March 31th, 1945, near Brest-Litovsk, German occupied Belorusia
The whirring never stopped.
Clicketty clack.
Sophia Skorzeny never thought that metal can make a wet sound. She was wrong.
Clicketty clack.
Kampfgruppe Peiper had been struggling through the slough for a week now, endless steppes swimming by the Kampfwagen, en route home.
Home?
Home was Budapest, Vati and the grand Edelsheim Palace, Lily's home on Dohány Street across the synagogue, the taste of flódni in her mouth after Sabbath school, the warmth of the sun on her skin reflected by the tall stained glass windows...
But home was also Berlin, the cozy little apartment on Lenné Strasse, a purring Macskacicó and Otto, her husband. She was not the first woman to leave her home, and her country to get married - and certainly not the last one.
Sighing loudly, she eyed the little boy wrapped to her chest and then to the blond head resting on her shoulder; she was trapped once again. This wasn't the first time Obersturmbannführer Peiper fell asleep leaning on her and probably not the last. There wasn't much space to sleep for them comfortably anyways.
A faint cramp travelled down from her sides to the lower stomach, dull and aching; a gentle reminder of womanhood. Her blood was ten days late... could it be? Can she dare to hope?
A sudden bump stirs the officer awake, locking grey eyes with her green ones before tilting his head away for her shoulder.
'Entschuldigung, Frau Skorzeny.' She swears she can she a faint blush on his cheeks, but it can be a trick of the limited light.
'Ja, macht nichts. I'm the intruder in your space after all.'
'Intruding? You are not intruding at all. I'm glad you are here with me - I, I, I mean - I am glad you are not outside, alone. In danger.'
Stammering, the blush on the young officer's cheeks deepen into a shade of crimson. He must be solely the most nervous high ranking officer she ever met.
They arrive in Brest-Litovsk before sundown; this ancient slavic town was the first to get invaded during German and Soviet occupation of Poland, then handed over to Stalin as part of the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact, sealing the fate of this old Yiddish town. Lili had connections here, she recalled; the Jewish community of Brisk was used to take up roughly half of the town's population - this wasn't the case now. It's not likely that this uptight german Panzer commander will even let her take a look at the ghetto, let alone enter it.
Obersturmmbanführer Peiper occupied the grandest home in the city, inside the Fortress and insisted Sophia and the boy stay with him. The home of a wealthy merchant, who took it was a honour to house such a high ranking German officer in his home - up until Peiper ordered her to tell the family they need to find another place to sleep for the night.
Baby Boris was more and more fussy and his cerulean eyes seemed to become increasingly red around the lids, sometimes even matted together. The field medic shrugged his shoulders when Sophie asked about it and said war is not a playground for children.
As if any child chose to be born in a warzone.
'Herr Peiper, I wish to see a doctor, I am worried about Bo... the baby's eyes.' And I need to come up with a german name for him soon. Otto was right - he did not needed to say it outright how his Polish name was a liability - still when he was one - if not - the most successful commander in the Third Reich.
'Most likely just pink eye. My daughter had it too.'
'Maybe. But I don't want him to suffer complications later with his sight.' Stroking up her fingers through the dark hair on the small head, Boris cooed in his sleep. 'You have a daughter?'
'I have two daughters.'
'That's... wonderful. But I want a medical professional's opinion too.'
The Obersturmbannführer's grey eyes are fixating on her for a minute before nodding.
'Fine. I'll send out a patrol for a doctor. But most likely they'll return with a Jew, you know that, right?'
Oh no. Panic clenches her throat and she struggles to keep her voice rising two octaves higher.
'You're right - it's most likely just pinkeye. We're almost in Warsaw anyway; I can take a train to Berlin from there and see a doctor.'
'That's not possible. I received command to relocate to Czechia instead of going home to Berlin. You can travel freely from Prague to Berlin - I cannot say the same about Warsaw. I cannot let you travel alone, I'm sure you understand - I vouched for your safety.'
'Well, I...'
'Pardon me, Frau Skorzeny, but when I said no, I did not meant convince me. This in not up to discussion - even if I appreciate your negotiation skills - please refrain from using it against me.'
'It's good to finally eat something that did not came from a can, isn't it?'
The thick soup - borscht - was warm and savory on her lips, and the white dough baked crispy brown was heaven after weeks of dready black bread.
Sophia wondered if she marched up to her designated room where Baby Fölkersam was sleeping and refused to eat supper with her captor, that would have made a difference.
Most likely not.
It was hard to ignore the truth in Peiper's words - he was not her husband and he does not have to put up with her banter or change his route in a whim. It would be foolish of me to demand such thing.
'Yes, it is.' Joachim Peiper was quite handsome when he was smiling, and appeared to be at least a decade younger. For how long must he wear a uniform? Since he was eighteen? Twenty?
'Your Russian is quite good, Frau Skorzeny. My compliments.'
'Thank you. But please call me Sophia, I think we're past formalities now.'
'With pleasure. Well, then Sophia; I wonder if I can ask a favour from you.' Puttin his spoon down and reaching into his breast pocket, he straightens a worn piece of paper on the table. 'My brother died in Danzig and left me this: I cannot read Russian, but I can recognize his handwriting. He hid this from his comrades so I suspect there is more to his death than what his commander told me.'
'Why would you trust me with something like this?' Taking a sip from the glass of water on the table, she furrows her brows in speculation.
'Well first, because you're a woman. You word against mine - if God forbid things go sour between us - will stand for nothing. Second, because you already proved you have enough wits to rescue a bastard child from the Red Horde; I do appreciate honour in the fairer sex too.'
Steel grey eyes clash with cat-green ones as they both size up each other over the steaming soup; this is the most straight-forward conversation they had ever since they met.
'Alright, let me see it then.'
The weathered piece of letter is written in Cyrillic cursive, almost in a native level's proficiency.
'Where did your brother learned Russian, Herr Peiper?'
'Jochen. My name is Jochen. In Junkerschule Bad Tölz, graduated three years my senior, part of his training required him to master the language.'
Well, he did for sure.
'He is writing this for someone named Bubi.'
'That's me, go on.' Lighting up a cigarette, the officer puffs smoke above his head before offering her the pack. 'It was my nickname by my brothers; both my elders. They're all dead now.'
How strange; Otto was the youngest of his brothers as well. I bet they have more than common than what meets the eyes.
Shaking her head no to the cigarettes, she turns back to the writing.
'Someone named Teddy is closing up on him. He uses a word that can only be described as 'blackmail' or 'pressured'. Penal code 213. I have no idea what that is - but he was accused of it and to wash his name - your name - he must do the only honourable thing to do.'
'I know what it is. It's the penal code of unnatural sexual behaviour in the SS; it's code of the pink triangle. Teddy is Theodor Eicke.' He stands up abruptly, circling the room like a caged animal. 'His own commander blackmailed my brother to commit suicide to put pressure on me.'
The silence is heavy in the room, only the clock on the wall beats away the minutes.
'That is... horrible. That man needs to face charges for his actions!' Sophia speaks up at last.
'Even military judges cannot bring a dead man to court.'
'But your brother...'
'Got a hero's burial. He saved our honour after all.' Sighing, he buries his face in his hands for a good minute. 'Thank you for your help, Fra Sk... Sophia. I'll take it from here.'
He snatches the paper from her frozen fingers and leaves the room without any more words.
Notes
flódni, sweet cake of askhenazi jewish origin
macht nichts: it does not matter; in german
We'll accompany Sophia for a little while Otto is sulking in Siberiahunting Stalin, m'kay?