He couldn’t go back to Germany; how to obey men who’d sacrificed him once already? Who’d have condemned him if they knew his secret. Who’d condemned others—exemplary SS cadets, who, caught together, had been publicly stripped of their honor and sent to the concentration camps, where, as Himmler had once said, they’d be “shot during an attempt to escape” once they had served their sentences. He’d heard the stories as stark warnings at the cadet school, although, with men so scarce, service in a frontline penal battalion was now the preferred option for disposing of the unnaturals.
By SS standards, he didn’t have honor—he was one of those elements that needed to be rooted out to ensure that the Volk would thrive. One of those who weakened the nation, who twisted and defiled Nordic blood, of which the nation was the embodiment. In essence, he was barely better than a Jew in their minds.
If he escaped now, he wouldn’t have the sanctuary of an American POW camp; if anyone found him now, they’d likely shoot him. Or take him in and interrogate him with much less kindness than the man who’d neglected to bind him and was still presumably sleeping in some French farmer’s loft.
Which was the honorable path? Desertion was impossible. He’d lose his honor, and they’d strip his Iron Cross and shoot him. And if he returned voluntarily and reported that he’d failed his mission, he’d be punished.
Hagen exhaled a huge cloud of breath into the crisp morning air. The coat he was wearing would get him shot by Germans. The uniform beneath it, a noose or a bullet courtesy of the Allies. What would his brother have done? Had he known this mission was only about delivering false papers into the enemy’s hand?
“‘My honor is called loyalty,’” Sieg had read off Hagen’s belt buckle, different from his own. “So it’s the same thing? Unquestioning obedience and honor? Honor is no longer a matter of personal integrity, is it?”
“Of course!” Hagen had said, irritated that his brother had brought the matter up at all. They were both on leave not to argue but to assure their mother and their sister that they were both well and alive. It was their last leave together: July 1944.
Sieg had measured him for a long time. “Is it conceivable to you that there are different ways to be honorable? Think of the warriors of old. Did all of those only do somebody else’s bidding?”
“It’s the SS way.”
Another one of those fraught silences. “Hagen, things will change very soon. The world that you believe is eternal and immutable will change drastically, and it will come out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning.” The grave tone of his brother’s voice indicated quite clearly that he wasn’t speaking of a positive change. With Siegfried’s good connection to Canaris, the Chief of Abwehr, he often knew things that other people couldn’t guess at.
“What do you mean? A peace treaty?”
Siegfried pressed his lips together, then lowered his gaze and shook his head. “I’ve already said too much. Just, when the time comes, promise me you’ll be cautious, and not throw your life away just because you don’t understand the situation. If the world shifts on its axis, promise me you won’t throw your life into the balance to try to reverse what cannot be reversed.”
That had been weeks before half the Wehrmacht leadership had attempted to have the Führer killed. Canaris himself had been found a traitor. Abwehr was dissolved. And nobody seemed to retaliate against Sieg—who may or may not have known, but right now, in wintery France, Hagen’s suspicion froze to certainty. Sieg had merely moved from the now defunct Abwehr to a staff position. But . . . John’s words came back.
Maybe he made an enemy.
The matter of honor now was too complicated to resolve. Did he owe men who’d killed his brother and were calculating that he might die, too?
Promise me.
He hadn’t, but his own silence at his brother’s request now rang in his ears. He should have. Sieg knew better. He might have known better all along. Shameful or not, Hagen’s best hope of survival was the POW camp. He’d been captured and his honor remained intact. It also meant not having to put his life back in the hands of men to whom he was worth nothing.
Sighing, he turned back and retraced his footsteps in the death-gray snow. Touching the pistol again, he could think of at least one good use for it just now: The honorable way out.
It wasn’t cowardice, he told himself on the way back. If fighting made any sense, he’d do it. It would be easier than being at the enemy’s mercy, penned in far away in a foreign country, aimlessly waiting until the enemy made decisions based on unfathomable motives.
