Post by Wing on Dec 11, 2006 6:32:33 GMT -5
A/N: Okay, the story begins to earn its PG-13 rating here...o.O. It has to get worse before it gets better.
Also--italics don't copy over from Word, so there's supposed to be thoughts, etc. that should be in italics that aren't. *is full aware self is a slacker*
Chapter 2
“Speidel! Raus!” thundered a deep, threatening voice. One of the guards—Hans knew him by sight, but not by name. Squinting in the brightness, he resignedly got to his feet with some difficulty, knowing full well what was next. However, he had not anticipated Erwin rising with him, putting a protective hand of restraint on his shoulder as he stepped forward.
“Where are you taking him?” the Desert Fox demanded, his voice still holding a note of authority despite his position as a prisoner.
“I didn’t ask for you, Herr Feldmarschall,” snarled the voice behind the flashlight mockingly. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”
The grip on Hans’ shoulder stiffened slightly: Erwin, clearly, was still not used to being spoken to disrespectfully. Before the field marshal could respond, however, Hans hissed lowly in the Swabian dialect, “Mein Gott, Erwin, do as he says or they’ll take you too. We can’t afford to have both of us beaten up.” When he sensed Rommel’s hesitation, he repeated fiercely, “Do it” and slipped out from under his hand, allowing the guard to grab his arm and steer him into the dimly lit hallway.
In the small slit on von Stauffenberg’s cell door, Hans caught the glint of the light on the aristocrat’s pale face before he was dragged away, limping painfully to keep up with the guard. His ankle throbbed with every heavy step, yet he struggled not to make a sound for the benefit of the sadistic SS guard, biting down firmly on his lip and concentrating on the floor in front of him.
When the pair finally reached the interrogation room, Hans was nearly panting with the effort of keeping up. When the door swung open and he was pushed unceremoniously ahead of the guard, he blinked in the brighter light, squinting his sore eyes in order to focus on today’s interrogator.
It was a regular today, a tall, thin Gestapo officer by the name of Schaefer wearing a long leather trench coat against the cold of the cells. He was younger than Hans at around thirty-five, but premature flashes of silver streaked his dark brown hair, which was carefully combed over. As usual, his black-gloved hands were folded and placed neatly on the desk, a superior sort of smirk on his face.
“Good evening, Herr Speidel,” he said formally, leaving off Hans’ former Wehrmacht title that his guards usually tacked on sardonically despite his demeaning tone. “Please, have a seat. How are you feeling?”
Gratefully, Hans sat in the proffered chair across from the Gestapo man, replying quietly, “Well enough.”
The hints of a politely incredulous smile tugged at the corner of the officer’s thin lips. However, he did not comment on this obviously untrue statement, instead nodding languidly and inspecting his hands for a few moments before saying smoothly, “I trust you’ve met your new cellmate?”
Hans nodded stiffly, wondering warily where this particular conversation would be going.
“Good.” Schaefer seemed genuinely satisfied. “You know him well, I think?”
Hans nodded slightly, trying to seem noncommittal. “I served under Field Marshal Rommel during the defence of Normandy, yes. I was his chief of staff.” This was something obvious, something they would know without a doubt—it didn’t hurt to say it out loud. That was how the conversation in these interrogations was measured: between safe and dangerous information.
Nodding, Schaefer produced a smooth pebble from his pocket and began playing with it, spinning it idly on the worn desk. His prisoner looked away, recognising it from past experience as an old interrogator’s trick—distract the witness with something so his mind is preoccupied, then ask a tricky question to see if he lets anything slip. “I understand the two of you became friendly over the months you were stationed with him.” When Hans said nothing, he looked up expectantly. “Is this true?”
After a pause, Hans shrugged slowly. “Most of our interactions were strictly military-related,” he lied easily. It was half true—the Bomb Plot could be considered a military coup, couldn’t it?
“I see,” the Gestapo officer stated neutrally, stroking the pebble absently. “Do you know why the field marshal is here now?”
Careful. Hans tried not to blink as he pretended to think it over. “I see no reason for him to be imprisoned,” he replied with a slight frown. “I’ve always admired his conduct, and of course his military actions.”
“Interesting.” Schaefer put the pebble away, looking up and smiling disarmingly at the prisoner. “He said the same thing about you in a letter to the Führer in which he asked for your release.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hans said honestly, both surprised and touched that Rommel had gone to the Führer himself about him. Well, Hans had always thought that the Desert Fox was a good nickname for his former commanding officer—the man had the persistence of a fox on the hunt. “Why is he here, then?”
Schaefer met the former general’s eyes levelly. “Like you, he has been charged for crimes against the state for suspected involvement in the recent attempt on our Führer’s life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hans said coldly.
“Oh?” The Gestapo man raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“The field marshal was never very interested in politics,” Hans continued reluctantly, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. “He was loyal to the Führer’s Wehrmacht—the Fatherland and the Führer always came first.”
“The Führer’s Wehrmacht.” Schaefer looked amused. “That’s a contradictory term, seeing as all the primary conspirators were Wehrmacht officers. But of course, you already know that, seeing as you yourself were one of them.”
