by Ib Melchior
Erik stared at her.
She was beautiful. Her blond hair was piled loosely on top of her head, the smooth skin on her neck was still wet where she had been washing herself. She looked wholly beautiful—and vulnerable. Her huge, apprehensive eyes never left him.
“Anneliese,” he said again. His voice was gentle.
The small tip of a nervous tongue darted between her lips.
“The sergeant,” she said, her voice unsteady with misgivings. “He said—he said you will both be gone tonight. He said I could stay here again. Until tomorrow. I am sorry. Bitte, I . . .”
Erik smiled at her.
“Take it easy. It’s okay,” he assured her. “We are going to be gone. In a short while. You can stay if you like.”
The girl relaxed a little. A soft smile crept into her eyes and tugged at her lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She looked down at herself. She was obviously conscious of having only the towel in front of her. Holding it in place with one hand, she reached back for her blouse.
“Please?” She looked at Erik.
He smiled. He turned to leave, when suddenly the towel slipped a little from the girl’s shoulder. An angry bruise marred the velvet-golden skin. Erik frowned at it.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
Anneliese stopped her move. She tensed.
“It’s—it’s only a bruise.”
“Looks like quite a wallop to me.” He looked closer at the abrasion. “The skin’s broken. You’d better be careful of infection.”
The girl looked up at him.
“I will be all right.”
“Wait a minute. We’ll fix it.”
Erik opened a pouch on his belt and took out a small first aid kit.
“How’d it happen?”
“I—I fell.”
He removed the packet of sulfa powder from the kit.
“You should watch your step. You—”
He suddenly stopped. Quickly he looked up at the girl before him. He found her eyes.
“It was this evening,” he said quietly. “Out there. Wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
He broke open the packet. Gently he began to sprinkle the powder on the bruise on Anneliese’s shoulder. She stood quite still, as if afraid to move, watching him.
“Sulfa powder,” he explained. “That’ll take care of it.”
He was suddenly conscious of the blood pounding in his ears. He felt the gradual swelling of desire, of tenderness, of need course through him.
Anneliese.
Somehow the fine yellow powder softly dusting her golden-brown skin was immensely intimate. He let the rising flood of irresistible excitement wash over him.
He looked into her face. Her lovely, serious, questioning face . . .
And she was in his arms. A sudden, savage embrace. Defiant. A crushing, hungry kiss . . .
The towel slipped away. Erik’s urgent hands searched for and found the girl’s thrusting breasts. He cupped them, he caressed them with aching longing. He coupled his mouth to one swelling nipple and drew as much of the soft, warm firmness to him as he could. His tongue played on the distending nipple. He bit down, with just enough force to make the girl moan with pleasure.
He picked her up. He carried her to the big, ugly brass bed. He had no idea how his clothing was removed.
He stared at her young, naked body. He knew he had never seen anything more perfect, more desirable, in his whole life. Nor would he ever again . . .
His eyes went down to the entrancing cusp of fine blond hair at the apex of her slender legs.
He buried his face in the downy fragrance of woman passion. . . .
He felt both completely serene and violently excited.
He moved to her. Close. Close. Never close enough . . .
Every sense he possessed was filled with her. The scent of her excitement and desire, enveloping them both in an aura of fiery sexuality, filled his nostrils; the tiny mewing moans escaping her excited him to bursting; the salty-sweet taste of her firm young breasts thrilled him; every inch of his aroused body seemed aflame with the touch of her silken-warm skin; his eyes drank in the unbearable beauty of her lovely face, moist, parted lips, eyes closed in rapture, head thrown back in eager anticipation of fulfillment, spilling blond hair in abandoned disarray. . . . Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful . . .
He could not get enough of her. He sought out every curve and every hidden crevice of her urgently responding body. He intoxicated himself with the smell and feel of her.
He throbbed with pleasure as her gentle hands explored him in an unending flow of discovery and caress.
Anneliese. Anneliese . . .
He moved to enter her.
She strained to receive him, a deep sob wrenched from her throat. She clung to him fiercely.
And he thrust himself into her. Again. And again. Every cell in his body, as if with a life of its own, swelled with the agony of passion. He was torn between savagery and tenderness, between the irresistible urge to ravage, to violate, to crush and the overwhelming need to caress and love. He felt himself soar until there were no further heights to reach. Then soar still higher . . .
He moved frantically, matched by the writhing of the sobbing girl.
There was no time. No world. No other life. Only they existed. Wholly, Absolutely . . .
And he felt himself burst, flooding into her seething being. He felt himself drained of every fluid in his body in one gigantic, everlasting moment. And he felt himself in that same instant replenished with a tide of utter fulfillment.
Anneliese . . .
From somewhere, millennia in the past, for one fraction of a second a hideous memory had stabbed its icy lance at his mind; but it had been instantly consumed in the blaze of ecstasy.
He was now not even aware that it had happened. His commitment was total. To the now . . .
They lay side by side bathed in the glow of afterlove. Anneliese moved against him luxuriously.
“Erik,” she whispered. “It was never this good for me before.”
He tightened his arm around her.
God, he thought. If she knew how good it was for me . . .
