Post by Wing on Jun 4, 2007 17:56:54 GMT -5
Chapter 5
Claus von Stauffenberg came awake slowly, cracking his eye open slightly and staring blindly at the greyish mass above him. After a period of time that could have been minutes or hours, his vision cleared enough to make out cracks and crevices in the grey surface, and a few moments later, his mind caught up with his eyes and he realised that he was staring at a ceiling.
It was not the ceiling of his cell, he knew almost at once, nor was it that of his barracks or bedroom at home—the aching in all of his limbs informed him that the past few days had not been a dream, as he initially hoped—and was not at all familiar.
Claus tried to think, forcing himself to take a slow, deep breath and close his eyes again. The blackness beneath his eyelids was comforting, pleasant, and the restfulness of it allowed him to remember where he was and why he was here. He recalled Hans Speidel’s hoarse, pained voice, the quiet encouragement of Field Marshal Rommel, and their instructions, which he had imprinted upon his brain with every force of his being. Find the doctor. Talk to the doctor. Give them the message in any way possible. That was what it was, he knew instantly. His task. He would have to complete it, but at the moment he was unsure of how to go about doing so. He could barely move, and he could see no doctor in the blurred, spotty vision of his remaining eye.
Clearing his throat, the Prussian licked his lips, trying to gather up the strength to call out. He tried several times and failed, managing only a harsh grunt with his parched throat. He hadn’t had anything to drink in days, and his tongue felt swelled to twice its regular size in his dry mouth. Hacking out a cough, he tried to roll onto his side, forcing himself to rock to the left. Perhaps if he moved, anyone else in the room would notice him.
His reasoning proved correct—he got a response in the form of a quiet but firm voice. “Stop thrashing around before you injure yourself further,” it said. “Although with the extent of damage already done, it probably couldn’t hurt.”
Claus managed to speak at last, although he was barely able to get any sound out. “It might,” he whispered wryly.
This earned a dry chuckle from the other person in the room. “Your intelligence file didn’t mention your continued sense of humour while in massive amounts of pain, Herr von Stauffenberg.”
“I’m surprised and delighted to know that the Gestapo is not aware of all of my talents,” Claus rasped, opening his eye slightly and looking for the source of the voice from beneath his lashes. His vision was still clearing, so he gave up the search and returned to the comforting blackness again. The pounding in his head subsided slightly. “I suppose I’ve given away something.”
“Well, I won’t tell,” the voice sighed. There was the sound of someone getting up, and a moment later a shadow fell across his bed. Claus opened his eye fully, taking in the blurry shape above him. Squinting, he was able to make out some of the finer details, and realised that the source of this voice was a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a long white doctor’s coat. Her expression was a tired one, although she still seemed a touch amused at his comment. The fact that she was female was slightly startling—one did not typically think of a Gestapo officer, even a doctor, as a woman—but he hid his initial surprise and gave a lopsided smile. Doing so hurt, and he quickly relaxed his facial muscles again, wincing.
The doctor disappeared again for a moment, leaning out of his vision and coming back holding a syringe. “Morphine,” she explained. “It’ll deaden the pain, so we can talk later.”
Although there was nothing Claus would like more, he knew that he needed to keep as alert as possible—if one of the guards came back and saw him resting, there was the slight chance that they might haul him back to his cell. It was a very slight chance, yes, but he needed this chance. He had his task to do, the one thing he could do to get the three of them out of this mess. Hans Speidel and Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel. Speidel had known that this was a possibility, yes, had accepted it, had been ready for it, but Rommel was Claus’s fault, and that weighed heavier on him than the responsibility he had to carry out now.
“Ah, no,” he said hurriedly, trying to sit up. The doctor pushed him back down unceremoniously, giving him a stern glance. “It won’t hurt,” she said flatly. “And you’re not to move.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Claus coughed, groaning as his bruised ribs shrieked with pain. Looking annoyed, she bent down to administer the shot, but he waved her away. “I…I don’t want to become addicted,” he invented.
She raised an eyebrow. “One dose is not going to make you an addict, Herr von Stauffenberg.”
“Humour me?” he said mirthlessly.
Frowning, the doctor slowly placed the syringe back on the bedside table, her eyes questioning. Claus realised that this was probably as good a time as any to at least attempt to explain himself—but he didn’t even know her name yet. He couldn’t just jump in, could he? No: Claus von Stauffenberg was far subtler than that. He tried again. “I’d just like to talk to you, is all,” he said, quieter now. “Before they take me back. I just want to talk to someone.” That, in itself, was true enough.