“I’ve already told you, I had nothing to do with it,” Hans snapped, wanting to make it appear as if he was losing his temper so Schaefer might underestimate him. It didn’t take much—the constant game of questions and refusals was becoming tiring.
“Really?” The Gestapo man lifted an eyebrow. “Relevant evidence has linked you to your former commanding officer, Herr Speidel. It is currently believed that you and he were involved in the plot together.”
Privately dismayed, Hans shook his head fervently, attempting to keep his expression indignant. “That’s impossible. Outside work, we barely knew one another—the invasion prevented anyone on Field Marshal Rommel’s staff from getting to know one another. I doubt I can remember the names of half of the people who worked directly under me-”
“But you still knew him,” Schaefer cut in coldly, his eyes like twin chips of ice.
“Yes, of course, I was his second-in-command directly-”
The officer drowned him out with his next, casual-sounding question. “Well enough…oh, to care if he was interrogated in the same manner as you have been over the past few days, perhaps?”
What? Hans gripped the seat of his chair tightly, willing himself to remain calm. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady even as his brain worked out what was coming next. Oh, no…
“It means you have a choice to make, Herr Speidel,” Schaefer said silkily. “You can, if you wish, continue this pretence that you know nothing about the plot to assassinate the Führer—yes, yes, I know it’s not a pretence,” he added wearily as Hans opened his mouth angrily, “but if we get no information from you, we will be forced to turn to your supposed accomplice. However,” he continued, smirking at Hans’ shell-shocked expression, “if you do choose to talk and none of your evidence incriminates Rommel, he will be set free unharmed and with our most sincere apologies.”
Hans stared blankly at him. To betray the other conspirators or my commanding officer—my friend—how am I supposed to choose? Hoarsely, he whispered, “And I’m supposed to decide now?”
Schaefer grinned full out. “Oh no, Herr Speidel. Let it never be said that the Gestapo is not a generous organisation—you have a whole twenty-four hours to think it over. Of course, if you’d like to say now…”
“No.”
“Very well,” the Gestapo man said with a contented smile. His face suddenly twisting into a frightening mask, he leaned forward, his yellowish eyes narrowing dangerously. “Think about how much it’s hurt so far, Speidel,” he murmured. “We’ve not even started in on the worst bit yet. Do you really want to do that to the Desert Fox—worse than that? Can you do that? Personally, I don’t think so, but here’s your chance to prove me wrong.”
“Bastard,” Hans snarled, his eyes blazing. He braced himself for a blow from the guard behind him, or even from Schaefer himself, but it did not fall. Schaefer merely smiled infuriatingly again and nodded to the SS guard, who brusquely hauled Hans out of the chair by his collar and marched him out of the door at a painful pace.
Ignorant of his aching body, Hans allowed himself to be led along, his stocky frame trembling with sheer, raging hatred. I’ve held out so far, and now they’re using someone I was trying to protect to break me. Who would have guessed? he thought bitterly, clenching his fists.
Mein Gott, how am I going to choose?
A cell door before him swung open, and Hans willed himself to stagger inside, flinching as the door slammed hard behind him. On the other side of the cell, he made out a shadowy form standing up—Erwin. Shakily, Hans sat down where he stood, not looking at the field marshal as he dropped to his knees beside him and peered into his face.
“Are you all right, Hans?” he asked worriedly. “What happened?”
Pull yourself together. “Nothing, actually,” Hans replied, trying to sound relieved. He was relieved, in a way, but now that he thought about it he would have much preferred a beating. “They just wanted to talk today.”
“They didn’t interrogate you?” Erwin verified, raising an eyebrow.
“No.” The response came back irritable, more so than Hans had planned, but he didn’t take it back—he wanted to be left alone right now, nor was he about to tell Erwin what had transpired. “I’m fine.”
The field marshal was silent for a moment and seemed to have let the subject drop, much to Hans’ relief, sitting back on his haunches so he nearly disappeared in the gloom. Hans waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the darkness again, exhaling slowly in order to control his breathing in an attempt to calm himself down as his frame was still quivering with emotion.
“Hans.” Erwin, his face clearer now, was eyeing him without conviction. “Be honest with me, now if ever.”
Hans hesitated. He really wanted to tell someone, anyone about what had happened, he truly did, but the field marshal was probably the last person he would tell given the option, considering that it deeply involved his safety. On the other hand, there really wasn’t anyone else he could tell—von Stauffenberg was so close that Rommel would obviously overhear, and Hans wasn’t about to tell one of the guards. “I…”
Sensing weakness, Erwin prodded a little harder. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” Hans finally said quietly. “I already know what you’ll say.”
“I promise not to say anything,” the Desert Fox replied, sounding a bit irritated by this response. “In here, Hans, I really should know what’s happening,” he added. “What did they want?”
Relenting, the former general let out a quick breath and muttered, “They’ve given me a choice—tell them about my part in the assassination attempt, or they ask you. And it won’t be ‘asking’, sir, they made that very clear.”
“Well, you can’t—”
“You promised you wouldn’t say anything,” Hans reminded his friend, effectively cutting him off. “But that’s not all of it. If I give them what they want to know, they’ll let you go with full pardon.” He stared seriously at Erwin, who was looking back incredulously.