It had meant more to him than just physical pleasure, more than mere sexual relief. Much more. Far back in his mind he knew why. He knew that at last he’d conquered the nightmare that had haunted him for so long. He knew, but he didn’t let his conscious mind dwell on it. He didn’t have to. Not anymore . . .
He felt a surge of infinite tenderness toward the girl. It was because of her. He’d never forget her. Never.
The girl stirred beside him.
“Erik,” she said. “Have you—have you known any other German girls? Like this?”
His mind flashed back. It was in Berlin. He’d been there for the 1936 Olympics. He’d seen her in a shop on Kurfürstendamm and instantly fallen for her. He’d followed her from shop to shop before finally getting up enough courage to talk to her. He’d never done anything like it before. Nor since. He’d spoken to her in French at first. Somehow he’d felt it would give him a cosmopolitan air. And he wanted desperately to impress her. He’d carried her parcels and insisted on getting a number where he could call her. He’d been elated when she’d given it to him, never imagining that it could be a phony. But it had been real. He’d invited her to the Tiergarten Café and had been so nervous he’d upset a full cup of chocolate all over her white dress. But they’d had an affair. A beautiful one he’d always remember. It was his first. He was eighteen. . . .
He sighed.
“No,” he said.
“I’m glad,” she whispered.
He stroked her naked body. She snuggled closer to him. He felt himself respond to her. He sat up. It wouldn’t do. Not now. Don would come looking for him any moment. He jumped out of the big brass monster. It was really a beautiful bed!
“Come on, girl,” he said briskly. “Out of my bed! You’ve been dillydallying long en
ough.” He started to pull on his pants.
Anneliese laughed.
“No,” she said, nestling down under the blanket. “I belong here. It is my bed, this big ugly thing. For tonight.”
“All right,” he said resolutely. He picked up her skirt, hanging over a chair. “I’ll just take this along, then. To be sure you’re here when I get back.”
“No!”
Anneliese sat up in bed. “Give it to me, Erik. Bitte.”
Erik shook his head in mock exasperation. “Just like a woman,” he commented. “Always changing her mind . . . Okay—here!”
He threw the skirt to her. It hit one of the brass bedposts. There was a quick, muffled thonk, and a small hard object flew from a little beltline pocket and fell to the floor. It rolled a short distance and lay still.
Anneliese sat frozen on the bed. Tense. Taut. The color draining from her face, her eyes intent upon Erik.
He bent to pick up the little object. He stiffened. He held it in his hand. He stared at it. He suddenly felt as if every ounce of strength in his body was being drawn from him. He felt totally, shockingly empty. His voice was harsh when he spoke to her.
“Where did you get this?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t move. She didn’t take her wide, terrified eyes from him. She sat motionless, clutching her skirt to her as if suddenly ashamed of her nakedness.
“Answer me!”
It was a shout of anger, rage. Of anguish. Of betrayal . . . The girl sat stock still. Ashen-faced, she stared at him. His eyes were bleak as he watched her. His voice was tense, quiet—ominously quiet—as he said:
“That is an SS Deathhead ring! Now tell me, dammit! Where did you get it?"
Anneliese made no answer. She looked terrified. She shrank away from him, imperceptibly shaking her head.
Erik forced himself to look closer at the obscene ring. On the inside he discovered an inscription. Aloud he read:
“Standartenführer Kurt Leubuscher.”
He looked up at the girl cowering before him, his eyes still bleak.
“Who is this SS colonel with your name, Anneliese? Your husband?”
His voice was bitter, cold. Anneliese whispered through bloodless lips:
“No! Please, Erik . . . No!”
He suddenly went to her. He seized her arm. It was cold. He shook her.
“Answer me! Who?"
She cried out:
“My father!”
He let go of her. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed in despair. Erik watched her. He stood quietly for a moment. Some of the anger and hurt slowly left his face. He realized that his fury was a personal thing. He felt himself the victim of a monstrous deception. He gagged with self-disgust. But he also understood the terror this girl must feel. He was reacting too strongly. He knew it. But goddammit, how else could he be expected to act, after . . . Dammit all to hell!
He looked darkly at the girl, torn between his feelings for her and the inescapable duty he knew was his.
“All right, Anneliese,” he said quietly. “Take it easy. Tell me about it.”
She glanced up at him. She looked immensely appealing with her huge, tear-bright eyes. He steeled himself.
“He is a good man, my father.” The girl’s voice was unsteady, but there was unexpected strength behind it. “He does not deserve to—to—” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
“Where is he, Anneliese?” Erik asked. “Where is he now?”
She looked up at him quickly. She made no answer.
“Come on, Anneliese. You know you’ll have to tell me. Sooner or later.”
The girl looked straight at him. There was a mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes. Suddenly the words came tumbling out.
“I know you will try to make me tell you! I know you will torture me and try to force me to betray my father. But I tell you now—I will not do this!” Her eyes blazed at him. “No matter what you do to me, I will not talk!”
Erik stared at her, thunderstruck.
“Torture you?” he exclaimed with incredulity.
