Should Schiller have followed up his immediate offensive he could have no doubt finished the bout quickly. But he refrained from grasping a swift, proficient victory. Yet the youth raised a corner of his mouth in prospective triumph - and also to taunt the older man. The celebrated fencer had been instructed by his host to toy somewhat with his opponent, humiliate him even. Feints were employed and attacks only half-executed.
- En Marchant. Froissement. Lunge. Parry. Remise. Backward Spring. Sentiment Du Fer. False Attack. Trompement. -
Blades glinted, winking in the glaring light. Feet darted across the varnished floor in an almost balletic manner.
A couple of dexterous strokes, allied to a dancer's footwork, tested out the Wehrmacht Corporal's defences even more.
- Sentiment Du Fer. Lunge. Parry. Redoublement. Parry. -
Perspiration soaked Thomas' face and palm already. His inferiority was as pronounced as his lack of finesse. Although his host had informed the officer not to underestimate his former college champion, Luke Schiller was decidedly unimpressed with his opponent's ability, even taking into account how out of practice Abendroth must have been. His stance was loose, his footwork and technique were functional at best and his attitude too defensive. The Second Lieutenant could sense victory at will - and he proved himself right in this opening bout by feigning to attack low but then he jabbed the buttoned point of the epée into Thomas' breast, or rather nipple area - full knowing how painful the hit would be.
Kleist could not suppress an impartial shout of acclaim upon recording the hit and awarding the bout to his fellow SS officer.
"A hit! Or rather I should say touché!" Christian brightly posited, revelling in his role of master of ceremonies.
A wave of applause reverberated in the room.
Thomas screwed up his face, both in pain and from the ignominy of defeat. He then duly acknowledged the quality of the strike. The Second Lieutenant accepted the praise in the same efficient manner of his display and turned his back on his opponent.
Walter Fest attempted to offer his new friend an encouraging expression, but the gesture was as convincing as Thomas' own lacklustre performance.
"He's good," Walter finally remarked.
"Or I'm terrible. Maybe it's a bit of both," Thomas riposted.
Walter Fest was cheered to see that the Wehrmacht Corporal had not lost his sense of humour, but before he could reply he was cut short by Herbert Klum's slithering voice.
"Do you want to pay me now Walter, or would you be daring enough to consider double or quits?" the Gestapo officer remarked, his eyes sparkling with childish glee behind his thick glasses, his pointed chin jutting out like the prow of a ship. Goading. Gloating.
"I have absolutely no qualms at all about patronising you Herbert. Double or quits it is."
Thomas took in another mouthful of water, hoping to dilute the alcohol he had previously imbibed. He requested for one of the waitresses to bring him a champagne bucket filled with ice-cold water. Before its arrival though Christian prompted the Corporal to rise and commence the second bout.
- Salute. On Guard. Backward Spring. -
The Second Lieutenant, after showing off his attacking prowess in his initial display, decided to showcase his defensive technique, encouraging the Wehrmacht Corporal to attack him.
- Sentiment Du Fer. Invitation. Coule. Circular parry. Return to Guard. Sentiment Du Fer. Derobment. Invitation. Lunge. Parry. Fleche. Parry. -
It was like an exhibition match now for the accomplished swordsman. Wittmann's teeth began to itch as steel scraped upon steel. He sipped his wine to distil the unpalatable sensation. A few spectators even began to applaud during the bout as Schiller casually, or even contemptuously, deflected the predictable attacks of his opponent. One might have even considered the action akin to a bull fight in places, with the young flourishing officer playing the part of a toreador. Or one spectator alluded to Schiller wielding his epée like a conductor would a baton. The well-bred officer was polished graceful whilst the Werhmacht Corporal sweated and misjudged as though he was chasing shadows. At one point Thomas, in either desperation or exhaustion, lunged at his opponent - and slid and lost his footing on a small piece of ice which had found itself upon the floor. Cannonades of laughter succeeded the gasps however this time. The SS elite were thoroughly enjoying the humiliation of their Wehrmacht comrade.