After several moments, the field marshal stood up and retreated to the back of the small cell, pacing worriedly back and forth. Hans remained sitting with his back to the door, waiting patiently until Erwin had halted and stood gazing out of the darkness at him, his expression unreadable. “I was expecting torture, you know,” he said flatly after a pause. “Not quite this.”
“You could go home, Erwin,” Hans persisted, his tone wistful despite himself at the idea. “You’d see Lucie and Manfred again, you could get put back on active duty…you’d get your life back. All I have to do is tell them. It’s over, sir—we failed. There’s nothing to lose.”
“Just a few more lives,” the Desert Fox mused. He looked at his boots, then brought his chin up sharply again, his eyes holding a question. “But what about you?”
Hans hesitated. Schaefer had said nothing about him, which could only mean that there would only be one freedom allowed, and to tell the truth, he really hadn’t given the matter much thought. Maybe Erwin was enough to hope for—Hans didn’t know if his family was alive anymore, didn’t have a future if he didn’t have the Wehrmacht and his wife and daughter. Erwin did. He hadn’t been involved nearly as much as his chief of staff had in the Plot: if anyone was guilty of trying to rid the world of Adolf Hitler, it was Hans.
Realizing that his former superior officer was still waiting on an answer, Hans met his gaze reluctantly and replied honestly, “I don’t know. I’ll stay here, I guess.”
“No.” Erwin’s voice was firm, aggravatingly so. “They’ll kill you.”
“That was something I decided to risk by being part of the assassination, sir.” Hans’ nearsighted gaze was unusually clear now. “I knew that even if I told them everything, I’d still be executed, as deep as I was. It’s all right,” he added softly. “I was ready for this.”
Dark eyes serious, Erwin crouched in front of him again and studied his face for a moment, as the Desert Fox often did when he wanted to figure out what the full thoughts of someone, Hans had observed. He had a gift for it, almost to an uncanny level, and yet his old chief of staff wasn’t bothered by the pointed stare for once. There was nothing more to say.
After a long pause, Rommel finally shifted his weight to a more comfortable position with a tired sigh and ran his fingers once through his thinning hair. “Hans, you know you can’t do that,” he said, sounding defeated. When his companion opened his mouth, he cut him off with a shake of his head. “It’s not just me—I’m not trying to be noble, or even keep my family or you out of danger. Maybe I should, but for once I’m not because there are other lives on the line. They want to know who else, Hans.”
“I know, but…”
“…but nothing. By keeping me safe—my family too—you’re putting dozens, maybe even hundreds of people at risk. I don’t know all the details, just the part I was supposed to play, but I got the impression that you were very well connected. You know all the names they want, Hans, but you won’t just be sending those people to a camp. It’ll be the families too—the wives, the parents, the children.” Erwin paused, closing his eyes for a moment before attempting a grim half-smile. “You won’t do that, Hans. I appreciate your loyalty to me, but in this case it’s just simple logistics. I won’t be able to tell them what they want, and by the time they’ve finished with me…” He swallowed unconsciously, shaking his head once like a dog. “You’ll have figured out a way to get out of here, with any luck.”
It was true, Hans knew, but he hated Erwin for saying it. “It’s my decision in the end,” he growled defiantly. Rommel’s reasoning made sense, but the suggestion hurt worse than the prospect of torture, and he wanted to make sure the field marshal knew that very well.
“Did you think that was a suggestion, Generalleutnant Speidel?”
Startled, Hans looked up disbelievingly. “I’m not a general anymore, sir,” he shot back with a bleak smile. “They took away my uniform and my rank weeks ago.”
“Hitler took it away.” It was rare than Hans ever heard his friend refer to the Führer in such a manner since the last few days leading up to the conspiracy, and the brusque use of the man’s last name made him hold back his words. “I never agreed to it, and neither did the Wehrmacht council that tried you. Unless you’re going to obey him over me, you’re still very much a general.”
Hans stared at him for a moment, bewildered. “But they said the High Command…”
Erwin waved a hand dismissively. “Who are you going to believe—me or those lackeys to the Führer?”
“You, of course, but—”
“Exactly. So you’re still a general.”
After a few more seconds in which Hans continued to stare blankly at the field marshal, he slowly cracked a smile, the first genuine one that had found its way onto his face in weeks. The expression felt odd at first, but not in a bad way. “Well, thank you, sir,” he finally said quietly.
“You’re welcome,” the Desert Fox replied, allowing a small grin himself that lit up his exhausted, drawn face before he added sternly, “Now will you do what I tell you to? That really was an order.”
Sighing, Hans leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. If this was a bad dream, as he had often wondered hopefully, now would be an ideal time to wake up, but it was an impossible wish. It was an even more impossible decision. To betray the other conspirators—many of whom he knew, many of whom were his friends—or send his commanding officer to torture, maybe death? He had been given an order, certainly, but Erwin really wasn’t one to lecture him about obeying orders when he was notorious for not doing so himself, nor did he have the real authority to force the matter through. In this situation, though, his friend was counting on him to comply, and, by the undertone of desperation in his eyes, nearly begging him to as well. That was ironic, seeing as the choice he was asking Hans to make involved a painful fate on his end.
“Please?” the field marshal added.
