Peter rolled over in his sleep, trying to block out the loud bangs and crashes that were worming their way into his dreams. He wanted to sleep in peace, the images of bright days in the sun with light spring showers and daisies blowing in the wind uninterrupted by gunfire.
Gunfire?
He sat up groggily, his head spinning the moment he opened his eyes. He felt weaker everyday.
But gunfire...why was there gunfire?
The camp had been relatively quiet since they took most of the healthy prisoners away on a march days ago. The remaining inmates had been too weak to try anything and so for the majority of the time the guards had not fired at them. There was still the occasional case of cold blooded murder when they got bored but it had been quiet.
Nothing like this.
This was insistent...and close. Very close. He could hear shouts and screams mixed in with the shots which seemed to be coming from all different directions. That didn't sound like a bunch of guards picking on a sole inmate.
That sounded like a battle.
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Eli didn't know how long he'd been on the train but he knew it must have been days. It felt like they'd been stopped for a while as well as there'd been no loud clanking keeping him awake for the last few hours at least. The train had hissed to a stop and then there was a row outside and then nothing. It was pitch black inside the carriage and no one made any noise. He could feel things around him but he didn't even want to think about what he was touching. He'd tried to stand and move at one point but he was dehydrated and dizzy and had had to sit down immediately, and the feeling of stepping on what felt awfully like a person hadn't made him feel any less sick.
He wasn't sure who was alive, let alone where people were. He'd lost contact with his mother when they pushed them onto the train at the last minute before it left, and the crowd inside had pulled them apart from each other. The journey over had been too dark and dingy for them to find each other after that.
"Mum?"
His shaky voice broke the silence.
There was no reply.
"Mum?"
—————————
"Jens! Jens, wake up!"
Peter shook his friend firmly, holding onto his shoulder with one hand and supporting himself from the bed frame with the other.
"Wha- Pete..." Jens groaned, opening his eyes and staring up at Peter with a confused and slightly annoyed expression. "Le' me sleep," he mumbled, followed by something Peter couldn't make out except for the word 'die'.
"No, Jens, they're here. They're finally here!"
"Who's here?"
"The Americans, or the Russians, I can't see from here. The war and all that. They've got here! They're going to save us!"
"You sure?" Jens said, finally perking up a little. It was the first time Peter had seen even a glimpse of hope in those glazed green eyes.
"Yes, they've pulled down parts of the fence and they're fighting the remaining guards out in the courtyard." He rushed back to the door to look outside where he could see it all going down. "They're putting up a fight but they're outnumbered. I think this is finally going to end."
—————————
Eli tried to stand again, his legs shaking. He careened to the side, crashing into the side of the carriage, stumbling over and standing on several people in the process. He was beginning to think he was the only one alive.
The air was hot and stuffy with all the bodies packed into one small space, despite the fact it was only April, and it was beginning to smell like death.
No. He couldn't be the last one alive. His mum had to be here somewhere, and he at least had to know. Either the sun was beginning to rise or was just beginning to hit the train, but either way, it was starting to get a bit brighter in the carriage. Eli both thanked and cursed the light because he could now see better and that was both a good thing because it meant he could try find Rachel, and a wretched thing because it meant he could see his surroundings.
The floor was covered in bodies, sickly and emaciated. Clothes hung off mere bones and flesh, faces gaunt and haunted, many pairs of tired eyes staring lifelessly at the wooden slats above. The people varied in age, from old men with wrinkles so deep set in their face he could barely make out their features, to babies wrapped in rags in the arms of their mothers. There was one girl who couldn't have been older than seventeen who was slumped in the corner, her youthful face grubby and bruised and her long hair which looked black as the night in the semi darkness tangled and matted. In her arms was a child lying far too still and too quiet than was normal for any child, a lock of the girl's hair clutched in it's fist.
The SS must have either rounded them up from houses like they'd done with him, or taken from the Ghettos he'd been told about in Poland where many of Berlin's Jews had been sent. Either way, these were his people...and they all lay dead at his feet.
He crouched in front of the girl and closed his eyes, bowing his head and mumbling a short prayer under his breath for all the dead in the carriage with him. He reached out and placed his hand on hers, shocked for a second when he felt the warmth of her skin, her blood flowing and heart beating softly.
"Oh god," he whispered, adjusting his position with new urgency and shaking her softly. "Oh... wake up! Wake up!" He said, his throat so dry he was unable to raise his voice properly. He cupped her head and lifted her chin so it wasn't hung limply against her shoulder, tapping her cheek in an attempt to wake her.
Her eyelids twitched slightly and then she looked at him with big, doe like eyes. Eli breathed a sigh of relief, followed by a short laugh of disbelief. Someone else was alive, there was still hope for his mother.
"Hello," he said, continuing to support the girl's head as she stared at him blankly, a weak smile crossing his lips. "What's your name?"
"Marta," she croaked weakly.
"Nice to meet you, Marta. My name's Eli," he whispered back, sounding much more relaxed than he actually was. He didn't want to scare the girl, and in fact, it was comforting for him as well to just speak kindly to someone for a second and try to forget everything else that was going on around them.
Marta didn't respond, just stared at him some more. She definitely wasn't well and Eli knew that his joy at having found someone else alive was probably short lived. He didn't think she was going to last long.
"My baby..."
"Hmm?" Eli said, focusing on her face as Marta spoke urgently, her voice laced with panic.
"My baby," she said again, clutching the child in her arms closer to her body before holding the bundle of blankets back out to Eli. "Look after her."
"No, no, I can't," Eli said, shaking his head and drawing away. "She's your baby."
"No!" Marta said, clearly distressed. Eli could feel her heart rate rising with his hand on her neck. He didn't want her to panic at all, afraid it would kill her so he yielded and took the baby from her outstretched arms.
