"A Kiss Of Fire"
by Osiris Brackhaus

 

"Is he awake?"

A very distinct, yet somewhat mellow voice sneaked it's way into Harry's slowly awakening mind.

"I do not know, Herr Major, but he has been unconscious since he was brought here. Shall I wake him?"

Another, younger voice, definitely unpleasant. Mean.

Steps on a wooden floor. Heavy boots. Military.

Without warning, someone hit Harry hard, shouting:

"Wake up, pig! Someone's here to talk to you!"

Nausea welled up in him, not only from the one slap, but probably from another, older wound he had sustained when he had been captured.
Knocked down with the butt of a rifle in a dark alleyway somewhere in the seedier quarters of Paris, Harry remembered ruefully.

"Stop that", the first voice said calmly, yet with surprising command. "If there's anybody going to lay hands on the prisoner, it's me."

"Yes, Major Wenheim, of course. Beg your pardon, Sir."

With a cold shiver, Harry realised what he had tried to overlook all his recent years in the underground: being captured is not the end to everything, it is the beginning of hell. And his personal hell of interrogation apparently would be directed by this German Major Wenheim. And the way he sounded so calm, so complacent and in control did not leave much chances for a quick death by accident. Silently, he cursed those stupid soldiers not to have broken his neck when they had clubbed him down.

Some more steps, some rustling, then the low clicking sound of a cigarette-lighter, the soft crackling of a cigarette.

The prisoner tried to tense his muscles, test his mobility, only to find his legs bound to the legs of the chair he apparently was sitting on, his wrists bound to each other behind his back. Probably tied to the back of the chair as well, he thought. Good, professional work.
Damned sale bôches, he thought. Whatever they do, they are meticulously neat in every detail. I could bet they even have a regulation on how to bind prisoners to chairs.

"He's awake", the Major stated calmly, as if describing something he saw somewhere out of the window. "Remove his blind."

With a rude jerk, someone pulled of the cloth that had been used to cover Harry's eyes, and the first thing he saw was the man who would try to break him during the coming hours. A dark silhouette against the bright autumn sky visible through the huge, gracefully arched window, the Major's posture struck him as something so very typical of his enemy in it's arrogance and yet so unfitting in it's relaxed elegance.

Holding his cigarette in his right hand between his outstretched index and third finger, supporting his elbow with his left where he also held his gloves, the officer leaned to the window's middle beam and looked out onto the leafless treetops visible beyond the parapet of the huge balcony outside.
Against the golden sunlight outside, the colour of his uniform was hard to make out, but Harry could have sworn by the cut of it that it was the silver-grey of the Wehrmacht. Pulling once more on his cigarette, watching the smoke curl around the sunbeams through his round, silver-rimmed glasses, the Major exuded an air of calm that under these specific circumstances was more than creepy in Harry's eyes.

It would have been easier to face a mad, raging brute than a soft-spoken Gentleman, Harry thought, but this was supposed to be hell, and I shouldn't wonder that it's as bad as it can be.

Another long moment passed, with no other sounds in the room audible than the soft creaking of the floor as another person in Harry's back shifted his weight. Then, finally, the Major turned his attention from the outside world back into the room and towards his prisoner.

Still holding his cigarette in this irritating manner, the officer stepped closer, a beam of sunlight catching in his glasses, causing a blinding array of tiny rainbows to spring into Harry's vision.

"A chair", the German ordered softly, and behind Harry, the waiting someone obeyed by rushing off to the sides.

Turning his head to follow the sudden movement, Harry saw that he was held in a large flat, completely empty but for the one chair he sat on. And the clean, antique carpet that had been placed strategically underneath his chair, Harry noticed sarcastically. Typical German. No need to soil the precious wooden floor. Blood's such a mess to get out again.

It must have been a beautiful place, once when people had still lived here. Lavish stucco on the ceilings told of better times before the occupation, and the walls were covered with precious yet plain silk tapestries. Whoever had been living in these rooms hopefully had got off before the Germans came.

His chair had been placed in the centre of the former living-room, in front of the immense window and door that opened out onto a just as large balcony. The unusual curves of the stonework of both the balcony and the fireplace he could see at his left hinted at a house in lavish art-nouveau style, and Harry wondered where he had seen such a balcony before.

But then, the Major's assistant returned, a young, rat-faced Leutnant, carrying another chair he placed between Harry and the window.

"Thank you, Joachim", Major Wenheim said, adding with the cold threat of a viper: "You may leave now."

"But Major", the assistant started of, "Shouldn't I stay here, in case of..."

"In case of what, boy? The Frenchman spits at me? I have no use for your beatings here, and I can't stand your ugly face any longer than necessary. Get lost."

"Of course, Herr Major", the assistant mumbled and left.

And that's one of his colleagues, Harry thought with growing unease. Wonder how he's going to treat people he's supposed to be REALLY mean to.

With a single motion, the Major turned the chair around to stand between Harry and the window, took off his hat and sat down. A polite, professional smile sparkled in the corners of the German's mouth, but Harry wasn't fooled into believing he actually was facing a friend. For behind the frameless glasses, the officer's eyes shone green and grey and cold as glaciers.

"So, now that we are alone", Major Wenheim started after another, leisurely pull of his cigarette, "I think it's time to talk."

The fake smile in the German's face didn't waver for one heartbeat, but his eyes were in Harry's face, searching for a sign of insecurity, of fear, it seemed.