Letting out another long breath, Hans finally nodded. “Alright, sir,” he replied reluctantly, adding quickly, “but, mein Gott, I wish it hadn’t come to this.”
“So do I,” Erwin said dryly.
Forcing a half-grin, his former chief of staff shrugged his shoulders at this obvious statement before continuing seriously, feeling a wash of guilt. “I’m really, really sorry about this whole thing, Erwin,” he said quietly, repeating his first few statements. “It really is my fault that you’re here—when I inducted you into the plot, I promised my superiors that you were under my protection. I was supposed to keep you safe, and I’ve failed my promise, to your wife if not to you.”
Erwin was silent for a long minute, his expression, as usual, difficult to read. Finally, he said hesitantly, “That reminds me. If…well, if it turns out that you get out of here, Hans, will you go see Lucie and…” He trailed off.
“Yes, sir.” Hans knew what he was going to say.
The field marshal shot him a grateful look. “I’ll do the same for you if I can.”
Thinking of something, Hans frowned. “What about von Stauffenberg?”
“They took him after you left,” Erwin reported gravely, glancing up at the heavy door from where he sat on the cold concrete. “I saw him right before they took him—he’s in a terrible way, it’s no wonder they captured him. I think he’s sick,” he explained when Hans raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think they’ve been feeding him.”
“Scheiss,” the stocky general swore angrily. Startled by his fervour, his commanding officer blinked in surprise. “He’s not going to last long,” Hans guaranteed grimly. “If they haven’t been feeding him now, they clearly don’t intend to, and if they’ve been interrogating him…he’ll have nothing left.”
“Could we maybe talk one of the guards into giving him some of our food?” Erwin suggested without much conviction.
His companion’s eyes narrowed. “Those schweine,” he snapped. “They wouldn’t do anything for us if we paid them. I won’t make any deals with them.”
“Fine, fine,” the Desert Fox said hastily, holding up a calming hand. Pausing to think, he stood up and peered out the door. “I think maybe we can pass some over to him when he comes back if there’s no one looking,” he mused.
“That’s assuming he can stand up,” Hans muttered.
Erwin swung around, a bit exasperated. “You really think it’s going to be that bad?” he asked, sounding sceptical.
“Erwin, if anyone the Gestapo or the SS catches was part of the Bomb Plot, yes, it’s going to be bad,” Hans said patiently. “He had the idea in the first place, and I think they know that, so it’ll be worse than I got it. He won’t say anything, at least not yet, but…” He shrugged. “It’s really only a matter of time.”
It was at this moment that echoes in the hallway prompted them to fall silent, and the field marshal reached down quietly and helped Hans up to look out the grating in the door, keeping well back to prevent themselves from being seen.
Two guards came into view, nearly dragging a staggering Claus von Stauffenberg between them. Beside him, Hans heard Erwin let out a quick hiss of breath at the sight of him, and even the general, who had had far more personal experience with the Gestapo than his superior, found himself in a state of horrified surprise at the extent of his injuries. As the guards stopped by the Prussian’s cell and the shorter of the two fumbled for the keys at his belt, they got a good look at the half-conscious officer, who was struggling feebly to get his feet under him despite the firm grip of the second guard on his collar.
Von Stauffenberg was absolutely covered in blood, his face a gory mess from an obviously broken nose that ran down the front of his dishevelled Wehrmacht uniform, and blood was already soaking through the back of his tunic from what Hans realised had been a flogging. The SS guard that held him upright grinned cruelly down at him, remarking to his companion, “Doesn’t look like much, does he?”
“Like a whipped dog,” the stocky man agreed maliciously, bending down so he was at the aristocrat’s eyelevel. Von Stauffenberg stared back at him with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, blinking to clear the blood from his vision. “I wonder if he yelps like one?”
Without warning, the guard rammed a fist into his prisoner’s stomach, the impact making a muffled wham. Von Stauffenberg doubled up with an agonised scream, moaning with pain as he slumped to the floor. Hans grabbed Erwin’s arm as the field marshal made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat and started forward, pulling him back with difficulty. The Desert Fox halted, but only reluctantly, and his eyes remained fixed on the scene in the hallway.
Laughing, the SS guards opened the cell door and shoved the prisoner inside, the taller one adding a parting kick that made von Stauffenberg utter a little whimper before the door slammed shut once again. Wrenching free of his former chief of staff’s grip, Rommel stepped up to the door and snarled, “You d.amn sons of bitches, touch him again and I’ll—”
A response followed in the form of a rifle butt slamming against the bars in a shower of sparks. “Shut up, arschloch, or you’ll get the same,” sneered one of the guards as his companion took up position on one side of the oberst’s door. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you. The standartenführer said no one was to speak to him.”
“Erwin.” Hans was terrified for his friend’s safety now. “Shut up, d.amn it!”
The field marshal spun around, outraged, his face twisted into a mask of fury that made him almost unrecognisable. For a moment, Hans thought he was going to hit him, but after a long minute in which the two stared at each other Erwin finally pressed his lips together tightly and stalked off to the farthest corner of the tiny cell, sitting down and drawing his desert overcoat around him. Slowly, Hans retreated to the other side, sinking to the cold concrete and hugging his knees. The cold made him shiver, but Erwin did not offer his jacket up as he had before.
