This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Broken Blades
Copyright © 2016, 2018 by Aleksandr Voinov
Cover Art: Tiferet Design (www.TiferetDesign.com)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact the author at [email protected].
Second Edition
August, 2018
Broken Blades
By Aleksandr Voinov & L.A. Witt
About Broken Blades
Rainbow Award Winner 2016 “Best Gay Book”
They only had one night together—a stolen interlude at the 1936 Olympics. After Mark Driscoll challenged Armin Truchsess von Kardenberg to a good-natured fencing match, there was no resisting each other. Though from different worlds—an Iowa farm boy and a German aristocrat—they were immediately drawn together, and it was an encounter neither has ever forgotten.
Now it’s 1944, and a plane crash in hostile territory throws them back together, but on opposite sides of a seemingly endless war. Facing each other as opponents is one thing. As enemies, another thing entirely. And to make matters worse, Mark is a POW, held in a cold, remote castle in Germany … in a camp run by Armin.
They aren’t the young athletes they were back then. The war has taken much from them, leaving both gray beyond their years, shell-shocked, and battered. The connection they had back then is still alive and well, though, and from the moment Mark arrives, they’re fencing again—advancing, retreating, testing defenses.
Have they been given a second chance? Or have time and a brutal war broken both of them beyond repair?
Chapter 1
The letter lay unopened on the table in the corridor when Armin came home, regrettably sober, but less regrettably not alone. It caught his eye while he was kissing his guest—Jochen? Joachim?—and despite the anticipation, his stomach sank.
He pushed Jochen (he’d made up his mind) along toward the bedroom. “Get undressed. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Jochen had the kind of plain, broken-nosed features you’d find on a boxer or an SA man, but he was just as eager as any hooker Armin could have found otherwise. Given the place where he’d picked him up, in plain clothes, of course, Jochen was a worker. Considering what little conversation they’d had, he was even a Communist. As could be almost expected in that part of Berlin.
Jochen kissed him again, grabbing his neck possessively with rough hands that clearly knew hard labor. “Don’t be too long.”
Armin bit back an “or else?” He strongly suspected that Jochen, although not stupid, wasn’t exactly the type for wordplay or innuendo, but that was emphatically not why he’d brought him along this late at night. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought him here, but it was the least risky option.
For months, he’d been all but locked away for training, living the properly ascetic life that some people seemed to expect, so he wasn’t exactly discerning when it came to some light diversion, even if that diversion came with a boxer’s bull neck and the inability to hold his side in a civilized conversation.
“Go.” He pushed Jochen toward the door and turned to pick up the letter from the table. Slid a thin wooden letter opener under the lash and ripped it.
Dear Armin Truchsess von Kardenberg, we regret to inform you …
He stared at the letter, read it again. Couldn’t believe it, but his cheeks turned cold.
We regret to inform you that you have not been chosen for the team.
Yes, he’d been injured—his left knee had given him no end of trouble after he’d twisted it, and he probably hadn’t rested it enough, losing a few bouts when it’d started to hurt too badly to execute his lunges properly. But he’d never doubted that he’d make it. People knew what he was capable of when he was in his best form.
All remaining arousal—even the mischief he’d felt at bringing Jochen home to fuck him here—vanished. He felt sick to his stomach, sick to his soul, and sat heavily on the nearest chair.
He glanced at the letter, a sheet of paper folded twice. The eagle symbol of the Reich at the head. The Heil Hitler that ended it.
“Bad news?” Jochen stood in the bedroom door, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, a young strong body that was willing and ready for the taking, for one night or just a few hours.
Armin gritted his teeth, skimmed over the letter again, this time reading the hand-written post scriptum: However, we will require you at the Olympics regardless, considering your very special abilities, and trust that you will be following our summons.
We will require you. He knew who was behind this order—and it wasn’t the sports ministry functionary who’d signed the letter. This came from much higher up, and not even in the same vicinity of the ministry.
Armin folded the letter and pushed it back into its envelope. “The outcome of a tactical mistake, I assume.”
“A mistake? You looked like you had a death in the family.”
“Something like it.” Armin stood and shed his jacket, then hung it over the back of the chair. “I may have said no to the wrong people. Or the right people, whatever the case may be.”
Jochen frowned. “Blackmail?”
“Ah, nothing so crude.” Armin smiled and walked over to him. “Didn’t I tell you to get undressed? What a terrible waste of our time when I fully intend to plunder all these riches.” He took Jochen by the neck and kissed him deeply, dousing Jochen’s questions and maybe suspicions, and re-igniting that foolhardy desire.
It didn’t take much, and he’d think about all the other things tomorrow, after they’d conquered each other’s bodies. Then he’d consider—carefully, and hopefully much more calmly—whether he should have genuflected to Reinhard Heydrich or not.
Armin grabbed him through his trousers, and Jochen laughed. “What is this?”
“My dear comrade—I shall call this a defeat party. Why waste the good things on victories alone?”