"Look after her," Marta nodded, collapsing back against the wall. She took Eli's hand in hers and squeezed as tight as she could before bringing his hand to her cracked lips and kissing his knuckles lightly. Eli was helpless to do nothing as her grip on his hand faded and she went limp again, the life leaving her frail body.
Eli's eyes stung with tears that trickled down his cheeks and dripped onto the blankets in his arms. He looked down at the baby that Marta had thrust into his arms and asked him to protect. It was impossible though, the infant was already dead and seemed like it had been for a while. Eli stifled a sob and carefully placed the baby back into Marta's arms where it belonged
—————————
The main fighting had ended and Peter was trying to drag Jens outside to see what was going on.
"They're looking through the camp, rounding up the guards," Peter called from outside as he watched the action from afar. They hadn't been to their barrack yet and seemed to be starting from the other side.
Jens sat on the edge of his bunk, hunched over and running a hand over his short hair, breathing deeply and trying to gather the strength to follow Peter. He felt awful and feared he'd collapse if he got up too fast. He admired Peter's excitement but knew he couldn't match it in his current state.
"Jens?"
He looked up and saw Peter had come back inside, a frown etched on his face.
"You're bleeding."
He followed Peter's gaze down to his arm where there were still deep cuts from where the restraints had cut deep into his wrists. They'd still bleed every now and again since they had nothing to actually try heal them with.
"Oh," he said flatly, his voice sounding dead and alien in his head.
"Here, I'll fix it," Peter said as he knelt down in front of him and started unbuttoning his shirt, his chin tilted to his chest as he did so.
"Careful no one walks in on us now. They might get the wrong idea," Jens mumbled. Peter looked up and to the door for a second, concerned that there were doing something wrong. He then looked back up at Jens and a smile spread on his face slowly as he realised Jens had actually made a joke. It was both nice to see him acting slightly normal again but also sent a pang of pain in his gut as it made him realise how much the camp had changed Jens, from the young man who was constantly flirting and laughing to a broken man for whom a smile seemed infeasible.
"Shut up," he chuckled as he took his shirt off and ripped a long strip off, having a bit of struggle along the hemlines. He sat up a bit higher and took Jens' wrist gently, wrapping the strip of fabric around the bleeding wound carefully but tightly to try stop the bleeding. "Soon you'll be able to get some proper care," he said. "When they've got all the guards they'll help us. They'll take care of you. And then we can both go home. Start a new life."
Peter looked down at the ripped shirt in his hands, fiddling with the patch of fabric with the number sewn onto the pocket, the upside down triangle just above it.
"This is all ending," he whispered to himself as he ripped off the pocket with both symbols on it, scrunching it up in his fist and letting it fall to the floor.
Despite the fact the main fight between the guards and the soldiers had ended, the camp was still in chaos. Inmates were scattered around the yard, looking lost and confused as soldiers speaking English tried to guide them aside. Peter watched as a group of soldiers led a struggling officer to the other side of the courtyard where they were rounding them up. He felt like he recognised the man's face.
Fleck, the officer who'd got him out of the Strafkompanie that time and who'd got Jens admitted to hospital when he'd been stabbed by Friedrich. Peter watched as he was marched away. Fleck was a high ranking officer and Peter didn't doubt that he'd be harshly punished by the Americans.
They were angry- the Americans. Every single one Peter saw looked furious or disgusted as they looked around, watching the inmates move weakly about the courtyard. After being there for so long, Peter had forgotten quite how shocking the conditions were. Some of the Americans tried to talk to him but none of them spoke German. They kept shouting words in English in his face, seeming to think if they said it louder he'd suddenly understand them. Eventually though they seemed to get the message and give up.
Peter didn't know what to do. Jens had insisted on staying in the barrack until things calmed down a bit so Peter was alone and he had no one to talk to. He was free for the first time in years and yet he had no idea what to do with his newfound freedom other than just watch his life for the past 6 years crumble around him.
He'd just begun to walk away when he heard a loud burst of gunfire behind him. He turned around just in time to see a group of American soldiers opening fire on one group of the Nazi officers they'd rounded up. He watched as the bullets ripped through their bodies and they fell to the ground in a heap.
He stared as blood seeped out into the dirt, staining the soil a deep crimson. He was happy those monsters were dead but it scared him all the same. Perhaps the Americans were not the saviours they thought they were but were just another violent group there to take charge.
He backed away, his eyes fixed on the bodies, his throat tight and making it hard to breathe. It wasn't over yet.
Just then, someone ran past him, almost knocking him over as they brushed his shoulder. He flinched as he got a face full of rich brown hair, whipping in the wind. He spluttered and stumbled to the side. No one else in the camp had hair that long and beautiful anymore.
"Daria?"
She turned briefly to look at him but didn't stop moving away from him. Her eyes were glistening with tears and she held a shovel in her hand. Before Peter could say anything else, she was gone, running into the crowd of soldiers and prisoners.
Without a second thought, Peter pushed through to the spot he'd just seen her in, ducking under arms and muttering apologies when he stepped on people's feet. He saw her again, several metres ahead of him, the sun overhead catching the gold in her hair.
"Daria! Wait for me, I want to talk to you!"
She didn't slow or even acknowledge him, only moving faster.
Then in the blink of an eye, she was gone.
Peter cursed, standing on his tiptoes to see over the crowd, being pushed and shoved by people as they fought to get to the front to see the guards being killed by the soldiers. Everyone was curious, a sick fascination urging them forward.
"Daria!" The name ripped from his throat, coming out as a rough croak. He stumbled to the side, raising his hand in a quiet apology when he bumped into someone.