Their silence did not erase von Stauffenberg’s quiet sobbing, which continued long into the night.
Also--italics don't copy over from Word, so there's supposed to be thoughts, etc. that should be in italics that aren't. *is full aware self is a slacker*
Chapter 2
“Speidel! Raus!” thundered a deep, threatening voice. One of the guards—Hans knew him by sight, but not by name. Squinting in the brightness, he resignedly got to his feet with some difficulty, knowing full well what was next. However, he had not anticipated Erwin rising with him, putting a protective hand of restraint on his shoulder as he stepped forward.
“Where are you taking him?” the Desert Fox demanded, his voice still holding a note of authority despite his position as a prisoner.
“I didn’t ask for you, Herr Feldmarschall,” snarled the voice behind the flashlight mockingly. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”
The grip on Hans’ shoulder stiffened slightly: Erwin, clearly, was still not used to being spoken to disrespectfully. Before the field marshal could respond, however, Hans hissed lowly in the Swabian dialect, “Mein Gott, Erwin, do as he says or they’ll take you too. We can’t afford to have both of us beaten up.” When he sensed Rommel’s hesitation, he repeated fiercely, “Do it” and slipped out from under his hand, allowing the guard to grab his arm and steer him into the dimly lit hallway.
In the small slit on von Stauffenberg’s cell door, Hans caught the glint of the light on the aristocrat’s pale face before he was dragged away, limping painfully to keep up with the guard. His ankle throbbed with every heavy step, yet he struggled not to make a sound for the benefit of the sadistic SS guard, biting down firmly on his lip and concentrating on the floor in front of him.
When the pair finally reached the interrogation room, Hans was nearly panting with the effort of keeping up. When the door swung open and he was pushed unceremoniously ahead of the guard, he blinked in the brighter light, squinting his sore eyes in order to focus on today’s interrogator.
It was a regular today, a tall, thin Gestapo officer by the name of Schaefer wearing a long leather trench coat against the cold of the cells. He was younger than Hans at around thirty-five, but premature flashes of silver streaked his dark brown hair, which was carefully combed over. As usual, his black-gloved hands were folded and placed neatly on the desk, a superior sort of smirk on his face.
“Good evening, Herr Speidel,” he said formally, leaving off Hans’ former Wehrmacht title that his guards usually tacked on sardonically despite his demeaning tone. “Please, have a seat. How are you feeling?”
Gratefully, Hans sat in the proffered chair across from the Gestapo man, replying quietly, “Well enough.”
The hints of a politely incredulous smile tugged at the corner of the officer’s thin lips. However, he did not comment on this obviously untrue statement, instead nodding languidly and inspecting his hands for a few moments before saying smoothly, “I trust you’ve met your new cellmate?”
Hans nodded stiffly, wondering warily where this particular conversation would be going.
“Good.” Schaefer seemed genuinely satisfied. “You know him well, I think?”
Hans nodded slightly, trying to seem noncommittal. “I served under Field Marshal Rommel during the defence of Normandy, yes. I was his chief of staff.” This was something obvious, something they would know without a doubt—it didn’t hurt to say it out loud. That was how the conversation in these interrogations was measured: between safe and dangerous information.
Nodding, Schaefer produced a smooth pebble from his pocket and began playing with it, spinning it idly on the worn desk. His prisoner looked away, recognising it from past experience as an old interrogator’s trick—distract the witness with something so his mind is preoccupied, then ask a tricky question to see if he lets anything slip. “I understand the two of you became friendly over the months you were stationed with him.” When Hans said nothing, he looked up expectantly. “Is this true?”
After a pause, Hans shrugged slowly. “Most of our interactions were strictly military-related,” he lied easily. It was half true—the Bomb Plot could be considered a military coup, couldn’t it?
“I see,” the Gestapo officer stated neutrally, stroking the pebble absently. “Do you know why the field marshal is here now?”
Careful. Hans tried not to blink as he pretended to think it over. “I see no reason for him to be imprisoned,” he replied with a slight frown. “I’ve always admired his conduct, and of course his military actions.”
“Interesting.” Schaefer put the pebble away, looking up and smiling disarmingly at the prisoner. “He said the same thing about you in a letter to the Führer in which he asked for your release.”
“I didn’t know that,” Hans said honestly, both surprised and touched that Rommel had gone to the Führer himself about him. Well, Hans had always thought that the Desert Fox was a good nickname for his former commanding officer—the man had the persistence of a fox on the hunt. “Why is he here, then?”
Schaefer met the former general’s eyes levelly. “Like you, he has been charged for crimes against the state for suspected involvement in the recent attempt on our Führer’s life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hans said coldly.
“Oh?” The Gestapo man raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“The field marshal was never very interested in politics,” Hans continued reluctantly, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. “He was loyal to the Führer’s Wehrmacht—the Fatherland and the Führer always came first.”
“The Führer’s Wehrmacht.” Schaefer looked amused. “That’s a contradictory term, seeing as all the primary conspirators were Wehrmacht officers. But of course, you already know that, seeing as you yourself were one of them.”
“I’ve already told you, I had nothing to do with it,” Hans snapped, wanting to make it appear as if he was losing his temper so Schaefer might underestimate him. It didn’t take much—the constant game of questions and refusals was becoming tiring.