* * * *
“Now you seem to be in a splendid mood.” Oskar settled down at the table. Quite against family tradition, Oskar seemed unwilling to stay on firm ground for very long, and his smart Luftwaffe uniform was practically gleaming. His adjutant hovered nearby, but Oskar dismissed the man as he took off his hat.
“It’s Berlin. I’m sampling the wares.”
“Hmmm-mmm. Don’t get caught.” Oskar lifted an eyebrow. “It would be an embarrassment.”
“Quite.” Armin glanced through the windows of the cafe, but the horde of Brownshirts continued on, carrying their flags and racial superiority along the wide boulevard. “And you? Newly minted Oberstleutnant? Congratulations. That was quick.”
Oskar waved a hand. “Göring needs to build up the air force quickly. It was simply my turn.”
“A Kardenberg being modest. Call the press—surely the world is about to end.” Armin flagged down a waitress. “What will you have?”
They ordered coffee and cakes, though Armin’s stomach was still churning. Odd to see his older cousin again after years and years—though they’d been very close once upon a time, growing up nearly as brothers. Maybe meeting him in a cafe wasn’t a good idea at all, though their familiarity and their physical resemblance would make people think they were brothers or related in some other way.
; But even so, somebody might always overhear something. And while Armin was loath to consider keeping quiet, in public places it seemed like the wiser thing to do, just like Oskar was keeping his voice down and looking around himself. He might have been a favored member of Göring’s favorite toy, but Oskar wasn’t a believer and not even a Party member.
“How can I help you?”
“Oh, I was just going to see how you are doing. As we’re both in Berlin at the moment, I assumed it might be good to meet.”
“That’s nice of you. And the real reason?”
Armin reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope and pushed it over to Oskar.
Oskar took the letter and read it. “You haven’t made an enemy, have you?”
Armin chuckled. “It would almost seem so.”
“You’re the best fencer I know. You already did it once. It’s inconceivable you wouldn’t make the team. And for what, ‘mediocre performance’?” Oskar shook his head.
“I did twist my knee while in the training camp.”
“I’d expect you to beat most people while in a wheelchair.”
“Now there’s an image. Fencing in a wheelchair! What a ludicrous idea.” Armin sobered. “Did I tell you about that strange meeting I had with Heydrich?”
“Oh dear.” Oskar sat back. “In how much trouble are you?”
“None. I hope. Well, he’d have to work hard to make anything stick.” Armin stopped when the waitress served them the cake and coffee, and waited until she’d left. “He indicated he’d rather like seeing me fence in the local SS club.”
“Meaning you’d have to join the SS?”
“That’s the implication.” Armin stirred his coffee. “Now, I may have been wittier had I not been so surprised, but I told him in so many words that a man with an overcome childhood lisp should not join an organization that could trigger a most tragic relapse.”
Oskar laughed quietly. “You did, didn’t you?”
“What can I say?” Armin shot him an amused glance. “I did.”
“You’re impossible.”
They chuckled quietly together, suddenly again unruly boys who’d terrorized what little neighborhood they’d found around one of the family’s rural mansions where they’d spent several summers together. Oskar had usually been the leader, the one with the intriguing and sometimes dangerous ideas, which eventually also included touches and kisses and even more thrilling experiments.
Though Oskar was older, Armin had always known that Oskar was, in his own way, entirely devoted to him. Not all of that special bond had survived university, however, or Armin beating Oskar soundly whenever they’d stepped onto a piste together. For Oskar, who’d taught him fencing while still a child, that was a blow from which his pride had never recovered.
“Well,” Armin said, “much later I heard that Heydrich was involved with the organization of the Olympics.”
“Apparently he failed to make the sabre team, too. The gossip claims his fencing partners handed each other points only to prevent him from qualifying.” Oskar grinned. “For all the Olympic spirit, humiliating that man must have been well worth it for some.”
“Really? Gosh. You are well-connected.”
“It’s more important than ever.” Oskar leaned over his cake. “Doesn’t mean Heydrich will ever relinquish his hold on the sport, and you’re one of the best fencers in Germany. He is not a suitor who will accept a ‘no’ for an answer.” Oskar winked, and a small thrill raced through Armin at the unspoken implication.
“I loathed his voice.” Armin pitched his own quite a bit higher. “Or that laughter.”
“It’s the least loathsome about him, trust me. In power, he’s second only to Himmler.”
And Himmler reports only to Hitler. “Now I’m considering what my options are.”
Oskar’s eyes narrowed. “If the team’s set, the team’s set. They’ve announced it by now. It would look very strange indeed to do a last-minute switch.”
“They’ve even called back Helene Mayer—and she’s a Jewess.”
“Keep your voice down.” Oskar glanced around again before he dug into the cake with healthy appetite. “Yes. She’s also guaranteed to beat any comer.”
“There are no guarantees in fencing.”
“And they’ve kept it very quiet. Also, she doesn’t look Jewish.”