His throat was so dry that it felt like sandpaper and the world was spinning like a top. He'd been so desperate to see everything that he'd pushed himself too far. Jens had had the right idea, staying away from the chaos outside. He felt on the verge of collapse but he managed to drag his feet across the ground towards his barrack, half expecting himself to keel over and die half way there.
—————————
Jens waited back at the barracks for Peter to return once he'd figured out what was going on. He sat very still, watching a rat scurry across the floor and into a gap in the wood on the opposite side of the room.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He kept seeing things, just little flashes of shadowy figures in his peripheral. He'd been seeing them for a while but kept pinning it on exhaustion, hoping it would fix itself after a good nights sleep. But whatever he did, the monsters lurking in the corners wouldn't go away.
He heard the door open and looked up, expecting Peter to be standing there.
"That was quick, what-"
He stared at the figure in the door way, blinking several times and rubbing his eyes again to try get rid of the hallucination.
But it all seemed very real as he walked towards him and knelt in front of him.
No.
No.
Not him.
Not now.
"Hello, darling," Friedrich smirked. His icy blue eyes were fixed on Jens like a predator stalking its prey. "Good to see you again."
—————————
Eli was jolted awake from the light sleep he couldn't remember falling into when the carriage he was in wobbled slightly. He opened his eyes and looked around, unable to see anything until his eyes adjusted to the semi darkness. Were they moving again? No. It had just been a small shake followed by no other sound of movement.
How long was it going to be before before somebody found him? He didn't think he could last much longer without food or water. No more than another day or so at best. Maybe if it rained he could find some way to get water if it dripped through the slats of the train? Maybe it was just hopeless.
He braced himself against the side of the carriage and slowly forced himself to get to his feet. Whatever his situation was, he had to try to figure something out. He couldn't just sit there anymore and wait for someone else to figure it out for him. He was alone and he had to keep himself alive which involved getting up and trying to find a way out.
The wooden slats of the walls scraped his hands as he felt his way along, too focused on the bodies at his feet to check ahead of himself for the door to the carriage. So he relied on his hands to feel any dip or change in the direction of the wood to indicate a door, ignoring the splinters stabbing into his palms. It hurt, especially since dragging his hands across the disintegrating wood only pushed the chips in further. But he didn't care anymore. He had to get out or die trying.
He stumbled, his foot getting caught in the crook of someone's elbow and sending him tumbling to the floor despite his efforts to grab onto any part of the wall that jutted out an inch. He put his hands out as he fell to halt his fall which sent shockwaves up his forearms from the force of it and made his hands sting. He groaned and clenched his eyes shut, breathing through his teeth as he waited for the pain to cease. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and sighed. His wrists ached but he was okay. Okay to keep going.
He was about to push himself up to continue when he looked down, staring into the face of one of the bodies on the floor, his eyes scanning over her tired face.
He stopped. Frozen dead still.
He couldn't speak, couldn't think.
All he could do was stare in sheer horror.
His arms shook until he couldn't hold himself up anymore, collapsing into his mother's shoulder limply.
He had no words and although his entire world was falling to pieces, he had no tears either.
It couldn't be real. It couldn't be. She couldn't be dead. Just the thought of Rachel Ackermann dead was impossible. Even at her worst, at her most exhausted after 12 hour days of washing clothes and cleaning windows and any other job she could find, she'd come home and pick Eli up, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly. In her darkest moments, there may not have been a smile on her face but there was a spark in her dark eyes that had always assured Eli he was going to be okay. They'd get through because they had each other.
She was his rock, the one person he'd been able to depend upon his entire life. She'd been all he had as a kid, and even as an adult she'd took care of him when he needed it, when he had no one else.
He cursed himself. He should have put more effort into finding her on the train. He should have done better. Maybe he could have done something to save her. He forgot how many years had passed since he was that outcast child being raised by the young, single mother, how long it had been since she'd been able to pick him up like that. He forgot he wasn't a child anymore. He forgot his mama had aged too, had seen and been through too much and that the years had taken their toll. She was weaker than he liked to think.
He wasn't a child anymore. And everyone died. Everyone left.
He knew his mama would die at some point. But not yet. Not in this way. He thought he'd have longer. More time. He was supposed to have more time. It wasn't fair. Why did they get so little time? Why him? Why did everyone have to die? She was his stability, the one constant in his life. His dad had left but she'd stayed. His friends had died but she was still there. His lover had disappeared but she was still there clear as day.
She was supposed to still be there. They were supposed to have more time. He'd never be ready but he wanted more time.
The sound he made was not human, the scream that ripped from his throat filled with too much raw pain to comprehend. It was like an animal - the sound of an animal being tortured and ripped apart. Eli's world was crumbling around him, the bare foundations of his life finally snapping. That was it. He'd lost it all. She was all he had. She was all he had left and now they'd taken her too.
His fingers curled into fists, her dark hair held tightly within. He curled against her still form, body shaking as he howled in pain. Nothing else could express his anguish, the all encompassing grief that washed over his body in one huge, final tidal wave. Nothing else described the agony as his mind shattered into a thousand jagged shards, a mirror hit with a sledgehammer. A reflection of a younger him stared back from behind the fragile glass keeping him from insanity, the spiderweb cracks slicing his youthful face into uneven parts. Eli stared back into those deep eyes. He was no longer that boy. He was no longer that scared seventeen year old who worked in his uncles shop, waiting for his lover with the nervous butterflies in his stomach making him feel physically sick. He was no longer that innocent child who hadn't witnessed the true atrocities of war and genocide, the depravity of man. He was no longer that boy. Before the mirror fell away completely, he watched and felt the cracks widen and deepen. He was still just as broken.