“Really?” The Gestapo man lifted an eyebrow. “Relevant evidence has linked you to your former commanding officer, Herr Speidel. It is currently believed that you and he were involved in the plot together.”
Privately dismayed, Hans shook his head fervently, attempting to keep his expression indignant. “That’s impossible. Outside work, we barely knew one another—the invasion prevented anyone on Field Marshal Rommel’s staff from getting to know one another. I doubt I can remember the names of half of the people who worked directly under me-”
“But you still knew him,” Schaefer cut in coldly, his eyes like twin chips of ice.
“Yes, of course, I was his second-in-command directly-”
The officer drowned him out with his next, casual-sounding question. “Well enough…oh, to care if he was interrogated in the same manner as you have been over the past few days, perhaps?”
What? Hans gripped the seat of his chair tightly, willing himself to remain calm. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady even as his brain worked out what was coming next. Oh, no…
“It means you have a choice to make, Herr Speidel,” Schaefer said silkily. “You can, if you wish, continue this pretence that you know nothing about the plot to assassinate the Führer—yes, yes, I know it’s not a pretence,” he added wearily as Hans opened his mouth angrily, “but if we get no information from you, we will be forced to turn to your supposed accomplice. However,” he continued, smirking at Hans’ shell-shocked expression, “if you do choose to talk and none of your evidence incriminates Rommel, he will be set free unharmed and with our most sincere apologies.”
Hans stared blankly at him. To betray the other conspirators or my commanding officer—my friend—how am I supposed to choose? Hoarsely, he whispered, “And I’m supposed to decide now?”
Schaefer grinned full out. “Oh no, Herr Speidel. Let it never be said that the Gestapo is not a generous organisation—you have a whole twenty-four hours to think it over. Of course, if you’d like to say now…”
“No.”
“Very well,” the Gestapo man said with a contented smile. His face suddenly twisting into a frightening mask, he leaned forward, his yellowish eyes narrowing dangerously. “Think about how much it’s hurt so far, Speidel,” he murmured. “We’ve not even started in on the worst bit yet. Do you really want to do that to the Desert Fox—worse than that? Can you do that? Personally, I don’t think so, but here’s your chance to prove me wrong.”
“Bastard,” Hans snarled, his eyes blazing. He braced himself for a blow from the guard behind him, or even from Schaefer himself, but it did not fall. Schaefer merely smiled infuriatingly again and nodded to the SS guard, who brusquely hauled Hans out of the chair by his collar and marched him out of the door at a painful pace.
Ignorant of his aching body, Hans allowed himself to be led along, his stocky frame trembling with sheer, raging hatred. I’ve held out so far, and now they’re using someone I was trying to protect to break me. Who would have guessed? he thought bitterly, clenching his fists.
Mein Gott, how am I going to choose?
A cell door before him swung open, and Hans willed himself to stagger inside, flinching as the door slammed hard behind him. On the other side of the cell, he made out a shadowy form standing up—Erwin. Shakily, Hans sat down where he stood, not looking at the field marshal as he dropped to his knees beside him and peered into his face.
“Are you all right, Hans?” he asked worriedly. “What happened?”
Pull yourself together. “Nothing, actually,” Hans replied, trying to sound relieved. He was relieved, in a way, but now that he thought about it he would have much preferred a beating. “They just wanted to talk today.”
“They didn’t interrogate you?” Erwin verified, raising an eyebrow.
“No.” The response came back irritable, more so than Hans had planned, but he didn’t take it back—he wanted to be left alone right now, nor was he about to tell Erwin what had transpired. “I’m fine.”
The field marshal was silent for a moment and seemed to have let the subject drop, much to Hans’ relief, sitting back on his haunches so he nearly disappeared in the gloom. Hans waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the darkness again, exhaling slowly in order to control his breathing in an attempt to calm himself down as his frame was still quivering with emotion.
“Hans.” Erwin, his face clearer now, was eyeing him without conviction. “Be honest with me, now if ever.”
Hans hesitated. He really wanted to tell someone, anyone about what had happened, he truly did, but the field marshal was probably the last person he would tell given the option, considering that it deeply involved his safety. On the other hand, there really wasn’t anyone else he could tell—von Stauffenberg was so close that Rommel would obviously overhear, and Hans wasn’t about to tell one of the guards. “I…”
Sensing weakness, Erwin prodded a little harder. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” Hans finally said quietly. “I already know what you’ll say.”
“I promise not to say anything,” the Desert Fox replied, sounding a bit irritated by this response. “In here, Hans, I really should know what’s happening,” he added. “What did they want?”
Relenting, the former general let out a quick breath and muttered, “They’ve given me a choice—tell them about my part in the assassination attempt, or they ask you. And it won’t be ‘asking’, sir, they made that very clear.”
“Well, you can’t—”
“You promised you wouldn’t say anything,” Hans reminded his friend, effectively cutting him off. “But that’s not all of it. If I give them what they want to know, they’ll let you go with full pardon.” He stared seriously at Erwin, who was looking back incredulously.
