Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  His gaze stopped on one hastily scrawled line, and words emerged from the loops and slants:

  “A woman needs passion, Mark. And between us, there is none.”

  A hundred times he’d read that line, and this time, he finally understood it. He loved her, but that love had never burned nearly as hot as anything he’d felt in Berlin, or what he’d felt tonight in that fire-warmed office.

  Mark folded the letter again and pressed it between his hands. Elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and touched his forehead to his thumbs. He didn’t know Armin now and hadn’t known him then, but he finally understood the passion his wife had been missing. He couldn’t call it love, this strange thing that had refused to die between him and Armin, but its absence was why his marriage couldn’t stay alive. And maybe knowing that, he understood why he’d carried this torch for so long.

  Not that understanding meant a damned thing. What was he supposed to do? Prisoners who fell in love with their Kommandants were fools.

  And so were men who tried to hold onto women who needed to be more than their husband’s silver medal.

  Mark got up and left the room. He headed down the corridor, this time with a destination in mind.

  In the mess hall, the men were arguing over who’d won a hand, and Mark strode past them to the crackling fireplace. He held the letter between his fingers, giving Grace’s words one last look, and then flicked it into the flames.

  With a mix of sadness and relief, he watched the paper curl in on itself, the fire blackening the edges before consuming it completely.

  He whispered a prayer for the Lord to watch over Grace, to guide her to someone who could give her what Mark never could. He didn’t bother asking for forgiveness or guidance away from Armin. Forgiveness meant shame, and though he knew his feelings for Armin were foolish, he made no apologies for them.

  If that meant eternal damnation, so be it.

  Chapter 12

  Two guards carried the fencing equipment out of the office and the Kommandantur building. While Schäfer looked increasingly unhappy about the whole idea, Armin assumed, since he wasn’t using it, why not find a way for the old kit that had been languishing in his office to play a role.

  “We should call them to Appell.”

  “The last Appell was barely two hours ago.”

  “Can’t count them often enough.” Schäfer’s voice was a low growl.

  Armin schooled his features to keep from smiling as they entered the great hall.

  There was another lecture going on, and Armin caught the word “Richelieu,” before the lecturer again fell silent. Maybe he should make them all stand and have Schäfer and the guards shake them down just for show, but then, the Britons were largely well-behaved. If they needed to apply extra pressure to someone to remind the prisoners of the situation, there was always Chandler.

  Millington-Smythe ambled over, an empty pipe in his hand, which he put down after a long moment, as if only remembering it. They didn’t shake hands, of course not, but Armin still appreciated that touch of civility between them.

  “Good morning, Major.”

  “Kommandant. How pleasant.”

  Well, too much civility there. “Here are fencing clothes. I’m not entirely sure all of it is still in working order, though you can probably kit up three or four men with this. Six swords. Two masks.”

  Millington-Smythe’s face lit up a little. “That’s very generous of you, Kommandant.”

  “We’re all passing the time as well as we can.” Armin gestured for the guards to drop the bags. “After the evening Appell, I expect a complete accounting of these.”

  “Whose are they?” Millington-Smythe bent down to select one of the swords.

  “The previous Kommandant’s. I don’t know.”

  Nobody here knew of his past or those childish ambitions he’d harbored at a time when they had seemed both important and attainable.

  The Briton turned the blade and looked at the sword, examined it. They were nothing special—Armin still owned two antique sabres similar to these. He’d wielded them a few times, but the foil was his weapon of choice. He’d really only trained with the sabre to fight his duels so he could attain one of those coveted facial scars.

  Just gifts. Memories. All of that useless now.

  And going out of his way to get a facial scar struck him now as largely ridiculous. Though it had taught him to take pain without flinching, had taught him that sometimes, life hit you and all you could do was take it.

  And then life had hit him so hard that any courage in the face of danger washed away into fiery, desperate panic. He swallowed hard and stepped back, feeling the terror just below the surface, like parasites crawling under his skin. “I’ll leave you to this.”