Sunlight streamed in and he felt the warmth on the back of his neck but paid no attention to it. What did it matter if he was in the sun or the shade anymore? Then there were muffled voices and hands on his arms. He flinched and tensed up, gripping onto Rachel's body tighter as they tried to pull him away.
"No! No, stop!" He screamed but the hands paid no attention. His grip was too weak to resist for long and they quickly managed to drag him away, pulling him out of the train carriage and catching him just before he hit the ground. The sun was too bright for his tired eyes, the light making his vision fuzzy and blurred. He could feel hands on his shoulders, holding him up but his knees still buckled and he almost fell again. There were several men, all speaking a language too hazy for him to make out. They were speaking loudly and brashly, their accent harsh and hard to make out, but he recognised the occasional word, the sound of the dialect.
English. They were speaking English.
He breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed, not even trying to hold himself up anymore because he knew it would be useless. His limbs were too heavy and his balance too jumbled to have a chance of staying upright.
"Oh, thank god," he whispered quietly in the soldiers' language before his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out on the muddy ground next to the tracks.
—————————
Jens woke up on the floor, his head pounding. He lay there still for a second, trying to remember what had happened. When it hit him, he jolted up and looked around, his eyes wide with fear. He remembered.
Peter had left him alone, and not soon after he'd gone, he'd had a visitor. Friedrich had arrived at his door, asking him to run away with him. He'd told him the Americans would kill them both, that their only option was to run away. The Americans would only see them as a tool to the Nazis, their little spies placed in the barracks to rat out the rebels. When he'd insisted on staying and waiting for Peter, Friedrich had turned on him, deciding Jens was too weak to go with him anyway and that he'd only slow him down. Friedrich had tackled him to the floor and slammed his head against the boards until he was unconscious and no danger of pursuing and drawing attention to his escape plan.
Jens stumbled to his feet and looked around the room, expecting Friedrich to be long gone. But he was still there, sitting on the bed with his eyes trained on Jens. He wasn't the only person there. There was a girl. A pretty girl with fine features and long, pin straight hair down to her waist - a rare sight indeed. She was glaring at Friedrich with a shovel gripped tightly in her small hands, the sharp tip aimed menacingly at his head.
"Jens," she said without looking at him. Similarly to how Friedrich refused to take his eyes off of Jens, she refused to draw her gaze from him. "I'm Daria. I don't know if you remember me."
Jens stared at her for a while before realising she was talking to him and nodding. That was a mistake. His head was spinning like a top. "You and Fleck."
"Yes. He's dead. The Americans killed him," she said bluntly, tightening her grip on the shovel.
"Oh. I'm...sorry?" Jens said haltingly.
"Don't be. He was a prick. He ruined my life just like this asshole did for you. I came to check he wasn't here since I knew he should have been executed with the others."
"Executed?" Jens mumbled, leaning back against the wall.
"Yes. They're killing a lot of the guards. They're angry. They've seen the conditions here and they're upset."
"Wait..." Jens trailed off, closing his eyes and sighing in exhaustion. "Who's angry?"
"The Americans. And the prisoners. I've seen several of them taking their anger out too. I figured you deserved that too."
"What?"
"I kept him here for you," Daria said. Jens looked at Friedrich and noticed the bleeding wound on the side of his head. "He tried to escape but I stopped him until you woke up."
"Wha...what do you mean?"
She just held the shovel out to him in response, refusing to take her eyes off the man sitting sheepishly on the bed in front of her. He clearly wasn't happy about being bested by a girl.
Jens just stared at the bloody tool in shocked silence.
"Don't be dense, just take it," Daria said coldly. "I'll wait outside. I'll make sure no soldiers come in." She thrust the shovel into Jens' hands and walked towards the door. She stopped just before leaving and turned to face him. Her tone was kinder but the anger was still clear as day on her face. "You don't have to do it. I just know it's what I would've wanted to do for the past eleven years."
He was alone. Well, not alone. Friedrich was still sitting on the bed in front of him, silent as a mouse. Jens took a deep breath and switched the shovel to his other hand, testing the weight of it. He was exhausted and sick but Daria had shifted something inside of him. She made it seem so obvious, so simple. She was angry, and so she should be. Why wasn't he more angry? He had every right to be angry.
The man sitting disgraced in front of him had ruined him, manipulated and groomed him for a decade into his perfect little pet, his plaything, his whore. He tortured him daily for years. He beat him and raped him and tried to murder him. He was a bad person. He was evil. He was pure, unfiltered evil.
And yet he couldn't do it.
Friedrich was the devil in human form but he'd fallen for him. Fallen into that deep dark hole several years ago. And it was a hard hole to climb out of. Friedrich's grip on him was tight, his words forever carved into Jens' mind, an eternal reminder that he was nothing on his own.
Friedrich had told him so many things and the worst part was that they were true. So much of it was true. Without Friedrich, he'd be dead. He'd be dead for sure. So would Peter. Friedrich called him a child, inexperienced in relationships and life. What did he know about love? He'd had one real relationship with Roland which Friedrich had convinced him was an unrealistic expectation. Normal relationships weren't like that. Nothing that good could last. Jens was too young to understand. He didn't know anything. He'd been a prisoner since his early twenties and he hadn't grown up. He was a child, a reckless teenager. He was dumb and stupid and expected too much of love. His love for Roland had been superficial and fake- it wouldn't last like the love he received from Friedrich. Everything he did came from love, every choice he made was in Jens' best interests. He could trust him. Trust him to take care of him in that horrible place. Friedrich loved him. Friedrich was just trying to protect him. And Jens loved him back.
"Jens."