"Listen, Henri, or whatever your name might be, we both know why you're here."

Actually, right then, he wasn't sure anymore. The officer had called him Henri, the name he was using when working in France. Until now, Harry had thought his whole cover had blown up, and they at least suspected that he was not the simple faceless member of the Résistance, but an Allied spy trying to help the local rebels with a bit of know-how and moral support. Being called by his French name offered at least a chance they might not have guessed.
Until now.

"I won't tell you anything," Harry spat. "I'm not afraid to die at your hands, however painful you might make it."

Suddenly, the Major's eyes sparkled with genuine amusement.

"Of course you are not afraid to die", he exclaimed, animatedly gesturing with his cigarette. "You are convinced that what you do is right, and therefor death is a necessity as you do not want to betray your friends in the Résistance. You're not afraid to die as you knew you were a dead man when you accepted this mission."

The Major then leaned forward, his cold eyes boring into Harry's, and his amusement definitely got a sick edge as he continued:

"There is no such thing as an inborn instinct to stay alive. We both know that. But also, we both know that there is an instinct in a human soul that forces you to fear pain. To try to flee from it. I won't offer you the cheap solution of a fast death for a long, long time yet. And you will make me beg to stop. Will beg me to kill you. But I won't."

The officer stood up again, walked over to the window and stared out for a while.

"You're a sick person." Harry finally stated, well aware that his comment wouldn't change a single thing. But to his surprise, the Major only nodded without turning to look at his prisoner.

"Yes, I think I am. It is the natural way for the victim to see his torturer. And that is what you are, my victim, isn't it?"

With to brisk steps, the Major was next to Harry, his gentle voice so deceivingly smooth.

"How does it feel, to be the victim?"

But Harry only snorted in disgust. He was too tired, too confused, too hungry and by far too desperate that he could have been touched by the psychological 'finesse' of the German. This way, Major Wenheim only made a big fool of himself.

"Suck my dick", he grumbled, once more regretting that the cute blond guy he had met just before the pigs had captured him would now never have a chance to do exactly that.

Only slightly ruffled by this rudeness, the officer began to walk around Harry's chair in long, measured strides; his heavy boots banging sharply on the wooden floor.

"Do you know that there is one instinct, though, that is stronger still than the one to fear pain?"

Stopping briefly in front of Harry, the Major bent down to be on eyelevel with his prisoner, and whispered:

"Mating instinct."

"You're way beyond sick, man..."

"Maybe", Major Wenheim replied before continuing his circular walk around Harry's chair. "But you'd be surprised how useful this little bit of trivia can be."

Suddenly, the German stopped sharply behind Harry's back, putting one of his hands on the captured man's shoulder.

"For I also know where you have been before our men got you. It may come to you as a surprise, but this most despicable establishment is well known to the German authorities in Paris."

The 'most despicable establishment' had been an ordinary bar, chosen as it was well of the standard haunts of Germans. Which, Harry had to admit silently, was probably due to the establishment's almost exclusively male clients. Exclusively male and feeling very, very lonely.

It took Harry a long moment to realise that the Major's hand was no longer resting on his shoulder, but was now softly caressing his neck, soft fingertips hardly touching the sensible skin from ear to shoulder.

"What the hell are you – ", the Harry shouted in anger an irritation, but constrained as he was, only managed to jerk away his head for a moment. Soon after, the Germans gentle finger touched his skin again, just as careful, just as caressing.

"I am touching your neck", the Major replied snugly, apparently perfectly amused by his prisoner's reaction. "Your choice of haunts is somewhat obvious, and unfortunately for you, we have chosen to monitor all such degenerated collectives since we have freed this city."

Harry would have snorted in disdain at the incredible lie the officer had just presented about 'freeing' Paris, but right now, he was working very hard at suppressing the tingling, hot shivers that had started to run down from where the Major touched him, along his spine. Whereever this man had been taught, this boy had learned his lessons bloody well.

He isn't even torturing me, Harry though with a grim smile, and yet I already shy away from his very touch. I just do not see how he is going to make this unpleasant. Though, probably, he has got tons of nasty ideas up his sleeve, I bet.

"You see", the officer went on, his voice all low and relaxed, treacherously friendly. "Your body already wants it. You're still fighting it, trying to be untouched be your bodies desires, I can see it."

The officer was now raking his hand through Harry's hair, the long, rather wild curls dangling out from between his fingers, firmly fixing the captive's head in place. Heavens, this fucking sick German is seriously trying to seduce me, Harry thought, noticing with a certain alarm that he already threatened to mentally lean into his torturer's caress.

"Feeling as miserable as you must right now, it is hardly possible to ignore a friendly touch. And just before you have to ask again – I am going to kiss you now."

Blinking in disbelief at his torturer's announcement, Harry broke into cold sweat when he felt the German officer's lips touching the skin of his neck, not quite kissing him. Almost against his will, he noticed that Major Wenheim smelled far better than he looked like, no after-shave, only a bit of smoke, of himself, and pleasantly so. This was madness, Harry thought.
He could feel the German's breath on his skin, the gentle warmth of his body on his exposed skin. He could hear him breath softly, and despite all his efforts, he wondered what the kiss of a German madman would feel like.
But the officer didn't kiss him, not right away, for the next thing Harry noticed was the firm tip of a tongue gently probing his neck, touching him ever so gently, while the Major still held Harry's head by his hair. Again, the probing tongue flicked across his skin, and when finally the officer's lips touched Harry's neck, all soft and firm and sensual with just the right amount of stubble around, Harry could not hold a deep, shivering breath.