Luke Schiller eventually became bored by his own exhibition though - and he affected a yawn to express as much. Once resolved to do so he swiftly ended the bout by obtaining a hit upon the Wehrmacht Corporal's shoulder (albeit it had been the officer's intention to strike his opponent in the sensitive area of his armpit). The clamour of clapping increased, with the SS cronies now cawing and flapping like a flock of crows. Drinks were swilled. Luke Schiller took little notice of his audience however - and didn't even bat an eyelid at the fluttering eyelashes of a group of waitresses who cooed and grew weak at the knees in front of the brooding SS officer, who looked and moved like a film star.
"Touché! La Belle!" Christian triumphantly announced, as if he himself had personally fought and won the contest, whilst applauding.
Blotches of sweat stained his back, armpits and collars as Thomas trundled back to where his new acquaintance had placed a chair out for him. Thomas slumped down, taking the weight off his wooden legs. Walter consoled his friend with a pat upon the shoulder. The scene was similar to that of a boxer's corner, with Thomas of course playing the part of the defeated contender. He cursed himself underneath his breath however, not for losing the bout but for exhausting himself unduly before the last exchange. Thomas had lost the war but he still had a chance of winning the final battle.
"I almost feel sorry for you - for both of you," Herbert Klum expressed, with an absence of sympathy, cigarette smoke purring out from his askance mouth.
"Thank you Herbert. And people say that you're incapable of pity," Walter Fest dryly replied.
"I will of course accept a cheque Walter. After all the generosity the Party has shown your firm over the years I warrant that you're good for it. You will excuse me for a moment however whilst I congratulate our winner. I more than most have something to thank him for after his display."
During the interim whilst the Gestapo officer offering some words to SS officer the Wehrmacht Corporal whispered something into the ear of the Farben Director. Herbert Klum returned however, oozing rapaciousness and overt triumphalism.
"I can either offer you a cheque Herbert, or give you the chance to quadruple your winnings. Thomas here believes that he is slowly getting the measure of Lieutenant Schiller. I'm already at a substantial loss. I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as to go o'er - one, or Macbeth, might perhaps say. If nothing else a wager will make this consolation bout interesting. I will of course understand if you're lacking the funds, or daring, though Herbert. But would you be willing to wager that much admired car of yours?" Walter Fest innocently proposed, temptingly.
"You seem to be losing your mind, as well as your money, this evening Walter. I accept. I would normally wish you luck Corporal but you will excuse me if I desist from doing so in this instance."
Thomas barely caught the odious Nazi's words though as he plunged his hands into the champagne bucket of cold water and doused his face, to refresh his sensations and consciousness. His skin was electrified by the ice-cold water. Lieutenant Schiller watched his opponent repeat the act several times, tickled with curiosity and amusement. As disappointed as he was with the standard of competition - after coming so far and having Kleist build the Wehrmacht Corporal up - the young officer took solace from the sum he was being paid for his services. The Lieutenant idly thought how he should approach his final bout, whether to end it quickly or to continue to mock his opponent? For a brief moment or two the young epeeist even began to feel sorry for the disadvantaged Corporal, who had been all but tricked into facing such superior opposition. Perhaps he would go easy
on the out of practice fellow swordsman. Had he not suffered enough for the amusement of the party guests?
Although it would be an apparent mismatch the circle of spectators nevertheless tightened around the competitors again, enthralled by the old-fashioned pastime. Thomas wiped his palms upon a towel that Walter had handed him and, with a slight groan, he raised himself up from his chair to face his opponent one final time. There was the hint of a smile upon Luke Schiller's lips as he took in the fatigue and defeatism upon the visage of his opponent.
The two swordsmen met again in the centre of the room. Realising how easy the contest had been - and how comfortable this final bout would be - the officer decided to be gracious in victory and offered the Corporal a bow. Thomas acknowledged and returned the gesture.
- Salute. On Guard. -
Luke Schiller was half-way into debating whether to try to gain his hit through an In Quartata or Coule (hoping to at some point display his Passata Sotto) - when his opponent suddenly changed sword arms.