Friedrich whispered his name in his rough and scratchy voice, reaching out and touching Jens' hand softly, probably in an attempt to calm him down.
Jens tensed up at his touch and pulled away, his grip on the shovel tightening. He loved Friedrich but he was terrified of him.
"Don't. Don't you dare."
"Jens...my love, don't do this. I don't deserve this, do I? I was protecting you."
Jens didn't speak but he didn't drop his guard either. He doubted he'd do it but he wasn't about to surrender his defence.
Friedrich's hand bridged the gap again, this time touching his hip and sliding up to his waist under his shirt.
Jens snapped the moment his large hand made contact with his bare skin, his calloused fingers spreading across his stomach, his thumb running over the bottom on Jens' protruding rib cage.
He pulled the shovel back and hit Friedrich hard with the back of it, sending him sprawling onto the floor and far away from him
"I said don't touch me."
Friedrich groaned and propped himself up on his elbows. He turned to look back at Jens as he started getting up. "Look who finally grew some balls," he spat.
Jens hit him again but not as hard this time. Friedrich cried out and turned over, pressing his forehead into the floor to try muffle his sounds of pain. His head was bleeding badly now, trickling down his forehead and into his eyes.
Jens was breathing heavily, his heart beating so hard he felt like it would burst out of his chest. He couldn't believe he'd actually done that.
He hooked his foot under Friedrich's shoulder and turned him around forcefully, pressing down onto his chest to keep him down.
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Everything!" Jens exclaimed. "Why did you do it?"
"I was protecting you. I love you."
Jens closed his eyes and tilted his head back to the sky. No. It wasn't true. He couldn't believe his lies anymore. He was evil. He was evil he was evil he was evil. He remembered how he felt every time Friedrich hurt him, the feeling of walking back to his bunk and feeling the judging eyes of the other inmates. That was Friedrich. He made sure they knew. He wanted them to hate Jens. He remembered the concern in Peter's eyes when he came back to bed with bruises and a haunted look in his eyes. He'd been so scared of his friend getting involved and getting hurt trying to protect him. He remembered the pain of being stabbed and betrayed by the man he thought he loved, and the agony of the torture that brought on at the hospital. If not for Friedrich, none of that would have happened. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He didn't love Friedrich. He hated him. He despised him. He wanted him dead.
"You don't love me. This isn't love, and don't you try tell me it is. I loved Roland. I don't care what you say. He was kind to me, I loved him. I wish I'd died with him instead of meeting you. You made my life a misery and I hate you with everything I have. You kept me alive here but I wish you hadn't because it was only for your own selfish needs. You tried to kill me. I wish I was dead instead of being your toy. I'd rather be dead than belong to you! You don't fucking love me. You love to use me. You're a piece of shit and I hate you! I hate you I hate you I hate you!"
He hadn't even realised he was screaming.
Friedrich just stared up at him, smiling a sick smile. "If you want to be dead so bad, why don't you fucking do it?"
Jens hesitated, taken aback. He didn't know what to respond to that. He was worked up and angry, Friedrich's smile taking his fury to another level.
"Wh...what?"
"You said you'd rather be dead than be mine. Darling, you'll always be mine. You're mine as long as you're alive." He reached up and wiped the blood from his temple. "Even if you kill me now, you'll think of me every time you look in the mirror. Those burns on your arm, you look at them and you think of me. The scar where I stabbed you, there's another one. You can't escape me. I'm there in your mind forever. You'll be reminded of me every time you're with another man, reminded of how you were mine first. Because you're mine as long as you're breathing."
Jens took a shaky breath, his expression barely hiding his fear as he stared Friedrich down, refusing to break eye contact.
"So what? You're telling me to kill myself?"
"Yes. Do it now before the soldiers come in and torture us both." He reached into the secret pocket sewn into his uniform and brought out the same knife he'd used to stab Jens the last time they'd seen each other. "Slit your wrists and finally forget me. It's the only way you'll escape me."
Jens scoffed and raised his foot, bringing it down heavily on Friedrich's hand. He immediately dropped the knife and screamed, the sound of his wrist snapping filling the room. Jens kicked the knife far away and it skidded under the bed and out of sight.
"No. Shut up. I'm not the one dying tonight, darling," Jens said, throwing Friedrich's word back at him with as much venom and force as he could muster. He was terrified but he refused to let it show. "You've got it mixed up. You're the one screaming on the ground and I'm the one with the shovel."
With his unbroken hand, Friedrich grabbed Jens' ankle and tugged sharply, throwing his barely sustained balance off. He was able to push him away enough to get free from under his foot, diving for the knife under the bed before Jens could grab him again.
Jens lunged for him but Friedrich managed to kick him away with flailing desperation.
Jens groaned and almost fell, pure adrenaline the only thing keeping him going. He was determined to not lose to Friedrich. Not again.
Friedrich reached the knife and grabbed it tightly in his fist, jumping to his feet just as Jens swung at him again, the dull part of the shovel hitting his shoulder and sending him falling onto the bed. Immediately Jens was on top of him, trying to knock that damn knife out of his hands. But Friedrich fought back, grabbing at Jens' wrists as he reached for him, managing to dodge when he tried to hit him. It didn't take long for Jens to be overpowered, wrestled down by Friedrich and pinned underneath his weight. He fought hard, every movement driven by desperation and fury, but Friedrich was much stronger. He hadn't been subjected to the same torture Jens had.
Friedrich grabbed Jens' left wrist, the hand he held the tool in, applying pressure until he cried out in pain and was forced to drop it. The shovel hit the floor with a loud clang and Jens' heart sank. He was defenceless. Friedrich had him in a completely hopeless position, held down on the bed where they spent so many nights together, Friedrich's large hand holding his left arm out over the side of the bed, Jens' other hand pinned under Friedrich's elbow while his forearm held his head down.