"Just a kiss...", the German whispered like a lover, and for a moment, Harry was tempted to forget the situation and imagine last night's tousled blonde to be with him.

Then the Major kissed him again, just a bit stronger, just a bit more passionate. This was the strangest kind of torture I have ever heard of, Harry thought with what little concentration was left in him. How does he manage to make me react so violently on him?

"Just a tiny kiss...", Major Wenheim whispered again, kissing Harry's neck a third time, passionately now, almost biting, and his prisoner abandoned caution and let himself sink into the sensation.

"Just a kiss of fire..."

Suddenly, searing pain blossomed in Harry's neck where a mere heartbeat ago, the Major had been kissing him. Like a diver struggling to reach the surface Harry fought the mist of his desire, and realised with a shock, hot and cold like burning ice, that the German was just extinguishing his bloody cigarette in his neck.
Roaring in fury, Harry jerked away his head, but the pain didn't stop. Like a rising sun, the pain grew, blotting out all other sensation in it's wake. Unable to move his hands, unable to do anything but sit and scream and watch the pain, searing in a place still simultaneously tingling with sensuality, Harry was condemned to sit and roar and endure.
The only thing he managed with his violent movements was to topple over the chair, and his protests and curses were cut short as his head violently hit the floor.

"You were coming in just in time, Joachim", Harry heard the officer say. "How did you like my first demonstration? Quite neat, wasn't it? I think our guest is currently busy re-evaluating his affiliations."

Trying to make sense of what he heard, Harry blinked away some tears of pain, and slowly realised that he was still lying on the floor, still bound to the toppled chair with wrists and ankles, with a throbbing head and an excruciatingly painful burn in his neck. Why, the hell, could a single cigarette hurt so much, Harry wondered, and at the same time knew the answer. With all his senses tuned in onto this one area, with all his desire flaring it took some time to blot out such sensation, and this bloody German bastard had fully know of this.
What a sick asshole.

"Joachim, I think it is about time for diner by now. You so kind and tell Martha to get everything ready for the two of us? Thanks."

Somewhere in the back of the room, Harry heard a pair of boots first saluting and then leaving.

"So, my dear Henri – better now? I think we'll now have diner together and work on after that."

With a soft click and an even softer crackling, Major Wenheim lit himself another cigarette and returned to his place at the window. Without paying any further notice to his prisoner lying in a most awkward position on the floor, he seemed to get lost once more in the lavish colours of sunset that gleamed beyond the balcony.

Suddenly, for whatever reason, Harry knew in which building he was held captive. The large window, the trees, the immensely huge, curving balcony were a sight he had already marvelled at several times before. This was a house on the left bank of the Seine, just below the Isle St. Luis, and he had seen this house and the balcony on each of the few occasions he had actually had the time to take one of the few still-cruising tourist boats on the river; the house a prominent example of the lavish art-nouveau that marked the modern Paris.
From where the Major was standing, he must be able to see the Notre Dame de Paris, Harry noted. Bet that's what he's been staring at the whole time.

"You're supposed to come from here", the German suddenly started. "What's your explanation to why they call Paris 'la cité des lumières', the 'city of lights'?"

"What?", was all Harry managed to choke out, completely dumbfounded by the officer's utterly off-topic question.

"You're a French. Surely you have your own personal story about this. Everyone of you has."

"I- ", Harry took off, only to notice that he had never thought about this. "I suppose it's because of the numerous streetlights that had been installed in the last century, and to the fact that Paris has been one of the first cities to boast electrical illumination on almost any place of public interest."

With a contemptuous snort, Major Wenheim turned around, scornfully looking at his prisoner on the floor. At least, Harry thought that it was scorn he saw in the German's eyes, though probably due to his unusual perspective, it looked more like honest disappointment.

"What an unsatisfyingly scientific approach. I always thought you Froschfresser were so terribly romantic."

Whatever he had actually said, he DID sound disappointed, Harry wondered. He hadn't seriously hoped for some die-hard romantic nonsense, had he? For this tousled blonde in the bar last night, he might have answered elsewise, but under these circumstances, the agent considered his answer already more than polite.

Pulling thoughtfully at his cigarette, the officer continued to ignore his prisoner's position and continued as if he were talking to himself:

"I always imagined that it was due to the lights in the eyes of people this city inspires. These lights can be seen by anyone who wants to, and they make it easy to fall in love with the one who's eyes you see them in. And thus, it lights up the hearts of people as well."

With a painful feeling in his chest, Harry had to admit that he as well had seen the lights this bloody mad German was talking of. He had seen this lovely, dangerous sparkle in the eyes of a young man in the bar last night. And yes, it made it bloody easy to fall in love with those whose eyes you saw it in.
It was a weird think to think that even beings as sick as this Wehrmacht officer were able to notice such subtle and admittedly naively romantic things.
It made 'them' far too human for his tastes.

"But how could a brute like you know of such things. You're not even an Aryan", the Major added dismissively, destroying all faint traces of humanity his behaviour might have shown.

This German is not only bloody sick, he's also mad a gutter rat, Harry thought with a certain annoyance. Couldn't they have at least sent me a decent torturer? I'm not THAT unimportant a spy.

