ears were always pricked up waiting for any information that may find its way to her. Especially if that information concerned an English pilot being held captive.

Her cousin would soon know the truth and in turn, the message would be passed onto those in London who gave them their orders.

Britain was about to learn that one of its greatest heroes was still alive.

A shot at freedom was closer than James realised…

---

"That was quite a day".

Lyla almost fell down onto the sofa, the glass of wine in her hand sloshing around without ever having the liquid within tip over the sides. Kurt joined her after he'd spoken too, though far less successfully with the wine, ending up with some of it on his uniform. Fire immediately spread around her eyes as he condemned her to another wash, destroying the washing schedule she'd prepared in her mind for the next few weeks. When he'd given notice to them on his return that they would all soon be moving away from Berlin to join him on his assignment, she planned ahead like a good mother would. Elsa joined her in the planning too, picking out which days to do washes on as well as trips into the city to collect their rations and other supplies.

"I imagine it was". She yawned. "How is The Führer?"

"He is well. He asked after you actually, hoping that you were well".

"That is lovely to hear".

It wasn't lovely to hear at all, though Hitler asking after her politely was at least better than him speaking about her in a negative light. She could never fully allow herself to believe that the German leader found her company to be as pleasant as he said it was, worried that he could see through her ruse where Kurt could not. Despite his butchery, he was not a man who lacked the brains to be able to pull off such a deception. Kurt was far too trusting for his own good anyway, whereas The Führer was not so trusting of outsiders. On the times that she had met Hitler, they'd gotten on amicably, but Lyla never took it for granted that she was safe from his ire. Not many could.

"Did you discuss your mission?" Lyla started the conversation again, though it was followed with another yawn.

"We did". Kurt confirmed, nodding. "It was a very enlightening experience, my dear".

"Can you enlighten me on it?"

She was operating in dangerous territory, outright asking to know exactly what the meeting was about. Most of the times where Kurt had given her information that she was able to pass back to Smithers in Britain, he'd done so without her prompting him to. Asking him directly always came with the fear that he might become suspicious as to why she wished to know. Although he was a very adaptable man, Kurt's perceptions would sometimes be very naïve for a man of his standing. He was yet to realise that the woman in front of him was a spy, passing on confidential information that was key to the strategy of the Nazi war machine. Her acting was the main reason why though, Lyla playing him like a fiddle at almost every turn, not once truly arousing his suspicions that her intentions may not be honourable.

"You know I must be careful what I say…". He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"I know Kurt." She sighed, feigning upset to play him perfectly once more. "I am sorry, I only wanted to show an interest".

"Please, do not apologise". He held up a hand. "It makes me happy to see that you are".

"Anything for you".

The two smiled at each other, Kurt leaning in to peck her on the lips. She managed not to shiver at his touch, sucking up the terrible pain of having to kiss him by thinking of other things. She thought of young Leo, who was asleep with his parents in the bedroom behind them. Hans and Elsa had retired to bed early that night, Hans tired after having to push the car up the driveway when it suddenly broke down on their way back from picking Kurt up from the Chancellery. Elsa was out on her feet as early as six o'clock too, Leo having worn her out with his behaviour all day. He might have been a baby still, but he was old enough to torment his mother. Constant cries for attention or feeding, as well as throwing toys away that she gave him, Leo did not make the job an easy one for his young mother.

"It is not an assignment that I have much experience with, but The Führer believes that I am the right man for the job and I agree". Kurt reflected honestly on the meeting.

"You are a man of great adaptability". She reiterated her earlier thoughts to him sweetly.

"In the time we live in, adaptability is everything, Lyla".