  “Very well, kind thanks to you, Kommandant.”

  Armin turned on his heel and left the great hall.

  * * * *

  The Brits didn’t waste any time putting the equipment to use. He was making his rounds again perhaps two hours later when he heard the distinctive sounds of blades clanging against each other.

  “Prisoners fighting with actual weapons,” Schäfer muttered. “Wise.”

  Armin glared up at him. “Are you questioning me on this again?”

  The hulk of a man huffed and faced forward as they continued down the corridor. “Apologies, Kommandant. It’s not you I question. It’s them.”

  “And by extension, you’re questioning my judgment.”

  Schäfer grunted something, but otherwise, didn’t respond. Armin let it go. He understood the man’s concerns, and as long as Schäfer only questioned him like this—away from the prisoners—he didn’t get angry with him.

  They strolled into the great hall. Heads turned. The two men who’d been engaged in a hearty duel stopped. They didn’t take off their masks, but Armin could feel their stares as acutely as everyone else’s.

  He motioned for them to carry on. “Continue, gentlemen.”

  They hesitated, glancing at each other and then Millington-Smythe. The lieutenant colonel made the same gesture Armin had. One of the fencers shrugged. After a second’s hesitation, the other did too.

  “En garde,” said another man who’d apparently been selected to referee the match. “Prêts. Allez.”

  Armin watched from a comfortable—for him, and hopefully for them—distance as they sparred on a makeshift piste lined with the chairs that had been set up for the lecture earlier.

  They weren’t as refined as the men he’d fought against in his pursuit of a place on the Olympic team, their footwork clumsy and their blade work alternating between timid and foolishly aggressive.

  Such novice fencing had bored him years ago, but it didn’t bother him so much now. It was a nod back to a period in his life that had been pleasant and full of potential. Back when a teammate’s consolation that Armin could fence again in 1940 or even 1944 had had some merit.

  The Olympics hadn’t happened in either year. Even if they returned in 1948, would Armin be alive?

  Not that it mattered. He rolled his stiff left shoulder, bristling at the way his sleeve brushed his side, and thought he was a touch mad when he clenched his right fist and swore he felt the left one do the same.

  Voices and footsteps drew Armin out of his reverie, and he glanced at the doorway as a small group of Americans entered.

  “See?” One craned his neck out the door, speaking to someone on the other side as he gestured at the fencers. “Told you.”

  And the hairs on Armin’s neck stood on end a split second before Mark stepped into the room. Mark’s gaze was fixed on the fencers, but his eyes darted to the side, and he looked straight at Armin, as if he’d known exactly where to find him.

  Mark swallowed and shifted his gaze back to the clumsy fencers.

  “C’mon.” The one called Kitten elbowed Mark. “Show ‘em how it’s done.”

  “Uh, no. No, that’s all right.”

  A few Brits glanced back at Mark with puzzl
ed expressions.

  “Oh, just do it.” Kitten nudged Mark forward. Louder this time, he said, “Looks like they could use a lesson or two from someone who knows what he’s doing.”

  That stopped everyone in their tracks. Every man in the room looked at Mark. Color rushed into his face, and when he glared at Kitten, the other man just chuckled.

  “Do you fence, Captain?” Millington-Smythe asked Mark.

  Mark shook his head. “I … not for a long time.”

  “So you might be a bit rusty,” one of the Americans taunted. “You must’ve been good if you made it to the—” An even more poisonous glare from Mark shut him up.

  Beside Armin, Schäfer whispered, “I don’t like the Americans getting their hands on—”

  Armin waved his hand. “No. It’s all right.”

  The Americans kept urging Mark toward the piste, and the Brits looked torn between insulted and intrigued.

  Millington-Smythe picked up one of the weapons and held it out, hilt-first, toward Mark.