Suddenly, the Allied heard a door open behind him, and someone else entered the room. He expected to hear once more a snapping salute, but surprisingly, none came.

"Herr Major? Our diner."

So this sneaky little Joachim had returned. How lovely.

But apparently, the officer was as found the idea of Joachim's prolonged presence as unappealing as did Harry, and the prisoner could hardly suppress a smirk as Major Wenheim spat caustically:

"OUR diner? What leads you to the preposterous assumption that I would like to spend any more time with such a spineless weasel as you?"

"I- Sir, I beg your pardon, I assumed...."

"Yes? I'm listening."

"You said... 'for the two of us', Sir, and I..."

Silence lengthened to deafening proportions, and Harry derived a sick little pleasure of witnessing the Major stuffing his subordinate's over-blown ego down his respective throat.

"I will be dining with my prisoner. Please set up a table and then leave."

With another pull on his cigarette, the Officer turned around to watch the Notre Dame once more, very explicitly ignoring Joachim's efforts to prepare a suitable place for his Major's diner.
Only when this most unpleasant person started to lift Harry off the ground, complete with ropes and chair, the elder German turned around.

"I cannot remember to have given you leave to lift him up", the Major pointed out, calm and threatening.

Without any warning, the dark-haired German took his hands off Harry and the chair and consequently, the Allied thudded heavily onto the floor once more.

His curses were merely answered by a short snort, and only after the small commotion had settled, Major Wenheim added most friendly:

"Please lift him up. I would like to face him during diner."

"Of course. SIR", Joachim pressed out. Apparently, the Major was pretty much growing a real threat to his safety in his own back. Maybe he truly was mad. Probably so.

Joachim heaved Harry and his chair into an upright position, straining with the weight, and then left to an adjoining room to rummage for a table.

"I actually am happy that the French have surrendered Paris without a fight", the Major began once more, still calmly observing something he saw beyond the window. "I would have loathed the decision to risk the destruction of so many beautiful buildings. You've build a nice city here."

Of course, Harry noted, the lifes of the people living within these building didn't matter one bit to the German. He chose not to comment on this, for one never knows what tiny bit might spark whatever irrational reaction in this madman.

This sneaky Joachim returned carrying a small table which he set up in front of the prisoner, then left his field of vision again only to return moments later with a large tray full of food. The young man set it onto the table and then meekly asked:

"Sir, is there anything else I could do?"

"Just leave."

The Major didn't even deign to look at his aide-de-camps. Turning around only after his subordinate had left, he quickly glanced at the diner and then took his chair to sit opposite his prisoner. With an almost subconscious movement, Major Wenheim flicked what remained of his cigarette into the fireplace, stuffed his gloves into the pockets of his uniform and poured himself a glass of wine.

"Do you want some as well? It's a '36 Chateau Grand Jour, Cru Bourgois. Good stuff."

Harry only grinned acidly and shrugged as much as his still-bound wrists would allow.

"Oh. I see", the officer remarked as he got the point, his eyebrows rising in amusement behind his glasses. "I can see that there's a slight hindrance."

Yet the German poured Harry a glass of wine as well, putting the bottle carefully down onto the floor. With a certain astonishment, the prisoner realised for the first time what actually had been served for diner. French bread, unsliced, an offering of Rilletes, some cheese, some fruits. And two bowls of fresh Créme brûlée. Weird, Harry thought to himself. That's a French diner.
Well, French maybe except for the plate with several Butterbrote, the funny, sturdy sandwiches the Germans seemed to live of when they couldn't get pork and some of their pickled, salty, heinous cucumbers. Harry could have bet that this plate had been added on Joachim's behalf. Especially when taking into consideration Major Wenheim's appalled frown he watched that specific plate with.

"So", the Major started once more with an unnervingly polite smile as he broke off some of the bread. "Where do you come from?"

Harry only stared at him defiantly until the German looked up over his glasses and rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

"Please, Henri, I'm just trying to conduct some friendly conversation over diner. Nothing incriminating. Tell me a story, if you want to. But don't give me that tough-rebel-bullshit."

"You're fucking mad, you know that?"

But the German only looked at him with such sad, calm eyes that for a mere moment, Harry was honestly insecure of what to make of his torturer.

"Maybe...", Major Wenheim all but whispered in response and turned back to his diner.

"You really are not at all what I expected my torturer to be", Harry stated more to himself than anybody else, but the German looked up with a tiny smile and answered:

"Well, you're pretty much what I expected you to be."

And as he spoke, Harry saw deep in the eyes of the officer opposite him that sparkle he had spoken of earlier this evening, that very light he had never, ever expected to see again. Especially not in a person that by all accounts should be his worst enemy ever. Just for that tiny moment, it was terrifyingly easy to see beauty in the straight and determined features of the German, to imagine his lips split in a wide, radiant smile not so unlike the one of last night's tousled blonde. For that one moment, Harry could believe there was someone he could learn to like within this dreaded uniform.

But that sparkle in Major Wenheim's eyes disappeared as suddenly a knock at the door disrupted the early evening's relative silence.

"You're just the disgusting pervert I thought you were", the officer added without changing his expression one bit. And then, with a movement so fast and unexpected that even if his legs hadn't been tied to different legs of the chair Harry could not have attempted to dodge, the German rammed his leg right into his prisoner's unprotected balls.

Groaning loudly with the unexpected pain, Harry hardly noticed his glass of wine topple off the table the German had hit as well with his unannounced blow, neither did he see the pickled cucumbers jump off their plate and skitter across the wooden floor, leaving weird, moist traces in their wake.