The epée felt neither alien, nor unwieldy, in Thomas' right hand - indeed the weapon quickly became again a natural extension of his right arm, fluid, familiar and powerful.
Wonder and shock appeared to smack the haughty officer in the face. The SS officer had little time to adjust, let alone recover. The switching of Thomas' sword arm had happened in an instant, but in that instant Luke Schiller recoiled into a defensive, diffident position.
Should his experience have been the equal of his natural abilities then Luke Schiller might have recovered quickly enough. To his credit the gifted fencer was able to parry a couple of his Thomas' darting thrusts, which unleashed themselves from a totally new angle and with redoubled force. The older man was conscious however of the fact that his opponent was the superior fencer - and to win the bout he would have to do so swiftly, before Schiller could adapt to and annul the Wehrmacht Corporal's ambidextrous ruse de guerre. Swotting away the SS officer's epée with unexpected vigour Thomas created the space and deftly stepped in, hitting his mark.
- En Marchant. In Quartata. Lunge. Hit. -
The entire bout lasted no longer than ten seconds. As if to reinforce the validity of the strike upon Lieutenant Schiller's forearm a clang and thump was heard, like a death knell, as the epée clattered to the ground. Its coquille gleamed - new but forlorn - in the fulsome moonlight. A stunned silence swirled around in the room like tumbleweed.
"A hit, a palpable hit!" Walter Fest ejaculated, shattering the shocked and incoherent atmosphere. He clapped his hands and then joyfully beamed at an appalled Herbert Klum. The aesthete's eyes, deep set in his round face, twinkled with humour and triumph. Fest turned his gaze next upon Thomas, pride and fondness welling in his expression like tears.
Kleist, fired by fury and ungraciousness, was close to ordering a re-match - or calling the dishonourable Corporal a cheat. Yet Schiller himself seemed to be acknowledging the legality of the defeat - and pockets of applause and praise were beginning to seep out from the party to congratulate the "damnably clever" and "wonderfully skilful" Abendroth. Even Barkmann nodded his head in approval of the Wehrmacht Corporal's show, Christian grimly observed out of the corner of his eye.
Thomas sat back down with a sigh - exhaling in exhaustion and relief. Before he had time to catch his breath however he felt the ring of spectators begin to close upon him, either to quiz or congratulate him. Before they got the chance to do so though the Corporal excused himself, expressing his desire to freshen himself up. As he got up Thomas fleetingly saw his opponent through the gaggle of guests between them. The Lieutenant appeared to be neither as crestfallen or angry about his defeat as he could have been Thomas judged. Respect, as well as resentment, inhabited the officer's handsome, but cold features.
His armpits were still wet with sweat from the contest and his thoughts still lagged behind events it seems. Thomas hid himself away in the washroom to garner some peace and quiet and freshen himself up. He promised himself that he would but return to the party in order to thank and say goodbye to the Farben Director - and then he would leave. Upon returning however Thomas noticed that the party had again taken a turn in another direction - and he was unsurprised by the lack of attention he received in contrast to when he had last occupied the room.
The Polish waitress who had first served Thomas champagne upon arriving at the party had now quite literally let down her auburn hair. She was sitting upon the lap of a half-soused staff officer. A suggestive smile shone from her girlish features as he ran his palm up and down her leg. She giggled as his hand foraged up her skirt.
Christian, ever the efficient host despite his ire at the outcome of the fencing contest, made sure the girls had served a drink again to every guest before he had given his instruction for them to socialise with the officers. As if from out of nowhere - the Lieutenant might have even clapped his hands to summon them like some magician or master of a harem - another dozen or so women lit up the room and paired themselves up with various lusty party guests.
Cheap perfume mixed, like oil and water, with cirrus and cumulus clouds of cigar smoke to make Thomas feel even more nauseous. He already had a burgeoning headache as a result of the drink and exertions. Thomas felt repulsed, disgusted, at some of the scenes: grunting men groping girls half their age and pouring champagne down their throats - licking it off like puppies as it dribbled down their necks; a man slapped the rump and then unbuttoned a blouse in front of everyone - and then played with the girl's nipple, fingering it like it was tassel. At the same time however an open-eyed Thomas couldn't help but stare at the women, tempting and glistening like fruit upon the bough - their inviting expressions (moist scarlet lips, gleaming teeth). He was naturally aroused by the lissom, roseate figures.