Taking a sip of coffee, Armin remembered well how she’d defeated him in training in California, like she defeated just about any man and any woman. Thankfully, he’d been warned to not go easy on her by the bout she’d fought just before, but her speed and grace had still nearly caught him out. He was pleased for her—pleased also that the Nazis wanted the medal she’d bring much more than they hated her for her Jewish father.
But that didn’t help him at all. Just the way Oskar was hedging told him there was no way anybody could or would interfere on his behalf. Oskar wasn’t going to pester Göring with it, and it had been a slim hope at best. He’d pretty much resigned himself to the situation anyway.
Oskar finished his cake, put the fork down and touched his hand. “For what it’s worth, seems you’ll be involved in some fashion.”
“Sounds like I’ll end up playing judge.”
“Well, at least you get to watch it.” Oskar squeezed his hand more. “I would just focus on the German championships.”
Armin scratched at the long scar on his cheek. “Well, thanks for listening.”
“I will keep my eyes open, Armin, trust me. But short of actually joining the SS and sliding willingly under Heydrich’s thumb, I think you did the best you could. What’s more important, the honor of our house or a shot at a medal? And if you win it, you’ll draw the Führer’s attention. You’ll have to salute, too. Which would be …”
“Just too gauche, I know.”
“The word I was looking for was vulgar.”
Armin laughed. “Now, a little well-placed vulgarity goes a long way.”
Oskar clicked his tongue. “By all means, go ahead and make even more enemies.” He took a mouthful of coffee, stood and took his hat. “But remember that most enemies won’t meet you eye-to-eye on the piste, Armin. Times have turned, and you have to be careful. Heydrich is a dangerous man, and he has the means to destroy you.”
Armin stood too. “I like to think the only man who has the means to destroy me is myself. It’s not so much a victory of the other but a failure of myself.”
Oskar grinned at him and patted his arm. “Now that’s better. Less glum, too. Let’s take advantage of what time we have.”
* * * *
Armin did a last tour of the bungalows, ensuring that every piece of furniture was in place, nothing lay scattered where it didn’t belong. Everything was shipshape, however, and he felt a tinge of nervousness, which was easier to bear outside.
The grounds were meticulously kept—the grass freshly mowed and fragrant in the summer heat. Around them, a small town set up just for visitors without any other purpose or history than welcoming the “youth of the world.”
Above all, he noticed that there were none of the “Jews forbidden” signs that he’d got used to recently—they’d mostly vanished from the rest of Berlin too.
Several of the athletes would be Jews and even Germany had wheeled out one token Jew, who couldn’t have been blonder or more blue-eyed if they’d tried. It was a false kind of peace, but it was seductive to think that time had turned back and would stay there, anchored by hope alone. Strangely, this seemed like a place where he could breathe more easily than in the city itself, much as if this charade had been built for his sake rather than that of the visitors.
When the time drew close, Armin rose from the grass and wiped at his trousers, then put on his cap, excited at the thought that this was finally his team. Others had already arrived, first of all the Japanese, and he’d watched them explore the grounds, listened to them speaking to each other in their own language.
The Americans arrived in large buses. They’d alre
ady been welcomed at the train station, and then received at Berlin Town Hall, but Armin had elected to greet them in the village itself, unwilling to expose himself to more Nazi pomp than he could stomach.
So when they spilled from their buses, the Kommandant of the Olympic village welcomed them at the main entrance, and of course all manner of officials were there, including the Youth Service and a military band that provided the occasion with its necessary tone.
The coaches had stopped next to the appointed flag mast, the American anthem was played, the flag raised, and Armin found the pomp and circumstance quite tedious.
Mercifully, the Kommandant kept his address short and to the point, welcoming the athletes. Then everybody—band, Kommandant, Youth Service Officer and Armin—headed to the houses that had been prepared.
The Americans had specifically requested quarters near the athletic facilities, which had been arranged—Armin had seen to it that all requests had been honored, though his oversight had proven unnecessary; the Olympic machine, complex and lumbering as it was, worked with uncanny efficiency. Nothing less than the honor of the Reich was at stake.
Outside the white one-story houses, another American flag was raised and the American team leader received the house keys in another short ceremony.
Throughout, the Americans were laughing and bantering. Armin caught parts of jokes and comradely ribbing, entirely too charmed by the young glowing faces, their relaxed confidence that struck him as profoundly American. Oddly, he’d missed it. Maybe he’d noticed it less four years ago, but now it was stark. They had none of the guardedness he’d witnessed in Oskar and that was only partly an officer’s unwillingness to be ruled by his emotions, and assuredly none of the noblesse oblige they’d both been subjected to as youths. They were playful, boisterous, relaxed in their light straw hats and smart dark suits.
He stood straighter when the other officials scattered to attend to other duties, and their conversations dimmed, but didn’t quite stop as the new arrivals looked expectantly at him. A few of them measured him head to toe—curious and maybe a little astonished, but none seemed threatened. Standing in between more than three hundred people, the thought that he might appear threatening was in itself amusing.
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