“Later,” she repeated, but her eyes were serious. “Don’t worry. You won’t go anywhere, and I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”
“You promise?”
She nodded, and this time he didn’t stop her from picking up the syringe and gently inserting it into his arm. There was a small prick, a tiny, almost unnoticeable sting of pain, and then blessed darkness took him in the curve of the waves of sleep.
________________________________________________________________________
Erwin Rommel was cold. He had never particularly liked the cold and had always preferred the heat of the desert he was so familiar with, hence his current discomfort. His coat, he supposed, would help the situation, but Hans was wearing his coat at the moment, and Hans needed it more.
Through half-closed eyes, Erwin peered at his friend, who was asleep beside him. Hans had done very little but sleep for the past few hours, which had thankfully gone uninterrupted, and—with any luck—according to plan, assuming von Stauffenberg had been taken to the infirmary. The field marshal hoped he was getting well, wherever he was. He needed it.
But so did his former chief of staff, which weighed heavily on his heart. Although he tried to seem determined and unbothered when he was awake, Hans had been hurt very badly, and his superior officer couldn’t do anything more than change his bandages and stay close to him when he slept to keep him warm. It helped Erwin too, though he didn’t realise it fully: doing something, anything, was better than sitting and waiting for something else to happen. If something did happen around here, it would probably mean either his or Hans’ interrogation. Erwin was a little surprised (and relieved) that he hadn’t been interrogated yet, but if it was going to be anyone, it should be him rather than Hans. The other Swabian just couldn’t take another beating. He had been in fairly good shape when he had arrived, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and he had been in Gestapo hands longer than his former superior officer or von Stauffenberg.
Beside him, Hans suddenly stirred, muttering distressfully and trying to roll onto his side. Gently, Erwin put a calming hand on his shoulder and murmured a few soothing words to him, to which he responded by settling down again and falling back into a deeper sleep. The field marshal leaned back against the wall, keeping his hand on Hans’ shoulder as he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. His thoughts first turned to his family, the two most important people in the world, who left to an uncertain fate at home. His arrest had been a more formal one than Hans’ in the sense that they had come in daylight and knocked on the door instead of breaking it down, but Erwin was afraid for what might happen to his wife and son. If they came for them, Manfred, perhaps, would be spared by the fact that he was serving away from home as a Luftwaffe auxiliary, but Lucie was alone as far as he knew. He hoped that Aldinger, a former officer of his and a close family friend who had stayed at the Rommel household during his long recovery from extensive wounding, had returned to the house upon hearing of his arrest. Lucie would have called him, he thought. She knows she’ll be safer with him. But what if Aldinger had been arrested too, for associating with him? Lucie would know to get away, wouldn’t she? She had to. She couldn’t stay at home, not after the Gestapo had taken him. But then Manfred would be left to fend for himself, and the Luftwaffe would be powerless to stop the Gestapo or the SS for long.
Where could they go, anyway? France? No—the Allies had practically overrun France, and although they would probably be safer in Allied hands at this point, the idea of them effectively being prisoners was not an attractive one. Switzerland, maybe, but Erwin knew as soon as he thought it that Lucie would never go. Cursing her stubbornness under his breath, he stared at the small patch of dim light emanating from the barred opening in the cell door and hoped, wherever they were, that they were safe.
“You awake, Erwin?” Hans murmured suddenly. Guiltily, Erwin wondered if he had woken him up.
“Mmhmm.” The field marshal shifted slightly, tilting his head so he could see his face. “Are you feeling any better?”
Hans raised one shoulder slightly in a half-shrug. “A bit.”
‘”Well, that’s good news,” Erwin said, trying to sound encouraging. “Maybe they’ll leave you alone enough so you can walk out of here.”
There was a long silence in which Hans didn’t look at his friend. Erwin thought he’d gone back to sleep until he heard him whisper fiercely, “I hate this.” Then, louder, “I hate this. I hate being hurt like this. And…I hate being afraid. I’m so bloody scared, Erwin. I hate that. I hate having to say it too, but…I am.”
“Hans…” Erwin honestly did not know what to say. He looked down at his boots for a few moments to consider his words and hugged his knees to his chest with a sigh. “I’m scared too, Hans,” he admitted. “It’s funny. I’ve always despised cowards, but you’re not one. You have every right to be afraid after what those bastards have done to you.”