He did not have to tell her that, a fact that she knew more closely than he realised. An Irishwoman, working for the British Crown, to infiltrate the life of a Dutch Doctor that was integral to the German regime… Lyla Walsh was the height of adaptability. She'd made so many sacrifices in her life, so many that were yet to be spoken of to Kurt, others only known by her, Smithers and Menzies. A life in service was what a book about her what be called should anyone write it, a title she'd decided upon one morning whilst looking out over the deserted Berlin streets. At the end of the war, she wished to be able to vanish into the life she'd been denied by it, her time in service to Britain done. As adaptable as she'd proven to be, she'd already made up in her own mind that it would have to be her final assignment, the toll taken on her too much to bear again with another. Not that it was really her decision to make…

"Is this mission far away? I am sure Hans and Elsa would like to know where they are getting married and where Leo will be staying". Lyla enquired on their behalf.

"All in due time, my dear. I can tell you that it is outside of the homelands of the Fatherland, but we will not be travelling East". Kurt replied, relief evident when he reminded himself of the destination in his own mind.

"It will be nice to travel again". She hummed.

"I cannot wait myself".

Sipping at their drinks as the fire crackled away in front of them, they were tucked in closely to each other, Kurt's arm finding its way around her back. Sat comfortably in her nightdress, warmed by the fire, Lyla felt herself relaxing far too much. When Kurt was not around, she would even sleep in front of the fire some nights, or for at least part of them, confident that Hans and Elsa would not think anymore of it if she did. They'd never said anything to her whenever it happened, allowing her to comfortably do it a couple more times without ever worrying about it. With Kurt it was different though, but it was not because of him that she was relaxing. The same tiredness that had claimed the younger couple earlier in the evening had crept up on her rather suddenly. After a long day, some of it spent out in the cold, she found herself ready to go to sleep.

"It is time for me to go to bed, I think". She said as she rose up from the sofa. "The trip to the shops has worn me out".

A hand on her arm stopped her.

When she turned around to look into his eyes, a fear was realised. The Kurt Van Der Heijden that she'd grown suspicious of, the man who had returned from the East rather than the man who left for it, was showing his true colours. The man that was before her, grabbing her arm tightly as he rose up from the sofa himself, was not a man she wished to know at all. At his best he was detestable, but Lyla was not facing that Kurt this time. She was yet to have any true experience with the version of Kurt that she was slightly terrified of, an unknown quantity to her. He was not an unknown quantity to the poor nurse who lay dead in a shallow grave, somewhere out to the East.

Kurt Van Der Heijden, Doctor and friend of Adolf Hitler, was absent.

Kurt Van Der Heijden, murderer, was not.

"Kurt… what are you doing?" Her voice was unsteady, unsure, more so than ever.

The look in his eyes was more terrifying than she first thought. There was no longer a thoughtful man that saw the woman that he loved in front of him, neither was there the suspicious man who had discovered who she really was. Instead, there was a man that only desired her flesh that was gazing back at her, his eyes the lightning bolts to her chest, which beat with electric fury. There was no escape route from the scenario that the Irishwoman found herself in, no dashing hero to rescue her from the beast that ensnared her.

"I did not say that you could leave". He growled like the beast he was.

"I… I told you that I am tired". Her voice wavered, a stuttered cry being sounded.

Seemingly encouraged by her fear, Kurt took a step forward, his hand wrapping its way around her delicate throat. Lyla was a strong woman, far from the porcelain-like Queen's of yesteryear, but any woman would have been petrified when a man had forced them backwards, a hand around their neck. Leaning in with the darkest of desires evident in his eyes, he whispered to her once more but this time there was no innocence in what he had to say.

"That does not mean that I am".

Lyla did not have time to contemplate the thoughts, Kurt quickly pushing her up against the wall. If she'd have impacted with the wall any louder, then any of the other occupants of the other room could have been woken up, and they would have perhaps come to her aid or at least killed the mood for Kurt. Instead, she received only a sore head for her troubles, though that was the least of her worries. Throwing himself onto her, acting as if he'd been starved of contact with her for years, he began to kiss her roughly on the mouth, the Irish woman trying to fight him off. Her muscles were not untoned by any means, but Lyla was no match for the rampant Doctor. Kurt's time away at the camp appeared to have bulked him up as well; she had not known him to be as strong before.