“They told us what you would do to any SS officer you caught. And to his family. To me. They—they showed us pictures.” Her eyes filled with dread at the remembered ordeal. She flared at Erik. “You will not do that to him! I will not let you!”
Erik was shaken. The vehemence of the girl’s warped conceptions was obviously genuine. But he didn’t miss the implication of her words. That’s it, he thought. He’s here!
He forced himself to take up his familiar role.
“Your father’s here. In Weiden. Isn’t he, Anneliese?” he asked. His voice was hard, implacable.
The girl started. She looked at him in wide-eyed fear. He returned her gaze. He could taste the bitter realization rising in his craw.
“Of course,” he said, his voice icy. “That’s why you couldn’t seem to find a way to get to Regensburg. You were waiting until you could arrange to get him out, too.”
He looked straight at her.
“That’s why you’ve been making up to me.”
He found it difficult to control his anger, his revulsion.
“And that’s why you stuck your teat in my face! That’s why you were so damned eager to get me into bed with you tonight!”
Anneliese lowered her head.
“No, Erik,” she whispered. “No. Not tonight. . .”
“Not tonight!” he repeated. A world was shattered. His sense of loss was overwhelming. War! he thought with bitter acrimony. This, too, had been nothing but war. Wits against wits. Sex against sex. And, by God, sex is a powerful weapon!
Anneliese was crying softly. He looked at her for a moment but made no motion to go to her. He reached for his shirt and started to shrug into it.
“Okay. Out with it!” he said. His voice was flat, impersonal. “Where is he?”
Anneliese remained silent. Erik turned to her in sudden fury.
“What the hell have they told you?”
She took a deep breath. She did not look up.
“That—that you would kill my father if you caught him. Because he is SS,” she said in a barely audible voice. “Or put him in a concentration camp, where he would die—slowly. That you would do anything to make me tell you where he is.”
Erik stared at her.
“Shit!” he said with savage disgust. “Pure Gestapo shit!”
She winced. He frowned at her. God, he thought. They haven’t missed a trick, the bastards. They’ve filled her full of horror stories to keep her in line. What the hell chance did she ever have? He felt a sudden surge of pity for her.
“No one’s going to hurt you, Anneliese,” he said quietly.
She glanced up at him.
‘Then you will let me go?” She did not believe it herself.
He turned away.
“No,” he said. His face was grim. “I can’t do that. Not now . . .”
Anneliese seemed to sag, to collapse a little within herself. Her face was suddenly gray and drawn, empty of emotion. It was as she had thought.
“I will not talk,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with hopeless desperation. “Whatever you do to me, I will not talk.”
“Stop it!”
He was tired. Dead tired.
“I told you nobody’s going to touch you.”
Anneliese looked up at him slowly, until her eyes met his.
“And my father?” she asked. “What will you do to him?”
“I’ll have to arrest him, Anneliese. He’ll be interned. For a little while . . .”
She said nothing. Her silence was eloquence enough. Clutching her skirt before her, she stood up.
“I’d like to get dressed now, please.”
He stood aside. He didn’t know what else to do.
Anneliese walked to the alcove and disappeared behind the screen. Erik sat down on the big brass bed. He looked at it. Only a little while ago . . . he thought. He had a feeling of impotence, of complete inability to co
ntrol the course of events. He hated it. He hated himself; his job; the whole damned war. . . .
But he had to try.
“Anneliese,” he said. “Try to understand. I know it sounds—banal, but it is for your own, and your father’s, good. Don’t you see? If I bring him in now, if he surrenders to me, it’ll be easier on both of you. I promise I’ll stand by you.”
He looked toward the screen. There was no sound from the little alcove. He frowned.
“I can’t let him go, Anneliese. It’s my job, dammit! Being an SS colonel, your father has to be taken in. He has to be cleared. . . .”
He paused. He listened. Anneliese made no sound.
“I promise you, if he’s okay they’ll let him go. No one will mistreat him. But he has to get papers. You know that. And so do you. And that’s the only way to get them.”
He stood up. He took a step toward the alcove. He stopped.
“Look,” he said. “If I let you go now, if I don’t arrest your father, someone else will. And without knowing the whole story. Don’t you see? He can’t keep running forever. Try to understand, Anneliese. Try to help. Everything’ll be okay. . . .”
He stopped. He listened.
There was only silence—brutally shattered by a sudden jarring crash!
Blue-patterned chips from the washbowl sprayed out from under the seedy screen.
In two strides Erik was at the alcove. He slammed the screen aside. . . .
On the floor, sprawled among the jagged fragments of porcelain from the shattered bowl, was Anneliese. Still, white—and motionless.
Around her throat, tightly embedded in her skin, the drawstring from her blouse was knotted firmly, choking the life from her. . . .
At once Erik grabbed for the knot. Frantically he tried to undo it. Too tight. Too close. He couldn’t get a grip on it. Desperately he tried to force his fingers under the string to tear it apart. It was not possible.
Feverishly he looked around, eyes haunted and wild. On the wash-stand he spied a razor, and he ripped the blade from it. He hacked at the cord biting into the girl’s skin, forcing himself to ignore the blood oozing from the cuts he had to inflict upon her.
The drawstring snapped. . . .