“You’re no coward either, sir,” Hans said with a small, sad smile.
Erwin’s response was cut off by the sound of the key rattling in the heavy lock and the door opening. Hans flinched instinctively, shrinking closer to his former superior officer, but he needn’t have worried—it was only the guard bearing breakfast. The two squinted up at the tall figure, wondering who today’s member of the SS garrison was on duty.
“Herr Feldmarschall,” the guard said with something akin to respect, hovering at the threshold as if uncertain of how to continue. Erwin glanced down at Hans, who stared back at him with a look of confusion, and then cautiously stood up to cross over and take the tray, which contained their usual starvation rations. He got a better look at the newcomer’s face then, and was surprised to see that he was very young, younger than most of the other SS guards he had seen. As he stepped away, perhaps more quickly than was necessary, the soldier solemnly straightened his spine to something like attention and backed out hurriedly, closing the door without slamming it.
Blinking in the renewed darkness, Erwin felt his way over to the corner he had vacated and sat down in front of Hans, dropping the tray between the two of them. “That was strange,” he remarked. “Have you seen him before?”
“No. He must be new, poor kid,” Hans said, propping himself up on his elbows stiffly and grabbing his piece of bread. Glancing up at Erwin shrewdly, he added, “I thought he looked a bit like your son.”
The Desert Fox looked at him sharply, but said nothing. He had not missed the resemblance either, but he hoped that Hans would drop the subject.
The generalleutnant, however, pursued it as he thoughtfully chewed on the hard bread. “Didn’t Manfred want to join the SS?” he asked, swallowing and making a face.
Erwin snorted scathingly in response, shooting him a withering look that clearly stated what he had thought of that request from his son. Hans actually grinned, although it was a small one. “I imagine that particular venture did not go over well with either of you.”
“I told him that if he had to go into the military, he’d be in the Wehrmacht or nothing,” the field marshal informed him, pulling one of the bowls of soup towards him and eyeing it suspiciously. “But then he decided he wanted to be in the Luftwaffe, and Lucie agreed, so…” He shrugged helplessly. Hans chuckled, but the laugh soon turned into a cough, and the moment of levity vanished.
Claus von Stauffenberg came awake slowly, cracking his eye open slightly and staring blindly at the greyish mass above him. After a period of time that could have been minutes or hours, his vision cleared enough to make out cracks and crevices in the grey surface, and a few moments later, his mind caught up with his eyes and he realised that he was staring at a ceiling.
It was not the ceiling of his cell, he knew almost at once, nor was it that of his barracks or bedroom at home—the aching in all of his limbs informed him that the past few days had not been a dream, as he initially hoped—and was not at all familiar.
Claus tried to think, forcing himself to take a slow, deep breath and close his eyes again. The blackness beneath his eyelids was comforting, pleasant, and the restfulness of it allowed him to remember where he was and why he was here. He recalled Hans Speidel’s hoarse, pained voice, the quiet encouragement of Field Marshal Rommel, and their instructions, which he had imprinted upon his brain with every force of his being. Find the doctor. Talk to the doctor. Give them the message in any way possible. That was what it was, he knew instantly. His task. He would have to complete it, but at the moment he was unsure of how to go about doing so. He could barely move, and he could see no doctor in the blurred, spotty vision of his remaining eye.
Clearing his throat, the Prussian licked his lips, trying to gather up the strength to call out. He tried several times and failed, managing only a harsh grunt with his parched throat. He hadn’t had anything to drink in days, and his tongue felt swelled to twice its regular size in his dry mouth. Hacking out a cough, he tried to roll onto his side, forcing himself to rock to the left. Perhaps if he moved, anyone else in the room would notice him.
His reasoning proved correct—he got a response in the form of a quiet but firm voice. “Stop thrashing around before you injure yourself further,” it said. “Although with the extent of damage already done, it probably couldn’t hurt.”
Claus managed to speak at last, although he was barely able to get any sound out. “It might,” he whispered wryly.
This earned a dry chuckle from the other person in the room. “Your intelligence file didn’t mention your continued sense of humour while in massive amounts of pain, Herr von Stauffenberg.”
“I’m surprised and delighted to know that the Gestapo is not aware of all of my talents,” Claus rasped, opening his eye slightly and looking for the source of the voice from beneath his lashes. His vision was still clearing, so he gave up the search and returned to the comforting blackness again. The pounding in his head subsided slightly. “I suppose I’ve given away something.”