He soon worked his way around to her neck and shoulder, biting down hard on her left side, drawing blood from the terrified woman. She'd been trained to remove herself from a situation such as the one she was in, but they were for assignments that were far shorter. If she were to fight him off fully, then harming him would have been inevitable and she could not escape from Germany if she did. Hans and Elsa might have been her friends, but they would not be if she harmed Kurt. The influence of one of Hitler's confidantes against that of an Irishwoman would be a one-sided battle before it even got to Freisler's kangaroo court. With blood trickling out of her shoulder wound though, Lyla could not focus on such outcomes. The danger was in the present, not the future.

"Kurt… stop!" She pleaded, able to push him away for a brief moment. "Please! I am not in the mood for this!".

"Shut your mouth, Lyla!". He snarled, the menacing glare remaining in his eyes.

Grabbing her by the arm, he almost threw across the room, conveniently towards the door to their bedroom. She'd never been as scared in her life as she was in his offices that night. Lyla was a woman who'd experienced a lot of what the world had to offer, but what Kurt was doing to her was not an experience she'd ever wished for. Holding all the cards for the majority of the time, she could not match the hand he was dealing her.

"I mean it Kurt, please. Another night perhaps…".

They had slept together before, and for the sake of her assignment, she would sleep with him again, but not like this. Kurt desired something which she did not, revelling from her lack of consent to find even more vigour in his approach. He walked over to her slowly, loosening his tie sharply, purring despicably in her direction with his beastly actions. He was more a creature than a man, a fallen angel of forbidden wishes and lust, that no longer viewed the emotions of fellow humans, seeing her as nothing more than a conquest. The apparent love that they shared appeared to have disappeared, no tenderness or care shown by the Doctor in how he was treating her that night.

She'd backed away into the bedroom as he followed her. Sweat was pouring from off her brow, the cold sweat of paralysing fear and helplessness because she knew there was no way out. If she jumped from the window to her death then he would still win, no one there to monitor his clearly sick intentions, as well as Britain missing out on crucial information that could decide the war. Screaming for Hans and Elsa would only cause confusion and a dilemma. It would stop Kurt for one night, but come another, the savage beast of a man that stalked their room would try again, no doubt being more successful. In the dark, unlit bedroom, she could barely see where she was going as she backed away, almost falling onto the bed when her calves caught the frame.

He came closer and closer, beginning to undo the buttons on his shirt. It was only then that she noticed the weapon that was now in his hand, her reminder of what fate lie in store for her should she fail to comply with what he wanted. Lyla did not cry easily… but the makeup ran down her face like a gushing landslide, not that he could see it through the haze of his darkened vision.

"Take the dress off… NOW!"

It was not a request.

It was an order. She was the common soldier and he was the commanding officer, The Führer of their bedroom.

The penalty for disobeying The Führer's commands was always death.

Quaking in terror, her body tense yet shaking in the same way it would out in the freezing cold, Lyla slowly slipped her dress down from her shoulders, leaving her naked from the waist up. She tried not to look at Kurt, unable to bear witnessing him take pleasure from leaving her so vulnerable but caught a glimpse, which was more than enough. His lips had curved up into his smile, a flash of his tongue showing between them briefly. She did not see him for long enough to notice that his eyes were inexplicably darker when they saw more of her bare flesh. Kurt was a crazed man in their bedroom, feasting on the sight of someone who he told so regularly that he loved her dearly, a message that was revealed to be a sinister lie.

He saw just another inferior to release his passions on.

He no longer saw her as a woman.

Kurt was soon within a few inches of her, but she would not look him in the eye. A costly mistake that she found out about moments later.

The back of his right hand cracked onto her right cheek, forcing her head back to face him out of the pain that enveloped her. Her tired, teary eyes caught his to find the darkened eyes that she'd missed previously. Pressured into agreeing to his every whim, she held his eye contact for a few moments without him having to ask her to do so. She'd done right by him for once, the devilish Kurt deciding that she would not be slapped again to keep her in line when she'd done what he wanted, even putting away the weapon he'd drawn. In his mind, she was finally coming to respect him like she should.