"Enter!", the Major exclaimed, and through the mist of receding pain, Harry saw Joachim enter, this time carrying two candleholders.

"It's getting dark, Herr Major, and there is still no electricity in this godforsaken place."

"Good thinking, Joachim. I like that", the Major said jovially, drank a sip of his wine and continued: "Go, place one onto the mantelpiece, the other one here onto the table."

Silently, both the German and his still squirming prisoner watched the adjutant light the candles one by one, then salute and leave the room in his unique, almost soundless way.

"What a despicable creep", the German pointed out once he could be sure that his aide-de-camps was well away. "Can't stand him."

"You're such a sick bastard", Harry growled at his torturer, and this time, it was not a magic sparkle that shone from Major Wenheim eyes in response, but a steelen glint that spoke of nothing but determination and cruelty.

"Am I?", he asked coldly. "I have not been at the 'Chez Chantale' last night, trying to meet my fellow traitors and hoping for a quick romp somewhere in a dark corner."

"No, you're just selling your soul and self-esteem for a system that will kill you cheerfully once you make the mistake of not fitting the place you were assigned to. Or dare to think on your own."

"You have no idea what you are talking of", Major Wenheim hissed full of contempt. "I ALWAYS fit my place, and this is ONLY due to the fact that I think on my own. Maybe you'll live to see that as well, though I strongly doubt it."

"I am not afraid of dying, as you have already so sophistically noted."

"Exactly this is what I do not understand with you bloody rebels. Has it ever occurred to you that you could serve your cause better by living than by dying? You're all so eager to die, but trying to survive seems to be a task beyond your courage. Do you really believe to change anything by DYING?"

Harry only answered with grim silence, and finally Major Wenheim broke eye contact. The German cast a quick glance at his wristwatch, then at Harry and shook his head in a gesture full of sadness and resignation.

This officer obviously was in thorough need of professional mental care, Harry noted. Even I would make a better torturer. What's he trying to achieve anyway? Irritate me to death? If he's trying to make friends with me, he's even sicker than I thought.

With a resignated sigh, the Major turned his attention back to his diner, apparently trying to occupy his mind with something else than his annoying prisoner. Carefully, he picked up the cucumbers from the floor, setting then disdainfully aside. In silence, he cleaned up Harry's spilled wine with a napkin, pausing only for half a second in thought before he started to get the wine at least partially out of Harry's trousers.

Watching the German officer with growing amazement, the Allied spy noted how careful the officer was working, his slender hands moving swift and with such a light touch that Harry once again wondered how a German could be so unnaturally... delicate. Cultivated.
But the still-throbbing pain in both his lap and neck reminded him of how treacherously violent this man could become without any announcement.

Kneeling down beside his prisoner, Major Wenheim wiped away some drops of the red liquid from Harry's hands. Carefully, he took each single callused finger and suddenly, the gentle touch of his torturer brought some bizarre realisation to the Allied's mind.

"You like me..", Harry said before he could stop himself. Damn, he thought, I could have used that to gain some kind of advantage in this mad game. Maybe not all is lost yet.

The Major looked up, and once more, behind the armour of his glasses, there was this unbelievable sparkle in his blue eyes. A strand of his impeccably pomaded hair had come loose during his work, and suddenly, he was becoming handsome. Frighteningly so.

"Shut up", the German said softly without letting go of his prisoner's hand. "The walls can grow ears in these times."

Which, most fascinatingly, was not exactly objecting Harry's previous statement.

"Who are you?", the Allied whispered in bewilderment, and instead of an answer, the blond man kneeling to his right only looked into his eyes for a long moment. Then, as if having reached a conclusion within himself, the German answered:

"Major Daniel Wenheim, main liaison of the Wehrmacht in Paris to the Gestapo, charged with some of the minor interrogations as long as the French branch of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt here in Paris is not yet fully staffed and the SS is too busy 'securing' our regional government here."

"You know that this is no answer to my question."

"This is all I can offer. For now."

Almost reluctantly, the German let go of his prisoner's hand, and as he stood up flashed an encouraging smile at Harry, who in turn didn't believe what he saw.

This couldn't be true, he thought full of alarm. I am already imagining this completely cracked German to look like the tousled blonde of the bar last night! They must have hit me harder than I thought, Harry wondered, or I must be so much in need of a last romp that I can hardly think of anything else. Am I really so sick that I honestly feel the urge to hit on a German? And one who is not only bent on killing me, but also making me suffer as much as possible on my way there? God, why couldn't they just have killed me in that alley...

The German officer didn't notice anything of his prisoner's bewilderment, for he had turned around to face the falling night outside the huge window. Soon, the first of the two remaining tourist boats on the Seine river would start cruising, filled to the rim with drunken, cajoling Germans, illuminating the whole line of buildings with their huge spotlights. If anyone would guess what happened right then behind the bleak eyes of the curtainless windows of this lovely building? Probably not.

With another look onto his wristwatch, the German turned back to his prisoner, asking:

"What about some more to eat? You must be starving."

"As you might have noticed, I am still tied to this bloody chair, and I would rather go for a pee."

"I fear I cannot permit that right now", the officer replied with a smirk. "Security reasons. I am sure you can understand that."

"I can't hold it forever."

Another look onto his wristwatch. What the hell was he waiting for?

"After diner. Alright?"

