Chapter Seven #6
There were times when Victor woke, and not even the fires and bombs kept him company as he waited for the stranger to return.
Day turned into night, and night into day, and still Victor lay in bed, too tired to move, unable to turn without his broken ribs screaming at him to rest. Rest, rest!
He reached for the jug and drained the stale water, seized by an unquenchable thirst. A newly-cut slice of old bread and an apple waited untouched.
He doubted he could stomach food, no matter how hungry he was.
The next time Victor woke it was not from the sound of the sirens, he had long since grown used to them. A clicking brought him to the waking world, snipping at the fabric of his dreams. He propped himself on his elbow and peered about, the light of a candle startling him.
The vanity table had been righted on its crooked legs, and the few surviving shards of the mirror now reflected the light of the candle and the man sitting before it.
The stranger was running a pair of scissors through his hair.
The metal flashed and sparkled as it cut the long locks, clippings drifted to the floor, disappearing like specks of dust, incinerated into nothing.
When the man was done, he ran his hands through his now short hair, smoothing it back, giving the illusion of a put together officer, off to do his duty.
“I did not mean to wake you.”
The man studied himself in the broken mirror, turning his head from left to right, judging his work. He brushed at his clothes, patted them clean.
“I thought you were a dream,” said Victor
“A pleasant dream?” the man asked offhandedly, his back still to Victor, lingering at the vanity a little longer before he finally turned around and walked over.
“One of the nicest ones I’ve had in recent years,” the words spilled out before Victor could stop them.
The man laughed, a low and breathy sound; his shoulders shook from the effort to stop, his hand went up to cover his mouth. A knuckle pressed against the lips, a momentary flash of teeth.
Victor liked the sound of the man’s laugh.
It had been a very long time since he had made anyone laugh.
Since the war had begun, it was the first time he heard laughter that was not bitter or forced.
There was warmth in the sound. He found himself liking the sight of the man’s face as it softened into a smile.
“Your German,” Victor’s own mouth had curled in a smile. “It is very rural, and oddly archaic. You remind me of my grandfather.”
It was not a pleasant association, but on this man the dialect was endearing. Like he had been lost in time and somehow found his way to Victor.
Again, the man chuckled, a faint flush crept across his cheeks. He pulled over a chair and sat on it, legs crossed.
“Is that good?” he asked, the mirth in his voice as sweet as the medicine he had offered. “I have been called many things, but never someone’s grandfather.”
Victor wanted to ask what things, but he realized he did not know his friend’s name.
“You never told me your name.”
Victor felt he was being prised open by those black eyes.
“Erik.”
Germany was teeming with Eriks and Erichs—from princes and dukes to archbishops and writers, all the way down to the tanner his father trusted, and soldiers running across minefields.
This Erik could be any one of them, and none of them.
Victor squinted in the faint light, trying, and failing, to recall where he had last met Erik before his friend dragged him out from a sure death and into this abandoned building.
Friend.
Tobias had been Victor’s only friend and confidant, and Victor had watched him die.
Across from him Erik tilted his head; a small, unhurried movement, his eyebrows raised upwards just a little.
“If you are not Tobias—” Erik began and the German words spilled out, flowing. “—who would you be? If you were not a soldier, what would you be?”
Victor thought about it for a moment, flexing his broken arm, trying to move his fingers.
The arm was badly hurt; if the Schutzstaffel were to find him, he would not stand a chance.
He was not even sure he could dress himself.
And yet, he was lying in a fresh change of clothes, the blood washed from his face and hair.
He remembered Erik helping him stay upright under the shower, all of Victor’s weight leaning on the tiles, his legs crawling with pins and needles, his breath ragged.
The other man’s clothes were all wet from the effort to balance and wash Victor at the same time.
He remembered the cup with the thick medicine, how its warmth spread through him, seeping past his lips and giving him strength.
Victor had never thought himself a good friend to Erik—after all, he barely remembered him, though something in their friendship must have endured.
Something had compelled Erik to stay with him and nurse him back to health.
“A baker,” Victor said finally, slowly. As if he was afraid to admit he had ever dreamt of living a life. “We’ve drowned the Fatherland in enough violence. Maybe when there is peace, we can nourish it instead…feed it something warm. My mother used to make us Mandelbrot… before the war.”
He paused, averting his gaze. Erik leaned forward, an inviting smile on his face, beckoning Victor to continue. His eyes shone with childlike curiosity.
“I have only ever tried making Roggenbrot. I would like to try and bake sweet bread. Like Hefezopf or Stollen?”
The confusion on Erik’s face was so genuine that it was Victor’s turn to laugh. He could not remember the last time he had felt this energized, this hopeful.
“Well,” Erik said after a brief deliberation, “then I will make sure your hands heal…so you can bake.”
There was a sudden movement behind Erik.
The door opened and a sliver of light ripped through the comfort of their conversation.
A man’s face showed in the thin crack; his eyes narrowed in the direction of the sickbed.
How long had that man been there—and had he heard them talk?
He wore the same black uniform and the same dark complexion as Erik.
When he spoke, it was as if the very air stood still to listen, anticipating the command.
“Rico?”
“I am being summoned.” Erik made an exaggerated bow and tried to use his greatcoat as a cape.
Only now did Victor notice he was dressed in the full uniform: shirt, greatcoat, the lot.
Under different circumstances Victor would have laughed, but the weight of the stranger’s voice made him bristle with suspicion.
He is not here for you, my friend, a little voice cooed behind his ear, reassuring him.
Erik stepped outside, never quite closing the door, and the two men began to talk.
Latin. Bizarrely enough, they were speaking Latin—as archaic as Erik’s German—and Victor’s head hurt trying to make out the words, to recall and piece together what little Latin he remembered from his school days.
Yet he did not need to know the language to understand that the stranger was angry and Erik was trying to calm him down.
Erik’s voice slowly faded, no more than a hush, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings against the mouth of a flower.
The words dripped with nectar. Victor’s throat contracted, parched with thirst. The jar on the bedside had been refilled but it was not the cool water he wanted.
Right as his eyes darted eagerly around the gloom, searching, the door closed and Erik leaned with his back to it. He ran a hand through his hair, his brows knitting together, as if he had not expected it to be so short.
“We have to leave.”
Victor knew better than to think he was included in that we. Even if he had been fit to walk, he could not accompany these men.
“The whole building is abandoned,” Erik was saying, still leaning against the door.
“The people might come back or they might not. You can take clothes from any of the rooms here, or you can rummage through the other flats. There is bound to be something that will keep you warm if you are caught in a blizzard.”
“Is that how you found your uniform?”
Victor had debated for a long time if he should ask.
It had been bothering him since the first night.
He was not sure if he was ready for the answer, but he needed to know the truth—whether this man was part of the Reich, or merely a passing mirage.
Erik raised his eyes to him, studying his face and then the wounds before he looked down at the clothes he was wearing.
Finally, he forced his face into a sombre mask.
“What gave me away?”
“You are a foreigner. And even if you were not, your colouring is wrong for that division. You don’t have any weapons on you either.
” Victor raised his good arm and pointed to where a holster would have been across Erik’s chest. He bent some of his fingers, keeping the index extended towards the man.
His wrist jerked upwards, an imaginary shot fired.
“Ah,” Erik admitted defeat, and began patting his pockets.
He took out a lighter; it glinted gold as it flipped between his fingers before vanishing again.
“It is always easier to travel when you look as though you belong. Like you are important.” He did not wait for Victor to contradict him.
“When you leave, travel north. The further, the better.”
“And you?”
“We will go home and carry on with our lives as we always have. Perhaps one day, when the world has calmed, we will come back.”