He felt the cold steel of the knife pressing against his throat, the blade moving up and down with his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard to try free himself from the choking panic preventing him from speaking.
"God, this feels familiar," Friedrich grinned, looking down at Jens pinned beneath him, writhing as he tried to throw Friedrich off. "If only you'd been good for me all those years ago, this wouldn't have happened. You'd have still been with me and we'd be long gone from this place. We could have got out together."
Jens spat in his face. He narrowed his eyes, writhing under Friedrich's strong grip. "Like I said, I'd rather die."
Friedrich's face contorted in anger and he pulled back the knife to stab Jens, this time making sure he'd hit him somewhere lethal. He was just about to bring the point down through the pink triangle on Jens' breast pocket, tearing through his chest and plunging deep into his heart.
CLANG
The sharp metalling ringing was accompanied by a dull, surprised cry. It happened to quickly for Friedrich to process what had happened. One second he'd been so sure he had Jens dead, the next his body went completely limp and he collapsed on top of the man who should have been his victim, completely unable to do anything. Jens shrugged him off and got to his feet, breathing heavily. Daria looked down at Friedrich and then chucked him the shovel. She'd entered the room when she heard sounds of a struggle, worried Jens wouldn't be able to fight for himself in his starved state. She was right, and had got there just in time. She knew this was Jens' fight though, and she didn't want to interfere.
"He's all yours."
—————————
Eli sat without saying a word as the soldier led him inside and directed him to a seat. He didn't know where he was but he didn't dare to ask. This American was quieter than the rest but most of them were loud and trigger happy, their guns always proudly displayed.
The soldier left and Eli was alone. Properly alone for the first time in years. When he lived with Lotte and Evelin, they were always with him to make sure he didn't hurt himself again and then he was trapped in Brigitte's house with his mum for two years, never able to leave or get any kind of distance from her. He loved her and he'd give anything to have her sitting there next to him now but it had still been stifling back at the house at times. Then he'd been on the train. That had been lonely and terrifying but he hadn't been alone. He hated to think about it but he'd been aware of the presence of the dead bodies the whole time.
Now he was in what looked like a canteen, the large tables with several chairs around each of them evenly spread throughout the cold, unfeeling room. It felt kind of like a hospital, too pale and bland. There was nothing interesting or worth noting about it at all except for the swastika flags that had been ripped to shreds or burnt and now littered the grey tiled floor.
He looked down at his hands, realising he was shaking. The things he'd seen in the train kept replaying in his mind, and his mother's face was the only thing he could really focus on. Even the room around him seemed hazy in comparison to the stark horrifying clarity of that image in his mind.
"Hey,"
The soldiers voice grabbed his attention and he turned to look at him as he walked back inside. He sat down next to Eli and put his water canteen on the table in front of him. "I looked in what I think was the kitchens but they won't let me in there yet. They say they'll sort out food when they know a bit more about the numbers and the general situation."
Eli wasn't paying attention and even if he had been, he wouldn't have understood. He didn't listen because he'd grabbed the water the second it was put in front of him. He scrambled to unscrew the lid with shaking hands, gulping down almost half of it in one breath before taking a short break to utter a gasped 'thank you' to the American.
"No problem. Did you understand what I said about the kitchens?"
Eli just looked at him, still struggling to take in what he was saying.
"No. food. Sorry," the soldier said very slowly and simply, miming biting into something like he was explaining it to a child.
Eli just stared at him for a long time, making sure the soldier knew how stupid he looked. "Oh...Kay," he said equally slowly, mocking the way he'd spoke to him before tipping his head back to down more water.
The soldier looked taken aback then smiled slightly.
"You speak English?"
"A little. A friend. He is English."
"You're German?"
"Yes."
"Jewish?"
"Yes."
The soldier nodded and sat back in his chair.
"It's going to get better now."
—————————
Jens was disgusted by the thrill that rippled through his body when he heard the splintering and cracking of Friedrich's skull, the joy that rushed through him as he brought the shovel down again and again and again, lost in the pure, delightful revenge. Friedrich's face became more and more unrecognisable with every blow and Jens felt great knowing those cold eyes could never torment him again.
Blood splattered everywhere, covering both Jens and the walls in it, so dark it was almost black. The shovel was drenched in crimson, the floor covered in a slick pool.
He was lost in his fury, the anger he'd held back for years seeping out, pent up energy channeled through the tool in his hands, taken out on the monster responsible for his pain. He knew it wasn't all Friedrich's fault, but with him, it was personal. He wasn't the violent type, never had been. He'd never even hit someone before that. But something snapped when Friedrich was helpless on the floor beneath him and the opportunity to punish him was in his hands - quite literally. He hadn't felt anything in so long except hopelessness, surviving through every day he was kept in that room on the surgeons table rather than living. The anger he'd felt towards Friedrich felt so refreshing that he allowed it to consume him entirely. The pot of black ink knocked over and spilt by a careless hand, allowed to spread until only darkness was left. It was good to finally feel something.
"Jens?"
Jens' head snapped around quickly like a wire pinging back when wound too tight. Fear flashed in his wide eyes, the look of a wild animal caught in the headlights as death approaches. Friedrich would be back. He told him he'd be there forever, never gone no matter what he did. He was right. He was always right. God fucking damn it, he was always right.
He tightened his grip on the shovel and stepped away from Friedrich's body, knowing now it had all been for nothing. Nothing could keep Friedrich at bay. Jens was still as vulnerable, as helpless, as he'd been on his first day at the camp, when he'd trusted Friedrich when he said he'd take care of him. He was so stupid. So naive. He still was. He'd hurt Friedrich thinking he'd finally be free from him. No. He'd just angered him. He'd just made things worse.