"Yeah... Whatever you think."

Thoughtfully, Harry watched Major Wenheim as he prepared himself another piece of bread. This German definitely looked similar enough to that blond guy he had seen at the 'Chez Chantale' last night, if one dared to think of it. Especially now, as the growing darkness outside hid more and more details of the uniform this man was wearing and the golden candlelight cast a gentle touch to his features. The same height, the same wide shoulders. Maybe even a similar look around the nose and the chin. But his eyes... They were so different, so cold, so much under control.

And even if it had been the Major, last night in that 'despicable establishment', as he had named it – what the hell he had been doing there? Most definitely not looking for someone to share the night with. No true Aryan would ever show such degeneration, such vile desires. But on the other hand, this officer was a major nutcase, so there might have been a reason for him to show up at this place. Maybe he had been working undercover in his spare time to catch some traitors...

"You bloody treacherous bastard!", Harry hissed as he realised how nicely everything fit together. If Wenheim truly had been there last night, it was of little wonder that his liaison hadn't shown up. And that once he was out of the club, he had been ambushed by a whole squad of SS militia. And that the German knew that he would not really mind a kiss or two. Wouldn't have minded last night, that was.

"Sorry?", Daniel asked politely, still pretending he didn't knew what made Harry fume. "What's it this time?"

"You have been there, last night!", the Allied spat and watched with grim satisfaction as the officer's expression darkened immediately.

"Shut the fuck up...", the Major threatened, wide-eyed and with clenched jaws.

"Why? Got anything to hide from you peeping colleagues? Did you go there not only for your work, but also to find some sweetheart for a night? You're such a fucking sick creep, you bigot!"

With a lightning-fast motion, the German was out of his chair, slapping Harry bluntly across the face with all force.

"I told you to shut you stinking face!"

"And why should I do anything –"

Full of anger, the Officer rammed his lower right arm into Harry's face, keeping it there, effectively gagging the prisoner.

"I told you to shut up!", Daniel whispered, his eyes staring at Harry with fear than wrath. "Please, Harry, there is far too much at stake to squander all with petty revenge."

His eyes widening in shock, Harry noted that for the first time, the German had called with his true name, not Henri as he had be called when active in France. What was going on here, he wondered once more, how much actually this mad person knows?

"Please. It's dangerous enough already."

For a long, confused moment, both men only stared at each other, then Daniel said:

"Will you stay quiet?"

Harry nodded slowly, still so confused he wouldn't hardly have been able to say anything even if he had wanted to.
So the German removed his arm, ruefully looking at the bloody stain at his sleeve where he had split the Allied's lips with his last blow. Then, almost confessingly, Daniel whispered:

"Yes, I have been there. Yes, I like you. Far more than I should." With a tiny snicker, he added: "Which, probably, makes me even madder than you already think I am..."

"I don't get a single thing you say...", Harry mumbled through confusion and his throbbing lips.

"That is not necessary", the German officer said, carefully took a strand of Harry's unruly curls out of his respective face and bent forward. Gently, hardly ever touching, the young blonde kissed away the small trickle of blood that ran down from a corner of the Allied's mouth. "Just trust me."

Oh heavens, Harry thought, I'm losing my mind! First, he talks about breaking me most painfully, then about liking me, he hits me, burns me, kisses me! And boy, however sick this may sound, I can hardly wait until he does it again. The kissing part, that is.

Daniel straightened up again, slowly, deliberately, his lips sensual and moist, glistening in the low candlelight.

"Sorry that I had to hurt you..."

"Yeah, sure. That's why you do it repeatedly. You're fucking mad."

But the last part lacked Harry's usual bile, and both he and Daniel noted. With a fiendish smile, the German asked:

"Would you like me to repeat the last part? I'm sure it didn't hurt that much..."

For a moment, Harry was tempted to reject, to spit some cool, defiant phrase at this madman. But then again, what would it change? He longed to be touched by the lips of this mad officer again, longed to feel him. Maybe, the Allied tried to convince himself, I can seduce him. Sooner or later, he'll cut off my ropes, and then I'll have a chance to run or be shot down trying. Both better than sitting here watching him fuck my mind.

Apparently, the prisoner's prolonged silence had been answer enough to the German, and Daniel once more bent down to kiss him. This time, he kissed the Allied on the lips, gentle and yet determined, soft and firm at once. Again, Harry was tempted to resist as Daniel's probing tongue tried to open his lips, but once more, desire easily best reason. So he let himself fall into the sensation, revelled in the feeling of their touching tongues, took in the taste of his mad torturer. Wine and smoke mingled with Daniel's own, personal taste, and to his own surprise Harry noted that he very much liked what he tasted.
Just like he had hoped the tousled blonde of last night would have tasted like. Maybe I should attempt to escape only after I have finished seducing him, Harry mused with a certain amount of amused self-loathing. Wonder if he tastes that good everywhere on his body, he added mentally.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot fired mere metres away from the door disrupted the tender moment, and within the time of a blink, Daniel separated himself from his prisoner.

"What the fuck –" he yelled, taking his own gun out of it's holster, immediately scanning the room for some cover, finding none as empty as it was.

Two more shots were fired outside the room, and immediately afterwards, the door was smashed open violently. Cursing his immobility, Harry was unable to turn to see what was happening at the door behind his back, nor could he duck for at least some nominal cover. Only thing he managed was to topple his chair over to one side, and then all hell broke loose.