After that night was over, she would never respect him again.

Yet it was still not enough to satisfy his horrific intentions for the night.

As soon as he'd shrugged the shirt off his own shoulders, his left hand clasped her throat again, Lyla quickly struggling for air. His lips were soon on hers again as his vicious quest continued, his right hand groping her breasts, the little fingernails that he had digging into her soft skin like the fine swords of the officers of times gone by cutting through the armour of their victims. Her armour was eroded by the delusions of a man who'd changed far more than she even realised.

"You are hurting me!" She cried, trying one final time to stop him.

"SHUT UP!"

"Kurt… I beg you".

Begging him was the wrong answer. The sound of her flailing, trying to escape from his clutches, only spurred the dark demon inside of him more. Soon the air was filled with the sound of a weapon being unsheathed.

"Do you want this knife in your throat!? On the bed now!"

When she did not move at his command, he threw her down onto the bed, collapsing on top of her. One of his hands was on her throat before she had time to react to him, though she was still wriggling desperately to avoid him completing his lustful journey. He did not want to have to kill her that night, wanting to enjoy her instead, but it was not as if he hadn't done so before. If another woman had to die by his hand, so be it.

The knife cut through her underwear, the last barrier of defence that Lyla held before him. When the material was thrown away to the floor, she was completely naked but more jarringly, exposed to anything that he may do to her. The knife remained in his hand as a reminder to her that he was in control of what would happen, not her, that she was an object to him and not a living, breathing human being. His plans involved more than just reminding her though. Held in place by the hand on her throat, she could not scream as the tip of the blade danced along her side, drawing only the slightest trail of blood, but the perfect amount for him. By that time, the Irishwoman was no longer consciously aware of what he was doing to her. When she heard the sound of a zip being lowered, the world around her appeared to go dark, Lyla being lost to the world as Kurt finally achieved the fantasy that he so desired.

Slipping out of consciousness did not last for long though, perhaps only a couple of minutes, which left her awake for the hour-long ordeal that then transpired after. Her voice box was no longer capable of emitting sound, stopping the agonising screams that she wanted the world to hear. He hadn't kept her choked throughout, knowing that it would kill her after too long, but it was long enough to leave a mark that would require covering. When he finally rolled off of her, spent from his sickening desires that he'd unleashed upon her, he was drenched in his own sweat and hers, even when the night was horrendously cold once more.

Silent tears drifted down Lyla's face in the pitch black of the night, her body bruised and battered, the rough, violent memories of Kurt atop her beginning to engrain themselves in her mind. She would be carrying the marks of his assault on her for days, permanent physical scars to accompany the mental ones. No woman should have had to have gone through what she had that night, but it was all too often an occurrence. Shame was not a feeling that anyone who'd been through what she had, should have held when it was not their fault. She did not want what Kurt wanted; so what he couldn't have by consent, he took by force. The shame ate away at her whilst she tried to drift off to sleep, a part of her hoping that he might finish her off with the knife as she did, sparing her the humiliation of having to walk around the offices the following day as if nothing had happened at all.

The stains on their sheets could be washed away, but the stains on her honour would remain forever.

Her assault was an occupational hazard of the job that she performed though, one which she'd been warned about the very first time she acted on behalf of the British Crown. She would have to carry on regardless, no matter the cost to herself.

The body of the frightened and degraded forty year old Irishwoman was not of concern to those who required information, it being expected of her to have to give it in service to them, albeit not in the vile way in which Kurt took it.

Her dignity was lost but the war went on. The tears of shame had to stop, be pushed away to the back of her mind as a painful memory that would never be thought of again.

Carry on she would.

After all, she was an agent of the Crown.

As with the rest of her duties, it would always be for King and Country, no matter where the path took her…