Awkwardness and desire were etched into Thomas' expression as a woman, rather than one of the girls, caught his eye. She sexily leered, beckoning the captivated Corporal. He found himself smiling back. Thomas told himself that he was but humouring the woman and himself. She was sitting astride a high-backed chair and the eczema-afflicted civilian who sat upon it. Her sinuous arms were entwined around his neck. Her practised fingers stroked his balding scalp, although Thomas could barely see the man as he was often shrouded under the woman's open black satin blouse - his mouth slavering over the prostitute's powdered breasts. Thomas voyeur-like observed her fish-netted thighs and high-heeled feet gently move as she rubbed herself up around upon his groin. As much as the feline woman grinned when she looked at the man and kissed him Thomas couldn't fail to observe a bored, distasteful expression upon her face when out of the odious gentleman's view. She smiled seductively (routinely) at the handsome Corporal. She made both a movement of her head and husky eyes, inviting and indicating to Thomas to go into one of the side rooms and wait for her there (if indeed they weren't already all occupied, as more than a few officers and their companions had retreated into the adjoining rooms out of a desire for privacy). Thomas, more tempted than one might have imagined, politely declined the attractive offer with a somewhat pained shake of the head.
As melancholic, frustrated, as Thomas was growing he still retained the semblance of a kind and pleasing face, which meant that more than one of the women tried to attract his attention. He also wasn't SS. Many of the girls were now wary of some of the SS officers, both because of their violent streaks and also false promises. No sooner did he take his eye off the courtesan upon the chair, who was now asking her enamoured patron for a cigarette, when another beauty, no older perhaps than twenty-one, approached the lonely soldier. She was wearing a maroon silk night dress and matching dressing gown, with white fur trimming and a shocking pink feather sticking out of her long permed red hair (a wig).
"Hi there. Do you have a date for the evening?" the slightly nervous girl issued in diffident German, dimples forming upon her cheeks as she prettily smiled afterwards. She seemed a sweet girl, new and still somewhat innocent in her profession. There were still the remnants of a teenager beneath her
vampish make-up.
"No. I am not sure whether to say "sorry" now, as in I haven't - or "thank you" in that I now maybe do," Thomas replied in Polish. Was he flirting? Was he flattered by the nubile girl's attentions? Thomas was only human after all, or rather a red-blooded man.
"You speak Polish," the giddy girl suddenly squealed in excitement, her bright eyes peering up at him. She ran her hand up and down Thomas' arm in friendly affection as she did so.
"What's your name?" the Corporal courteously asked, still somewhat high from the drinks and victory.
"Bella, what's yours?" the girl, whose real name was Olga Sipowitz, answered. She quite literally batted her eyelids and twirled a couple of ringlets of her long red hair as she spoke to the soldier.
"Thomas. I suppose that's a bit of a dull anti-climax after your pretty name."
Again she laughed. Simpering.
"You're sweet. And funny," she gaily replied, lightly and playfully touching Thomas on the chest with the long pink feather which the girl had retrieved from her hair.
"It must be the drink talking, because I'm not normally like this." Thomas tried to maintain his dry and sarcastic delivery, wanting to play it cool whilst also wanting to impress and make the girl laugh. But he couldn't help but smile attractively. Bella bit her lip but then giggled again at the funny, charming, decent German. She ended by leaning into the soldier, putting her arm around his waist and cocking her leg, the virile contours of her figure slotting up to his perfectly. He felt the arousing sensation of her soft breast press upon his chest, with but a slip of silk and his uniform between them. The married Corporal would temporarily permit the girl's forwardness. It would have been rude to have abruptly unhooked the girl from around his waist. She wasn't doing any harm. And Thomas still told himself that he felt he was in control of the situation.
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