Gunshots riddled the air of the small apartment, their deafening noise rendering all the numerous shouts unintelligible. With amazement, Harry watched the huge window crack in several places and shatter, sparkling shards bouncing and skiddering all over the floor.

Somewhere in the chaos, Major Wenheim had moved out of Harry's field of vision, and so all the Allied could do was to lie still and pray not to be hit by some stupid stray bullet. Helpless, he watched as the silken tapestries got riddled with holes, saw a huge piece of the ceiling's stucco crash onto the floor mere inches from his head. Harry closed his eyes and prayed, preferably for a quick death.

As suddenly and unannounced as all that chaos had erupted, it ceased mere moments after. Harry could have sworn he heard the pathetic clicking of an empty revolver, and slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.
Someone was kneeling in front of him, someone he had never seen before, someone who, by whatever miracle, was not wearing a German uniform but the dark, innocuous outfit of a member of the Résistance.

"Are you alright?", this someone shouted, his voice muffled in the reverberation of the just-ceased gunfight.

Completely bedazzled, Harry nodded, and noted with amazement that some additional person cut off the ropes at his wrists and ankles. Grunting with the pain, he slacked onto the ground, noting with dread how painful it could be when blood returned into limbs hardly used for such a long time.
But before he even had had the time to get the pain fully come to his mind, two men hoisted him up, one at each of his shoulders, and started to drag him out of the door.

The whole room was in tatters, and the hallway behind the door didn't look one bit better. But Harry noted with a weird mixture of relief and alarm that the shredded body of Major Wenheim was nowhere to be seen. Hauling him through the place, Harry's assumed rescuers didn't wait for him to regain any strength in his legs, nor did they deign to explain who they were or how the hell they had managed to find him though he was sure nobody could have known where the Germans had taken him for interrogation.

At the end of the staircase one level lower, the crumbled corpse of an elderly woman was lying, mere steps away from her the slumped form of Joachim, half of his unpleasant face missing. As it was already too dark in the staircase to see without light, someone was carrying a torchlight, and in the unsteady illumination, Harry could have sworn that there was an expression of surprise and irritation frozen in the Major's adjutant's face.

But where had Wenheim himself gone, Harry wondered. Did he escape over the roof? Improbable that he could have survived such a hail of bullets. But what the hell had happened? There was his uniform's hat lying somewhere in a corner of the stairs, though, but no evidence of the man himself.

But all his questions found an surprising answer as Harry was led into the houses entrance hall, where together with some other armed rebels, Major Daniel Wenheim was standing next to the door, smoking, obviously unharmed and in the best mood.

"What the hell...", the Harry hissed as all his anger and frustration flames anew at the sight of his enigmatic torturer, and with suddenly returning vigor, he wrought himself out of the supporting grips of the two men accompanying him, charging at the German.
Hushed shouts erupted at his sudden movement, but before Wenheim could react, Harry was with him, slamming his fist into the officer's face with all strength he could muster. With a surprised grunt, the blond man stumbled back against the wall, his expression full of honest surprise.

"You fucking sick bastard!", Harry yelled, but before he could attack the German again, someone else hurled himself at the just-rescued spy and pinned him to the ground. Fighting wildly but with little success, Harry tried to shake off the man on top of him, but soon, there was another one coming to aid the first and quickly, Harry found himself lying on the marvellously inlaid floor of the house's entrance hall, hardly able to move at all.

"Cut it, for heaven's sake!", one of the men on Harry's back hissed, his voice conveying enough worry and urgency for Harry actually to obey to the command.

One of the unknown rebels walked up to Major Wenheim who was still leaning against the wall, dazzled and apparently checking if his chin was still attached in the right way.

"Are you alright, David?", the rebel asked, and the Major nodded briefly.

David? Now what the hell...

"He's got quite some temper, hasn't he?", the rebel continued and again, the Major nodded, this time smiling half-heartedly in Harry's direction.

"I can't blame him", the German replied, then he straightened up and asked: "Are you sure my aide-de-camps is dead? Always had hoped I would have the pleasure to kill him myself one day. Creepy bastard..."

A car stopped in front of the building, and all conversation ceased in the dark hall.

"It's our van!", one of the rebels whispered from the window next to the door, and without any further notice, Harry was hauled up onto his feet again.

"Are you sure about this?", the man in front of Wenheim asked the German. "We could still knock you down..."

"I have to get out of this", Wenheim replied in a low voice, then turning to Harry, he added: "And as you have seen, I still have issues to settle with this one."

"Sure...", the rebel replied with a snort, then louder, he yelled: "OK, everybody, let's get out of here!"

In a sudden rush, everybody seemed to move at once, swiftly, stealthily, there suddenly were almost a dozen men moving out of the building, onto the road, to the rear of a van that was waiting directly in front of the building, it's engine running.
Harry turned around to see what Wenheim was doing, and caught a glance of the German standing in the gracefully arched front door of that lavish building, taking off his glasses and flinging them across his shoulder into the hall. Them someone barked at Harry and he was shoved onto the van's unlit loading space.
In the dim light that came from the other buildings and found it's way beyond the van's cover-flap, he could make out some rough benches, some chests, and before he could think of it, was pushed down to sit on one of them by the next one who climbed up onto the van.

It took only moments for all the men to be assembled in the rear of the van, and with a resounding slap to the wooden sides of the van he yelled:

"Go!", and jumped onto the car himself.