“Well, I won’t tell,” the voice sighed. There was the sound of someone getting up, and a moment later a shadow fell across his bed. Claus opened his eye fully, taking in the blurry shape above him. Squinting, he was able to make out some of the finer details, and realised that the source of this voice was a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a long white doctor’s coat. Her expression was a tired one, although she still seemed a touch amused at his comment. The fact that she was female was slightly startling—one did not typically think of a Gestapo officer, even a doctor, as a woman—but he hid his initial surprise and gave a lopsided smile. Doing so hurt, and he quickly relaxed his facial muscles again, wincing.
The doctor disappeared again for a moment, leaning out of his vision and coming back holding a syringe. “Morphine,” she explained. “It’ll deaden the pain, so we can talk later.”
Although there was nothing Claus would like more, he knew that he needed to keep as alert as possible—if one of the guards came back and saw him resting, there was the slight chance that they might haul him back to his cell. It was a very slight chance, yes, but he needed this chance. He had his task to do, the one thing he could do to get the three of them out of this mess. Hans Speidel and Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel. Speidel had known that this was a possibility, yes, had accepted it, had been ready for it, but Rommel was Claus’s fault, and that weighed heavier on him than the responsibility he had to carry out now.
“Ah, no,” he said hurriedly, trying to sit up. The doctor pushed him back down unceremoniously, giving him a stern glance. “It won’t hurt,” she said flatly. “And you’re not to move.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Claus coughed, groaning as his bruised ribs shrieked with pain. Looking annoyed, she bent down to administer the shot, but he waved her away. “I…I don’t want to become addicted,” he invented.
She raised an eyebrow. “One dose is not going to make you an addict, Herr von Stauffenberg.”
“Humour me?” he said mirthlessly.
Frowning, the doctor slowly placed the syringe back on the bedside table, her eyes questioning. Claus realised that this was probably as good a time as any to at least attempt to explain himself—but he didn’t even know her name yet. He couldn’t just jump in, could he? No: Claus von Stauffenberg was far subtler than that. He tried again. “I’d just like to talk to you, is all,” he said, quieter now. “Before they take me back. I just want to talk to someone.” That, in itself, was true enough.
“Later,” she repeated, but her eyes were serious. “Don’t worry. You won’t go anywhere, and I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”
“You promise?”
She nodded, and this time he didn’t stop her from picking up the syringe and gently inserting it into his arm. There was a small prick, a tiny, almost unnoticeable sting of pain, and then blessed darkness took him in the curve of the waves of sleep.
________________________________________________________________________
Erwin Rommel was cold. He had never particularly liked the cold and had always preferred the heat of the desert he was so familiar with, hence his current discomfort. His coat, he supposed, would help the situation, but Hans was wearing his coat at the moment, and Hans needed it more.
Through half-closed eyes, Erwin peered at his friend, who was asleep beside him. Hans had done very little but sleep for the past few hours, which had thankfully gone uninterrupted, and—with any luck—according to plan, assuming von Stauffenberg had been taken to the infirmary. The field marshal hoped he was getting well, wherever he was. He needed it.
But so did his former chief of staff, which weighed heavily on his heart. Although he tried to seem determined and unbothered when he was awake, Hans had been hurt very badly, and his superior officer couldn’t do anything more than change his bandages and stay close to him when he slept to keep him warm. It helped Erwin too, though he didn’t realise it fully: doing something, anything, was better than sitting and waiting for something else to happen. If something did happen around here, it would probably mean either his or Hans’ interrogation. Erwin was a little surprised (and relieved) that he hadn’t been interrogated yet, but if it was going to be anyone, it should be him rather than Hans. The other Swabian just couldn’t take another beating. He had been in fairly good shape when he had arrived, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and he had been in Gestapo hands longer than his former superior officer or von Stauffenberg.