The room was dark, and suddenly he couldn't see a foot in front of his nose. It hadn't been so dark a second ago, but now the black closed in on him like a wave, trapping him in and suffocating him. His heart beat like a drum and he was certain it would burst out of his chest. He backed up against the wall, terrified of what or who lurked in the dark.
He screamed when his back made contact with the wood, or rather what should have been wood but instead felt alive, a wall made of living and squirming hands that grabbed him by his shoulders and arms and held him tightly, their grips tight and unrelenting. He couldn't see or focus on anything else but the hands, sobbing and falling to his knees as he felt needles jab into his body, pricking his arms and legs, piercing from one side to the other, all the way through. He felt them stab into his eyes, a cold liquid running down his cheeks and inside his skull, rushing through his veins and setting every inch of his body on fire, the cold flame a torture that felt all too familiar.
"Jens!"
The hands were on his shoulders again, shaking him harshly. This time they felt warmer, and that voice sounded more familiar. He heard a loud slap and a sting on his cheek.
He opened his eyes.
Peter knelt in front of him, looking terrified and concerned.
Jens looked around frantically, standing up so quick he almost fell. He brushed his hands over his arms, trying to get rid of the feeling of the hands clutching at him, but when he turned to the wall, there was nothing there. He looked at his arms, expecting to see needle marks and red finger marks, but there was nothing there except the ghost touch left by the demons residing in his own mind.
Realising the hands were gone and it was only Peter there and not Friedrich, he collapsed back to his knees, Peter catching him to soften his fall at the last second.
"It's okay," his friend said quietly, although he couldn't hide the shake in his voice. "You're safe now. He's dead."
Jens looked over at the mutilated body in the centre of the room, the bloody mess which had once been Friedrich's head. He could just about make out Friedrich's mouth because he could see teeth he'd knocked out, but the rest of his face was too smashed in to be recognisable. Jens gagged when he saw the pale colour of bone peeking through the pinks and reds of flesh and blood, the shattered pieces of Friedrich's skull mixing with his brains as they oozed across the floor.
"Holy shit," Jens squeaked, unable to tear his eyes away. "Holy..." he trailed off, hiding his head in his hands. A strangled cry escaped his lips when he realised his palms were covered in Friedrich's blood. He tried to back up from that sight but they were his own hands, attached to his own body and he couldn't escape them. He wiped them desperately on his trousers, tears pouring down his cheeks. He had to get rid of the blood. He couldn't be covered in blood. That wasn't him. He wasn't a murderer. He didn't kill. There was no blood. No blood. He had to get rid of the blood.
"Jens, calm-" Peter tried to say but Jens cut him off with the venom of a viper.
"Get out!"
"What?" Peter said, reaching out to touch Jens' shoulder but he flinched like Peter had tried to hit him. "Jens, it's okay, I'm here for you."
"No, no. You can't be here. You can't see this. This isn't real. Don't... don't look. Just go. Just go please."
"I want to he-"
"GET OUT!"
—————————
Peter walked back across the courtyard, ignoring everyone else who walked past him, just wanting to be alone with his thoughts.
He hadn't wanted to leave Jens alone in that state but the unhinged, manic look in his eyes had scared him and Jens had continued to scream and threaten him until he left. He was worried. Jens had finally snapped and he wanted to be there to help him through it.
He also wanted to think about what he was going to do next. From what he'd gathered from people who understood the Americans, they were finally being freed. Germany was going to lose the war, and they'd all be free from the camp. He'd be free.
He rolled the word over in his mind several times. When that did nothing to make it seem real, he muttered it to himself, tasting the word on his tongue. It felt so foreign. So impossible.
What would he do? Where would he go?
Did his family wait for him in Berlin? Did they miss him despite their differences?
Did his friends miss him, the ones he'd bonded with in college and at his Saturday morning job? What about the order? The group of queers he'd joined in his first year of university. Had they continued their work after what happened to Jens and Roland? Had Lotte finally got the role of leader she was destined to have? Had Dolphi ever returned after his long absence to explore more extreme anarchist methods? Had they gained more members? Had they made a difference?
He had so many questions. So many questions he was raring to go find the answers to.
But after he found those answers, what would he do? He didn't have any plans for the future because a good one seemed impossible for the past few years. He'd had a future in his mind when he was with Eli, but nothing could replace that now. His relationships with university friends paled in comparison to what he'd had with Eli. Because not only was he his lover, he was his best friend. Who else could he spend his life with that would be able to compare.
Nothing. No one. No one could beat that.
Even a free life would be dull and miserable to the dream he'd had as a dumb and hopeful teenager. He only wanted to be happy, but he only wanted to be happy with Eli. And that was impossible now.
—————————
Eli walked to the door with the kind soldier who'd took him to the canteen. He followed his arm as he pointed to a building across the courtyard, telling Eli as simply as he could what the plan was next. They'd need to sort out how they were going to get people back home, starting with understanding how many people were there. He explained how most people were being told to return to their barracks until further notice but since Eli had just arrived and wasn't on any of the registers, he didn't know where to send him. He offered to accompany him to the administrations building at the entrance but quickly nodded in understanding when he saw Eli's hesitation to go outside and wade through the crowds of people still gathered in the courtyard.
"You can stay here for now. Okay?"
"Okay," Eli said with a nod.
"I'm going to leave, okay?" He said as he pointed to himself and then outside.
"Okay."
"You," he pointed at Eli, "stay here. Yes?"
"Okay."
"What's your name?"
"Eli."
"Eli what? What's your last name?"
Eli looked at him with a slight tilt of his head, confused.