The only place for the German to sit down was opposite Harry, right next to the cover-flap, and for the first while of the nightly drive, both men were busy closing the covers of the loading-space. Apparently, they were taking a route through one of the better lit areas of Paris, for there was still more than enough light coming thought the cover to make out each other's face in the dim, rumpling space.

"So", Wenheim said after a while as he lit himself another cigarette of which he seemed to have an undepletable supply. "I think there are a lot of things we have to sort out."

"Yeah", Harry replied wryly. "Like why you hit and burn and kiss me. And why you're apparently having a very Jewish name for an Aryan."

"Some other people know me as David Wenham, highest ranking sleeper of the Résistance in the German Wehrmacht in Paris. Believe me or not, Harry, I have been the liaison you have been waiting for last night at the 'Chez Chantale'."

"You excuse me when I think that's bit too much at once, will you?", Harry grumbled snottily, but the rebel next to him said:

"But it's true, Harry. How else would we have known that they had captured you and where they had brought you? Or the fact that there have been no guards when we came to pick you up?"

"I'm....", Harry started, confused and yet happy to have gotten out of this situation beyond hope. Could it really have been thanks to that German that he was still alive? But then, why all this charade, this attempting at torture? And if it was true – Harry had never thought himself to be important enough for sacrifice a sleeper as high up in the ranks of the Wehrmacht for his mere life.

"You have given up quite a lot to safe my meager life, 'David'", Harry said, still unconvinced. "Especially when you could just have shot me down and no-one would have thought ill of 'Major Wenheim'."

"Probably they wouldn't have, you're right", David replied, his sincere face every now and then illuminated by the glow of his cigarette. "But I would have."

The supposed German leaned forward and took one of Harry's hands into his own, the cigarette suspended in a corner of his mouth.

"I have told you that I like you far more than I should. Ever since I saw you that night at the bar I knew that I would never be able to go on as I had now you were in my world." Looking deep into Harry's dark eyes, he added: "I had to safe you at all costs, can you understand that?"

"Please don't tell me you love me", Harry snorted as derisively as he could, feeling bad for it immediately as David let go of his hand as if it burned him. "That'd be the most romantic, brainless nonsense I have ever heard."

"Is that so hard to believe?", David replied, taking another pull of his cigarette. Even in it's ghostly red glow it was obvious how much Harry's snide remark had hurt him.

"Please, we've never met before. Don't give me that love-on-first-sight-bullshit."

A moment of grim silence followed, but to his own surprise, Harry felt a tiny yet increasingly louder fraction of himself more than eager to believe this wild story. Sure, hardly anybody but unrealistic lunatics believed in true love and things like that. But wasn't it what we all dreamed of in the end? Shouldn't one at least try to make it real when it came knocking at your door?
But also, the memory of Wenheim's violent outbursts was more than prominent in Harry's mind, and the throbbing burn in his neck was a distinctive reminder.

"How do you think I could believe someone who kissed me with fire?", Harry said, though his voice betrayed far more of his growing inclination towards the whole subject than he would have liked.

"That one was a real sizzler, he?", David remarked cryptically. Instead of offering any explanation, he started to unbutton the jacket of his uniform, taking it off and casting it carelessly on the floor between them. "I had to make sure it at least looked like torture. A strange one, perhaps, but still..."

Silently, David offered his cigarette to Harry, who accepted gladly as the cigarette offered him an excuse to do something with his nervous hands. Having Daniel or David or whatever his real name was sit right in front of him wearing just his undershirt didn't do anything to soothe his nerves.

"Why couldn't you just have whacked me?", Harry asked, taking a deep pull of the cigarette and handing it back over to David.

But, instead of accepting it, the blonde tightly clasped Harry's hand with the cigarette, saying:

"When I met you, last night in that bar, and you looked at me, your look was like a kiss of fire. Like a kiss of fire right to my heart."

And with a motion, so deliberate and so controlled that Harry didn't think of resisting at first, David pressed the glowing cigarette in the spy's hand against his own chest, right above his heart. Harry grunted in surprise as the soft sizzle of burned flesh made him realise what David was doing there, and he tried to pull back, but the other man held tight, and did neither flinch nor did his eyes ever leave Harry's.

"What the fuck –", Harry exclaimed under his breath, but kept silent as he noticed the sincerity in David's eyes.

"Right to my heart...", the blond man whispered as the cigarette was fully extinguished. Taking in a deep breath, he let go of Harry's hand and said: "Maybe this is a first step of getting even. Will you give us a chance?"

"You're fucking mad....", Harry stated numb with disbelief, but his voice was clearly more amazed than appalled.

"Comes with the job", David replied with a shrug and began to dig his jacket for another cigarette, the dark hole in his white shirt so unavoidably obvious.

Only when he had found the pack of cigarettes he had been searching for and lit himself another one, he turned his attention back to Harry. Leaning against the car's cover, holding the cigarette between his index and middle finger, supporting his elbow with his free hand, just as he had done when Harry first met 'Major Wenheim', he asked:

"And, what about us?"

Instead of an answer, Harry bent forward, taking David's head firmly between his hands and kissed him. Passionately, almost violently, and this time it felt like a kiss of fire to both of them, intense, wild, cleansing, dangerous.

They didn't notice the cajoling cheers of their fellow rebels for a long, long time.

The end.

 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Osiris Brackhaus

HOME * LIBRARY * WWII HOME