Beside him, Hans suddenly stirred, muttering distressfully and trying to roll onto his side. Gently, Erwin put a calming hand on his shoulder and murmured a few soothing words to him, to which he responded by settling down again and falling back into a deeper sleep. The field marshal leaned back against the wall, keeping his hand on Hans’ shoulder as he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. His thoughts first turned to his family, the two most important people in the world, who left to an uncertain fate at home. His arrest had been a more formal one than Hans’ in the sense that they had come in daylight and knocked on the door instead of breaking it down, but Erwin was afraid for what might happen to his wife and son. If they came for them, Manfred, perhaps, would be spared by the fact that he was serving away from home as a Luftwaffe auxiliary, but Lucie was alone as far as he knew. He hoped that Aldinger, a former officer of his and a close family friend who had stayed at the Rommel household during his long recovery from extensive wounding, had returned to the house upon hearing of his arrest. Lucie would have called him, he thought. She knows she’ll be safer with him. But what if Aldinger had been arrested too, for associating with him? Lucie would know to get away, wouldn’t she? She had to. She couldn’t stay at home, not after the Gestapo had taken him. But then Manfred would be left to fend for himself, and the Luftwaffe would be powerless to stop the Gestapo or the SS for long.
Where could they go, anyway? France? No—the Allies had practically overrun France, and although they would probably be safer in Allied hands at this point, the idea of them effectively being prisoners was not an attractive one. Switzerland, maybe, but Erwin knew as soon as he thought it that Lucie would never go. Cursing her stubbornness under his breath, he stared at the small patch of dim light emanating from the barred opening in the cell door and hoped, wherever they were, that they were safe.
“You awake, Erwin?” Hans murmured suddenly. Guiltily, Erwin wondered if he had woken him up.
“Mmhmm.” The field marshal shifted slightly, tilting his head so he could see his face. “Are you feeling any better?”
Hans raised one shoulder slightly in a half-shrug. “A bit.”
‘”Well, that’s good news,” Erwin said, trying to sound encouraging. “Maybe they’ll leave you alone enough so you can walk out of here.”
There was a long silence in which Hans didn’t look at his friend. Erwin thought he’d gone back to sleep until he heard him whisper fiercely, “I hate this.” Then, louder, “I hate this. I hate being hurt like this. And…I hate being afraid. I’m so bloody scared, Erwin. I hate that. I hate having to say it too, but…I am.”
“Hans…” Erwin honestly did not know what to say. He looked down at his boots for a few moments to consider his words and hugged his knees to his chest with a sigh. “I’m scared too, Hans,” he admitted. “It’s funny. I’ve always despised cowards, but you’re not one. You have every right to be afraid after what those bastards have done to you.”
“You’re no coward either, sir,” Hans said with a small, sad smile.
Erwin’s response was cut off by the sound of the key rattling in the heavy lock and the door opening. Hans flinched instinctively, shrinking closer to his former superior officer, but he needn’t have worried—it was only the guard bearing breakfast. The two squinted up at the tall figure, wondering who today’s member of the SS garrison was on duty.
“Herr Feldmarschall,” the guard said with something akin to respect, hovering at the threshold as if uncertain of how to continue. Erwin glanced down at Hans, who stared back at him with a look of confusion, and then cautiously stood up to cross over and take the tray, which contained their usual starvation rations. He got a better look at the newcomer’s face then, and was surprised to see that he was very young, younger than most of the other SS guards he had seen. As he stepped away, perhaps more quickly than was necessary, the soldier solemnly straightened his spine to something like attention and backed out hurriedly, closing the door without slamming it.
Blinking in the renewed darkness, Erwin felt his way over to the corner he had vacated and sat down in front of Hans, dropping the tray between the two of them. “That was strange,” he remarked. “Have you seen him before?”
“No. He must be new, poor kid,” Hans said, propping himself up on his elbows stiffly and grabbing his piece of bread. Glancing up at Erwin shrewdly, he added, “I thought he looked a bit like your son.”
The Desert Fox looked at him sharply, but said nothing. He had not missed the resemblance either, but he hoped that Hans would drop the subject.
The generalleutnant, however, pursued it as he thoughtfully chewed on the hard bread. “Didn’t Manfred want to join the SS?” he asked, swallowing and making a face.
Erwin snorted scathingly in response, shooting him a withering look that clearly stated what he had thought of that request from his son. Hans actually grinned, although it was a small one. “I imagine that particular venture did not go over well with either of you.”
“I told him that if he had to go into the military, he’d be in the Wehrmacht or nothing,” the field marshal informed him, pulling one of the bowls of soup towards him and eyeing it suspiciously. “But then he decided he wanted to be in the Luftwaffe, and Lucie agreed, so…” He shrugged helplessly. Hans chuckled, but the laugh soon turned into a cough, and the moment of levity vanished.