He didn’t bother suppressing the scrunch of his boots when he walked toward the Jeep, and predictably, the driver woke.
“You! Stop or I’ll shoot.”
Go ahead. Please. But Hagen lifted his hands, one still holding the pistol, dangling from one finger by the trigger guard. It would be too ironic if the driver sprayed his brains over the ground here.
“I was just taking a walk. I’ll go wake the captain.”
The driver clambered out of the car, pistol still aimed at Hagen. “Captain,” he called out.
A few moments later, John emerged from the loft, straw and hay still on his uniform, and Hagen smiled a little at the picture. What a group of adventurers, like something out of The Wizard of Oz: the cowardly lion, the scarecrow, and the tin man. He chuckled at the thought, and the memory that one of his superiors had ignored the ban on American movies, much to the delight of those soldiers invited to one of the illicit matinees. Rumor had it that even Goebbels, in charge of culture and the German movie industry on top of all art, had a weak spot for American movies, especially Gone with the Wind.
“What are you doing outside?” John looked between him and the driver. Some redness crept into his cheeks, possibly from the cold, but probably from the realization he’d let Hagen escape.
“I went for a walk.” Hagen lifted his hands a little higher. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I bet,” John groused, but the tone was nearly playful, as if he didn’t seem to think ill of him. “Let’s pack and aim for an early start today.”
The driver holstered his pistol, but stood his ground. “Where’s his cuffs?”
“And where’s your military bearing, soldier?” John snapped.
The soldier straightened, swallowing hard. “Sorry, sir. But shouldn’t . . .” He gestured impotently at Hagen. “Shouldn’t he . . .”
“He doesn’t have a steering wheel or a gas pedal, so he isn’t your concern.”
The soldier glanced at Hagen, then exhaled hard through his nose, the twin streams of steam reminding Hagen of an angry bull in those cartoons that often accompanied the illicit American films. What was the name? Ferdinand?
The driver turned on his heel and stomped back into the barn.
John’s mood didn’t lighten as he faced Hagen. Expression cold, he held out his hand.
Hagen avoided his eyes and withdrew the pistol. He held it out butt first, wondering if John would use it on him and be done with it.
Instead, John holstered the weapon. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I told you.” Hagen slipped his hands into his pockets, seeking all the warmth he could get. “Walking.”
“I see.” Skepticism kept John’s eyes narrow. “Just . . . walking.”
“Well, I stopped to take a piss,” Hagen said through his teeth, and then realized he hadn’t done so and wished he had. Probably wouldn’t have an opportunity anytime soon without rousing more suspicion. The POW camp guards would love him. No chance of escape from this idiot Nazi. Not that there was anywhere to run to on a massive continent surrounded on all sides by water.
“Out taking a piss with my gun in your hand?”
Hagen kept his gaze down and didn’t speak.
“I’ll never get a straight answer out of you if I’m not applying pressure, will I?” John clicked his tongue. “You’re a real piece of work.”
Hagen pulled up his shoulders. “I thoug
ht about what you said.” In front of that disapproving stare, he felt like the unruly schoolboy he had been pretty much all the way until he’d volunteered and had been accepted, and then the drill sergeants had “applied pressure” enough to turn him into a useful soldier. “Mostly disciplined,” as Kreuzig, one of them, had once said.
“And?”
“I have nowhere else to go. Not if you’re right. Maybe not even if you’re wrong.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
Hagen shrugged and released the tension in his shoulders. “Even then, I’m not sure where my place is.” He started to walk past John, but John caught his arm.
“Hagen.” He looked him in the eyes. “I’m putting my neck on the line for you. To make sure you arrive safely at that transfer.” He gestured out at the pasture. “Pull another stunt like that, and I may not be able to save you.”
Hagen held John’s gaze. Able to? “Save me? Why would you?”
John swallowed. His grasp loosened. Then he nodded toward the barn. “We need to get on the road.” He released Hagen and nudged him in its direction. “Let’s go.”