  Mark eyed it. The fingers on his left hand curled and uncurled at his side, as if remembering what it was like to hold a weapon like that.

  Mark glanced at Armin. Then the men with him. Finally, he sighed and held out his hand.

  The instant Millington-Smythe laid the hilt across Mark’s palm, Armin knew Mark would go through with it. Mark closed his eyes, exhaling hard as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and something in him seemed to change. Armin knew that feeling. When the weapon was in hand and ceased to be an inanimate object. No longer cold, dead metal, but flesh and bone.

  One of the fencers on the piste took off his mask and tossed it to Mark.

  The Americans clapped and cheered, urging him to show the Brits how the sport was played. This was, of course, met with indignant sniffs and narrowed eyes, but no one said anything.

  “I’ve got twenty cigarettes on him.” Kitten put the ante on the seat of a chair.

  “Put me in for a dozen.” Another fished some cigarettes out of his pocket. “Double if the other guy doesn’t get in any hits.”

  Mark’s opponent exchanged glances with his commanding officer, who shrugged, chuckling behind his pipe.

  Mark tucked the mask under his arm and approached the piste, and no one made a sound as he took his position in front of the other fencer. He pulled on his mask, and something electric went through Armin.

  This place couldn’t have been more different from Berlin. There were no stands, no crowd made up mostly of uniformed Germans. No flags on sleeves or hanging on the walls. In between twin rows of chairs, with age-old equipment and their weathered uniforms, Mark and the Englishman faced each other like Mark had faced down that Hungarian.

  “En garde. Prêts. Allez.”

  Boots scuffed on stone. Sleeves and trousers whipped with the sharp movements as the men advanced and retreated. The high stone walls and archways rang with the echoes of metal on metal as Mark drove the other man back until he was inches away from crashing into one of the chairs, and then he delivered the killing blow to the Brit’s poorly guarded right side.

  The Americans cheered while the Brits politely—if stiffly—applauded. They took position again, and the Brit wasn’t quite steady on his feet this time. He was tentative, nervous, a rabbit who’d just caught the scent of a wolf. The attack was coming, he knew that; what he didn’t know was when or from what direction.

  Armin’s heart thumped the way it did whenever he’d been the one fencing. The surges of adrenaline he’d experienced over the last several years had been terrifying at best, but this … this was a feeling he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

  Mark, apparently having made his point that he knew what he was doing, backed off this time. He still fought, but he wasn’t quite so aggressive. Three times he could have scored against his opponent, but let the opportunity pass. Finally, though, he finished off the Brit, and at the order of the referee, the two men took off their masks and shook hands.

  When Mark left the piste, his men clapped his shoulders and congratulated him. Mark smiled thinly, but after a moment, he finally lightened up. He looked like he’d genuinely enjoyed himself. Maybe in his mind he’d gone back to Berlin, and the weight of that heartbreaking defeat had still pressed down on him as he’d walked off the piste, but if it had, it was forgotten now, especially as the others shared the cigarettes he’d won for them.

  Mark turned in Armin’s direction again, and this time they locked eyes. Mark’s smile faded. So did Armin’s, though he hadn’t realized until just then that he’d been smiling at all.

  Armin broke eye contact this time. “We should leave them to their games.”

  Schäfer grunted in agreement and followed him out of the great hall.

  An idea was forming in Armin’s head, though. It had started with Mark’s smile and the light in his eyes. Sparking off something in him, too, one of those foolish ideas he hadn’t had in a long while—the kind of happy foolishness that had nothing to do with war or death.

  “In the afternoon, get me the officers.”

  “Kommandant?”

  Armin just nodded to reinforce the order. They arrived at the office, and he did notice with a pang the lack of the fencing kit in the corner. He settled behind his desk, still excited about his idea, though he’d tamp down on it for the time being to get some work done.

  Lunchtime came before he was even aware of it, and he had some soup and a bread roll to mop it up, then finished up some more paperwork.