After several moments, the field marshal stood up and retreated to the back of the small cell, pacing worriedly back and forth. Hans remained sitting with his back to the door, waiting patiently until Erwin had halted and stood gazing out of the darkness at him, his expression unreadable. “I was expecting torture, you know,” he said flatly after a pause. “Not quite this.”
“You could go home, Erwin,” Hans persisted, his tone wistful despite himself at the idea. “You’d see Lucie and Manfred again, you could get put back on active duty…you’d get your life back. All I have to do is tell them. It’s over, sir—we failed. There’s nothing to lose.”
“Just a few more lives,” the Desert Fox mused. He looked at his boots, then brought his chin up sharply again, his eyes holding a question. “But what about you?”
Hans hesitated. Schaefer had said nothing about him, which could only mean that there would only be one freedom allowed, and to tell the truth, he really hadn’t given the matter much thought. Maybe Erwin was enough to hope for—Hans didn’t know if his family was alive anymore, didn’t have a future if he didn’t have the Wehrmacht and his wife and daughter. Erwin did. He hadn’t been involved nearly as much as his chief of staff had in the Plot: if anyone was guilty of trying to rid the world of Adolf Hitler, it was Hans.
Realizing that his former superior officer was still waiting on an answer, Hans met his gaze reluctantly and replied honestly, “I don’t know. I’ll stay here, I guess.”
“No.” Erwin’s voice was firm, aggravatingly so. “They’ll kill you.”
“That was something I decided to risk by being part of the assassination, sir.” Hans’ nearsighted gaze was unusually clear now. “I knew that even if I told them everything, I’d still be executed, as deep as I was. It’s all right,” he added softly. “I was ready for this.”
Dark eyes serious, Erwin crouched in front of him again and studied his face for a moment, as the Desert Fox often did when he wanted to figure out what the full thoughts of someone, Hans had observed. He had a gift for it, almost to an uncanny level, and yet his old chief of staff wasn’t bothered by the pointed stare for once. There was nothing more to say.
After a long pause, Rommel finally shifted his weight to a more comfortable position with a tired sigh and ran his fingers once through his thinning hair. “Hans, you know you can’t do that,” he said, sounding defeated. When his companion opened his mouth, he cut him off with a shake of his head. “It’s not just me—I’m not trying to be noble, or even keep my family or you out of danger. Maybe I should, but for once I’m not because there are other lives on the line. They want to know who else, Hans.”
“I know, but…”
“…but nothing. By keeping me safe—my family too—you’re putting dozens, maybe even hundreds of people at risk. I don’t know all the details, just the part I was supposed to play, but I got the impression that you were very well connected. You know all the names they want, Hans, but you won’t just be sending those people to a camp. It’ll be the families too—the wives, the parents, the children.” Erwin paused, closing his eyes for a moment before attempting a grim half-smile. “You won’t do that, Hans. I appreciate your loyalty to me, but in this case it’s just simple logistics. I won’t be able to tell them what they want, and by the time they’ve finished with me…” He swallowed unconsciously, shaking his head once like a dog. “You’ll have figured out a way to get out of here, with any luck.”
It was true, Hans knew, but he hated Erwin for saying it. “It’s my decision in the end,” he growled defiantly. Rommel’s reasoning made sense, but the suggestion hurt worse than the prospect of torture, and he wanted to make sure the field marshal knew that very well.
“Did you think that was a suggestion, Generalleutnant Speidel?”
Startled, Hans looked up disbelievingly. “I’m not a general anymore, sir,” he shot back with a bleak smile. “They took away my uniform and my rank weeks ago.”
“Hitler took it away.” It was rare than Hans ever heard his friend refer to the Führer in such a manner since the last few days leading up to the conspiracy, and the brusque use of the man’s last name made him hold back his words. “I never agreed to it, and neither did the Wehrmacht council that tried you. Unless you’re going to obey him over me, you’re still very much a general.”
Hans stared at him for a moment, bewildered. “But they said the High Command…”
Erwin waved a hand dismissively. “Who are you going to believe—me or those lackeys to the Führer?”
“You, of course, but—”
“Exactly. So you’re still a general.”
After a few more seconds in which Hans continued to stare blankly at the field marshal, he slowly cracked a smile, the first genuine one that had found its way onto his face in weeks. The expression felt odd at first, but not in a bad way. “Well, thank you, sir,” he finally said quietly.
“You’re welcome,” the Desert Fox replied, allowing a small grin himself that lit up his exhausted, drawn face before he added sternly, “Now will you do what I tell you to? That really was an order.”
Sighing, Hans leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. If this was a bad dream, as he had often wondered hopefully, now would be an ideal time to wake up, but it was an impossible wish. It was an even more impossible decision. To betray the other conspirators—many of whom he knew, many of whom were his friends—or send his commanding officer to torture, maybe death? He had been given an order, certainly, but Erwin really wasn’t one to lecture him about obeying orders when he was notorious for not doing so himself, nor did he have the real authority to force the matter through. In this situation, though, his friend was counting on him to comply, and, by the undertone of desperation in his eyes, nearly begging him to as well. That was ironic, seeing as the choice he was asking Hans to make involved a painful fate on his end.
“Please?” the field marshal added.
Letting out another long breath, Hans finally nodded. “Alright, sir,” he replied reluctantly, adding quickly, “but, mein Gott, I wish it hadn’t come to this.”