Hagen regarded him curiously, but obeyed and climbed the ladder to gather their blankets. He folded them to give his hands something to do, something that didn’t involve a great deal of thought. After what they’d done, the idea of hiding what he was had become threadbare. He was only safe if he kept hiding, but John had driven him out of hiding, and another man who was similarly determined might manage the same.
Better to be a prisoner and maybe safe.
“I may not be able to save you.”
The ladder creaked under someone’s weight, and a moment later, boots landed heavily on the straw-covered wood. Hagen was still folding the last blanket, and he focused on the creases, on lining up the edges just right.
A hand appeared on his shoulder. Not as heavy as it had been during the interrogation. Gentle, in fact, squeezing in some way Hagen couldn’t read—brotherly, fatherly, friendly, or somehow related to the things they’d done here last night—and yet still bore enough weight that Hagen expected the floor to splinter beneath his knees.
The hand moved into Hagen’s hair. Stroked it. Tenderly, just like he had back at the camp. Then John spoke, his voice as gentle and heavy as his hand. “The war won’t last forever.”
Hagen turned his head. “Maybe not for you.”
“What do you mean?” The hand settled on his neck, still a welcome weight. “Are you going to go on fighting?”
Not from a POW camp. Hagen shook his head. He couldn’t dwell on it for too long, or John would pull the whole thing out of him. And what use would that be? A few days from now, he’d be on the way across the ocean to a fate he couldn’t control.
“Do you have family, John?”
Because if you tell me about yours, I don’t have to talk about mine.
“Yes, of course.” The strong thumb and first finger were kneading his neck. “What about you?”
Not easily thrown off the scent. He never was. “I have family, yes.”
“Where do they live?” Quietly. And quietly accepting that there was no father. Boots that, in many ways, Sieg had filled. That were now painfully empty.
“Altenstein.” He turned and saw John’s face was blank. No recognition. “Small town. Eastern Prussia. If we don’t hold the line against the Soviets . . .” Now that didn’t bear thinking about.
John stepped a little closer, in a silent offer, and Hagen was about to scoff at the idea. He didn’t need . . . but when his arms closed around John, he suddenly realized, with complete clarity, that, yes, he did.
How could he have been so stupid? John chastised himself over and over as he embraced Hagen. Lying with him last night, John had been so caught up in what they’d done and how he felt, he’d stopped thinking of Hagen as his prisoner. Even now, he couldn’t fathom that the man he was holding had ever been an enemy, let alone a dangerous one.
He hadn’t chained him back up. He hadn’t even secured the gun. Sure, Hagen had sworn on his honor not to try to escape, but neither of them had been counting on him remaining unchained after they’d finished their little interlude. By all rights, Hagen should have shot him and the driver and escaped back to Germany before anyone ever knew he’d gone.
On the other hand, he wondered if Hagen could have shot them. He hadn’t followed through on his escape, returning voluntarily even though that could have meant a bullet through his own head, and handing over the gun he’d stolen without argument. He’d been a fighter from the beginning, but now he didn’t seem to have anything left.
John released Hagen. “We need to get moving.”
Wordlessly, Hagen nodded.
John had never imagined himself feeling sorry for a Nazi, especially not one who’d killed a good friend—a lover in the most primal sense—in cold blood. Certainly not one who’d tried to escape, which would have left John answering difficult questions about why the man was out of his chains to begin with. Assuming he’d been left alive, anyway.
But watching Hagen now, the man moving slowly, lethargically, like he had to concentrate every bit of strength he had to descend the ladder from the loft, John did feel sorry for him. Just a few days ago, Hagen had come charging into the camp, ready to take on the entire unit, even if it was only a small one, to save his brother and their mission. Now, he was the prodigal dog who’d broken his tether, run a few yards, and come trotting back with his tail between his legs when he realized he was better off with his master.