  When the light dimmed, he asked for the fire to be lit.

  Once it was burning at a nice clip, there was a knock on the door and Schäfer brought in Chandler and Millington-Smythe. Both stood in front of his desk, the Briton politely disinterested, the American half a step away from insolent.

  Armin stood up and put his hand on his back. “Gentlemen. Thanks for coming. I trust the men haven’t skewered each other yet?”

  Millington-Smythe shook his head. “No accidents, Kommandant, God willing.”

  Chandler just scowled.

  “Very well. Morale is a rare commodity in the dark months of the year, especially while men are forced to remain largely idle and unproductive.” Armin glanced at a stack of papers on his desk. “As I well know.”

  Chandler’s lip twisted. “Well, you can always let us go and we return to producing …”

  Producing dead Germans. Armin very nearly heard it.

  He shook his head and refused to be annoyed. Chandler wouldn’t bait him that easily.

  “That being so,” he said, “I propose we organize a sporting event. Originally I was going to say a fencing competition, but I heard a number of the prisoners are keen athletes in other disciplines, so I believe you should form a committee, while I, as a representative of the host nation, as it were, look into prizes.”

  The officers exchanged glances. Millington-Smythe’s expression was half-puzzled, half-amused. Chandler, of course, had his lips pulled tight and his eyes narrow, suspicion and irritation alike carved into his face.

  Chandler opened his mouth to speak, but the Englishman beat him to it.

  “I think that’s a splendid idea, Kommandant.” He smiled and gave a slight nod. “The men will appreciate a distraction to carry them through the winter.”

  Chandler huffed with annoyance. Then he met Armin’s gaze, and Armin arched an eyebrow and allowed himself the faintest of smirks. The American bristled, shifting his weight and averting his eyes.

  “What say you, Major Chandler?”

  “Well.” Chandler eyed Millington-Smythe. “It would seem I’m outvoted if I object, so … why not? I’ll speak to my men.”

  “Good.” Armin let his smirk broaden just a bit, if only because he enjoyed how much it irritated the American.

  Millington-Smythe must have caught on, because he chuckled quietly, masking it by idly rubbing at the beard that had been growing in lately. All of the English seemed to be growing in beards these days, but no one had complained
of lack of access to shaving necessities, so Armin didn’t question it. When the beards grew long enough to hide weapons and contraband, then he might say something, but for now, what harm could it do?

  “All right, gentlemen. I believe it’s settled.” Armin eased himself into the chair behind his desk. “That will be all.”

  The two officers left, and once he was alone, Armin finally allowed himself to laugh. That must have been the easiest point he’d ever scored against Chandler, and one that wouldn’t result in revolts or open hostilities. Being civil—if subtly and harmlessly antagonistic—with their commanding officer seemed a small price to pay for that peace. After all, he himself didn’t want to be here any more than they did.

  Chapter 13

  Mark was used to not sleeping. That was just part of being at war, he supposed, though with the amount of snoring he heard in the room—Silent Joe could drown out a bombing raid—maybe he was the only one.

  Tonight was different, though. His mind was still reeling from that moment in Armin’s office, and Grace hadn’t been far from his mind all day, but then Kitten and Silent Joe had dragged him into the room where the British had been fumbling their way through a fencing match. He’d resisted. He hadn’t touched a weapon since that match in Berlin when he’d been so close to the bronze he could taste it. His love for fencing hadn’t died, but he’d been afraid to feel that failure again if he ever stepped onto another piste. So he hadn’t.

  Not until today.

  And yes, the failure had been there, looming over his head and reminding him he hadn’t won a medal, and probably never would. But God, it had felt good to pick up a blade again. There was nothing quite so freeing as the single-minded determination to win a fencing match. The mask gave him tunnel vision and blocked out everyone and everything, and all he had was a goal to beat that faceless opponent. For a time, it had even blocked out a war, a divorce, and Armin.