“So do I,” Erwin said dryly.
Forcing a half-grin, his former chief of staff shrugged his shoulders at this obvious statement before continuing seriously, feeling a wash of guilt. “I’m really, really sorry about this whole thing, Erwin,” he said quietly, repeating his first few statements. “It really is my fault that you’re here—when I inducted you into the plot, I promised my superiors that you were under my protection. I was supposed to keep you safe, and I’ve failed my promise, to your wife if not to you.”
Erwin was silent for a long minute, his expression, as usual, difficult to read. Finally, he said hesitantly, “That reminds me. If…well, if it turns out that you get out of here, Hans, will you go see Lucie and…” He trailed off.
“Yes, sir.” Hans knew what he was going to say.
The field marshal shot him a grateful look. “I’ll do the same for you if I can.”
Thinking of something, Hans frowned. “What about von Stauffenberg?”
“They took him after you left,” Erwin reported gravely, glancing up at the heavy door from where he sat on the cold concrete. “I saw him right before they took him—he’s in a terrible way, it’s no wonder they captured him. I think he’s sick,” he explained when Hans raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think they’ve been feeding him.”
“Scheiss,” the stocky general swore angrily. Startled by his fervour, his commanding officer blinked in surprise. “He’s not going to last long,” Hans guaranteed grimly. “If they haven’t been feeding him now, they clearly don’t intend to, and if they’ve been interrogating him…he’ll have nothing left.”
“Could we maybe talk one of the guards into giving him some of our food?” Erwin suggested without much conviction.
His companion’s eyes narrowed. “Those schweine,” he snapped. “They wouldn’t do anything for us if we paid them. I won’t make any deals with them.”
“Fine, fine,” the Desert Fox said hastily, holding up a calming hand. Pausing to think, he stood up and peered out the door. “I think maybe we can pass some over to him when he comes back if there’s no one looking,” he mused.
“That’s assuming he can stand up,” Hans muttered.
Erwin swung around, a bit exasperated. “You really think it’s going to be that bad?” he asked, sounding sceptical.
“Erwin, if anyone the Gestapo or the SS catches was part of the Bomb Plot, yes, it’s going to be bad,” Hans said patiently. “He had the idea in the first place, and I think they know that, so it’ll be worse than I got it. He won’t say anything, at least not yet, but…” He shrugged. “It’s really only a matter of time.”
It was at this moment that echoes in the hallway prompted them to fall silent, and the field marshal reached down quietly and helped Hans up to look out the grating in the door, keeping well back to prevent themselves from being seen.
Two guards came into view, nearly dragging a staggering Claus von Stauffenberg between them. Beside him, Hans heard Erwin let out a quick hiss of breath at the sight of him, and even the general, who had had far more personal experience with the Gestapo than his superior, found himself in a state of horrified surprise at the extent of his injuries. As the guards stopped by the Prussian’s cell and the shorter of the two fumbled for the keys at his belt, they got a good look at the half-conscious officer, who was struggling feebly to get his feet under him despite the firm grip of the second guard on his collar.
Von Stauffenberg was absolutely covered in blood, his face a gory mess from an obviously broken nose that ran down the front of his dishevelled Wehrmacht uniform, and blood was already soaking through the back of his tunic from what Hans realised had been a flogging. The SS guard that held him upright grinned cruelly down at him, remarking to his companion, “Doesn’t look like much, does he?”
“Like a whipped dog,” the stocky man agreed maliciously, bending down so he was at the aristocrat’s eyelevel. Von Stauffenberg stared back at him with the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, blinking to clear the blood from his vision. “I wonder if he yelps like one?”
Without warning, the guard rammed a fist into his prisoner’s stomach, the impact making a muffled wham. Von Stauffenberg doubled up with an agonised scream, moaning with pain as he slumped to the floor. Hans grabbed Erwin’s arm as the field marshal made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat and started forward, pulling him back with difficulty. The Desert Fox halted, but only reluctantly, and his eyes remained fixed on the scene in the hallway.
Laughing, the SS guards opened the cell door and shoved the prisoner inside, the taller one adding a parting kick that made von Stauffenberg utter a little whimper before the door slammed shut once again. Wrenching free of his former chief of staff’s grip, Rommel stepped up to the door and snarled, “You d.amn sons of bitches, touch him again and I’ll—”
A response followed in the form of a rifle butt slamming against the bars in a shower of sparks. “Shut up, arschloch, or you’ll get the same,” sneered one of the guards as his companion took up position on one side of the oberst’s door. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you. The standartenführer said no one was to speak to him.”
“Erwin.” Hans was terrified for his friend’s safety now. “Shut up, d.amn it!”
The field marshal spun around, outraged, his face twisted into a mask of fury that made him almost unrecognisable. For a moment, Hans thought he was going to hit him, but after a long minute in which the two stared at each other Erwin finally pressed his lips together tightly and stalked off to the farthest corner of the tiny cell, sitting down and drawing his desert overcoat around him. Slowly, Hans retreated to the other side, sinking to the cold concrete and hugging his knees. The cold made him shiver, but Erwin did not offer his jacket up as he had before.
Their silence did not erase von Stauffenberg’s quiet sobbing, which continued long into the night.