The soldier pointed to himself. "Jackson. Jackson Dart." He then pointed back to Eli, and raised an eyebrow.
"Eli Ackermann," Eli answered, understanding what he was being asked now.
"Okay, Eli Ackermann. I'll pass on what's going on with you and try get something sorted out. You wait here. You'll be out of people's way in here."
Eli watched from the doorway as Jackson left, his gaze following him until he was swallowed up by the rest of the soldiers who all looked the same.
His gaze was caught for a second by one person standing on their own. Not a soldier. A prisoner. He looked a bit closer. He thought it was a man but he wasn't really sure. They were too far away. He could see their short hair was blond and glinted slightly in the sunlight. He smiled sadly to himself and turned around. They reminded him of Peter.
—————————
Peter looked around at the camp around him, knowing everything was going to change. At that moment though, he had no clue what to do with himself. Several soldiers told him to go back to the barracks but he couldn't. There was a dead body and a man having a breakdown back at his. So he kept walking in the hopes they'd leave him alone if he looked like he was going somewhere.
He neared the part of the camp where he used to work. The administrations building was swarming with soldiers so he ignored that and kept walking. There were other buildings there, the canteen and the house where guards would eat and sleep. He'd never been there before but the thought of eating made his stomach rumble. He was starving.
He didn't know how to get into the canteen so he circled around, trying to find an entrance. He didn't want to draw attention to himself because he doubted even the Americans would he very happy about him stealing food before it was distributed. But he was so hungry. He couldn't go much longer without eating. So he went around the back and found an open window to the building to avoid being seen.
—————————
Eli's head snapped up when he heard a loud crash coming from the other room. He'd just been sitting at a table, trying to keep his mind clear of thoughts while he waited for Jackson to return. The noise scared him, although he didn't really know what he was expecting there to be. Someone breaking in? A camp guard maybe? An SS officer like the ones who'd put him and his mother on the train? Maybe just a raccoon?"
He got to his feet slowly, being careful not to make any noise. He glanced over at where Jackson had gone before sitting down with him and saw the open door the kitchens. Surely there would be something there he could defend himself with. He half ran, half tiptoed until he was in the kitchen, looking around for something he could use. He grabbed the first thing he saw, a large pair of scissors. It wasn't the best but he couldn't see any knifes and it was better than his other option which was a large, heavy rolling pin.
He peaked around the edge of the doorway back into the area with the tables. No one was there.
The tiles squeaked slightly under his scuffed shoes and he cursed himself quietly. He stood in the middle of the room, clutching the scissors tightly in his fist until his knuckles turned white.
"Come out. Come out already let's get this over with," he whispered to himself, bouncing nervously on his heels. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
There was another crash, this one not as loud as the first, and then the sound of a door opening.
Eli spun on his heels to face where the noise had come from - a back door that he hadn't noticed before, hidden in the corner of the room.
The handle began to turn slowly.
His heart was in his throat.
The door squeaked as it was pulled open, sticking to the floor and scuffing it as the person on the other side yanked it harshly.
He took a shaky breath and exhaled slowly.
He refused to die now. If it was someone there to hurt him, he would fight back. He'd come too far to go out without a fight.
The door finally gave and the intruder was able to step through. Eli raised the scissors in preparation to fight but when he saw who it was his arm froze in the air.
Even after all the years apart, he still recognised him immediately. He knew that boy the second he laid eyes on him.
The scissors dropped to the floor with a clatter, Eli's hands instead covering his mouth as he let out a strangled cry, his legs shaking. His voice was no more than a whisper as he uttered the man's name.
"Peter."
Peter just stared at Eli, unmoving. He couldn't take his eyes off him, not quite believing he was there. He tried to speak but couldn't find the words, his mouth just opening and closing like a gaping fish.
Eli ran to him, his heart beating like a drum as he scrambled over a table to get to him faster. His long hair whipped back, he launched himself into Peter's arms after bridging the gap in a matter of a seconds.
That gap. That space between then that had held them apart for almost 7 years. It had seemed so insurmountable, so impossible to cross.
But now it was non existent. There was no gap. No barrier. Nothing to separate them any more.
They were together again.
Eli collapsed into Peter's arms and Peter fell too, bringing them both to the ground in a messy heap of limbs.
Eli grabbed at Peter's shirt, refusing to let him go, vowing to never let him go again. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his lips just forming the shape of Peter's name again and again.
Peter held Eli's face, his hands cupping his cheeks and stroking his hair, touching him to make sure he was there. He was there. He was real. He could feel his frantic breaths and if he pressed his hand over Eli's chest, he could feel the pounding of his heart like a promise. A promise of reality, of happiness and love. He was alive. He'd been alive all those years. And he was there in Peter's arms. There and breathing for him to hold forever.
"You were dead," Peter said, finally able to speak.
"So were you," Eli choked out through sobs, the words coming out as almost a laugh.
"Schatzi, I missed you so much," Peter whispered, burying his face in Eli's hair, still reaffirming that he was really there. He was real. He wasn't dead. Eli cried harder and hugged Peter back as tight as he could until his touch was all he knew.
The world disappeared. That horrible, filthy world. None of it mattered when Peter was there. It all faded away.
All that mattered was Peter. Peter's smell, Peter's body, Peter's steady heartbeat.
Eli finally had him again.
He thought he'd lost him, lost the only man he'd ever loved. But he found him. He'd found him again.
None of the years apart mattered anymore when he was in Peter's arms.
That familiar embrace finally brought him something he'd been lacking for years.
Peace.
There was peace.
Eli was safe, and he wasn't scared anymore.
"It's going to be okay," he whispered to himself.
And for the first time, he believed himself when he said it.
It's going to be okay.