John had vowed to shatter him. He’d succeeded. And now . . . what would he do with the pieces?
What do you want to do with the pieces?
He glanced back to where they’d slept—and not slept. That alone might not even have rattled him, not compared to all the other places he’d already gone with the German, but what gave him pause now was that when they’d kissed and clung together for dear life, Hagen had taken the initiative swiftly, and not at all like a broken prisoner. During sex, Hagen had been his old self, minus any neck-breaking, though John could honestly say he wouldn’t have cared—that far he’d been driven out of his mind.
Yet what good did it do, encouraging that side of him? All John could and should do now was provide a little support and guidance while Hagen changed from a political warrior to a passive object. Maybe help him not lose everything he had left over it. Hagen hadn’t run away, so that expressed some trust, didn’t it? That, or total broken surrender.
He shook his head and followed Hagen down the ladder. The German slid into the backseat of the Jeep and huddled against the passenger side, slumped boneless as the rucksack John kept under his rack back at the base. Whatever boldness he’d had in the middle of the night had dissipated during his morning “walk,” and as the Jeep bumped its way down the half-frozen, pothole-littered road toward Marseilles, he was as quiet and unfocused as he’d been all day yesterday. Perhaps more so.
Hagen’s walk had rattled John. Hagen couldn’t possibly know just how dangerous it was for him to reclaim his “freedom” out here. Not in a region full of battered and embittered French, and definitely not with rumors of a German-on-American massacre. He was lucky the driver hadn’t shot him this morning. Given the opportunity, the driver still might.
He couldn’t tell Hagen of the danger. Of the rumors and the possible vigilantes. No sense scaring the man.
Since when am I worried about scaring a Nazi? Especially SS?
He surreptitiously glanced at Hagen, who was leaning against the side of the Jeep, defeated and silent.
How the mighty have fallen.
As they continued across the countryside, the driver appeared on edge. His gloved hands gripped the wheel tighter than perhaps was needed, and John was sure his knuckles were stark white beneath the black leather. He couldn’t go a quarter of a mile without glancing back at the prisoner, his eyes narrowing suspiciously every time.
“He’s not going anywhere,” John finally said after ten or fiftee
n miles of this. “Just watch the road before you put us in a fucking ditch.”
The driver glared at him in the rearview, holding his gaze long enough that John wondered if they really would end up in a ditch. Then the man slid his attention back to the road ahead with a muttered, “Yes, sir.” And another glance at Hagen. A quarter mile or so later, another.
John gritted his teeth. “Perhaps I should drive while you keep an eye on him?”
The Jeep didn’t slow down. The glances didn’t cease.
John shook his head and looked out at the snow-covered countryside. If the paranoid driver put them into a ditch, so be it.
They avoided cities and stayed away from the main roads, which at times were clogged with supply vehicles. It meant more snow to contend with and moving without the benefit of tagging along behind a truck or lorry (or tank). As the light began to fade, the driver consulted the map one last time and agreed on something with John. They made their way up a mountain on a path that was uneven and treacherous enough to make John and Hagen step out to lighten the Jeep’s load while the driver wrestled it up the slope, keeping the tires inside a set of tracks carved by a vehicle that must have come through recently. Two of them, judging by the slight unevenness in the tracks.
The dangerous road and all its slippery switchbacks at least gave them a few minutes or so where the driver had bigger concerns than Hagen attacking him from behind. John pulled a cigarette from his pocket, offered one to Hagen, and Hagen accepted.
Hagen hadn’t been big on smoking ever since some extremely strenuous exercise under the auspices of Corporal “no alcohol, no meat, no smoke, and no easy girls!” Heinz, but it did soothe his nerves, and there was something to be said for the companionship of silently smoking while walking up a hill behind the groaning Jeep.
All I need is some coffee, Hagen thought as he drew in a breath of smoke, and this will taste just like—
His eyes darted toward the American walking beside him. His heart jumped, and for a moment, he was certain John had heard his thoughts.
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