CapturedbytheSS (24 page)

He walks out of the kitchen and then hurries back upstairs.
His footsteps thud above me, and I study the ceiling, wondering what he’s
doing. As he moves around upstairs, I hear a car pull up outside. I even hear the
engine die before the distinct
whumph
of a car door closing.

Fresh nervousness courses through me. I’m not sure why I’m
so nervous, but I am. There are heavy steps on the front porch. A half-second
later, there’s a knock.

I steady my nerves. My captor descends the stairs with a
bundle of papers in his hand. He glances at me briefly before setting the
papers down.

“Relax, American,” he declares, unlocking the door. “No one
is going to hurt you.”

He opens it. I lean to the side, eager to know who his visitor
is. From where I’m sitting, I can’t see anything…yet.

I hear greetings and pleasantries. His visitor is a man, but
that’s all I know. They’re casually conversing in German. My captor asks him to
come in and sit down.

There’s movement in the foyer, and I finally see who his
visitor is. And much to my surprise, it’s another SS officer. He sees me almost
immediately, though I can’t quite tell what he looks like. The foyer is
shadowed.

“That’s her,” the stranger states simply to my captor in
German. It’s not a question, which I find somewhat alarming. I sense this
person has seen my picture somewhere.

“Yes, this is my American,” my captor declares, gesturing
toward me. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you.”

They’re both still talking in German.

My captor’s guest steps into the living room, where the
lighting is better. The stranger is a bit older than my captor, mid-forties
perhaps, but I can tell he’s physically fit like my captor. I’m guessing it
might be a requirement in the SS, but I’m not sure.

The stranger’s uniform is a little different than my
captor’s. He’s dressed in a black uniform but he has a yellow stripe under his
red armband and a crimson braid looped over the shoulder of his other arm.

Only members of the Waffen wear a yellow armband. The Waffen
used to be a branch of the SS. But now, they serve as an elite, military group
meant only to protect and defend the emperor, much like the US Secret Service.

Since the yellow band is sewn under his red armband,
revealing only a one-inch stripe, I think it means he’s officially retired from
the imperial guard.

The crimson braid over his shoulder means he’s a voting
member in the emperor’s council. Though technically a dictatorship, the Third
Reich also has a council of appointed members. The council votes and decides on
more mundane business, such as budgets and certain laws.

Just from his uniform, I know my captor’s friend is an
expert linguist who once served as one of the emperor’s bodyguards and is now
an appointed member in an elite political group. To say this is an ambitious
and intelligent man is a bit of an understatement. I wouldn’t be surprised if
he was a named successor to the empire.

“She’s even lovelier in person,” the stranger says in
German. “I can see why you’ve taken her as a war prize.”

War prize? I never thought of it that way.

“May I?” He’s gesturing toward the sofa next to me and
looking at my captor.

“Yes of course, please sit down. Visit with her. I’ll get
some coffee.”

I’m a bit nervous about being left alone with this stranger,
and I anxiously watch my captor leave the room. I sense the stranger sit down
close to me. A gloved hand gently takes my jaw and turns my face away from the
kitchen. The stranger’s eyes meet mine.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” It’s a whisper in English.
Like my captor, though, his English is heavy with a German accent. He almost
seems amused by something. I’m not sure what’s going on.

His fingers stroke my cheek. It’s weird that this stranger
is touching me, but I’m not sensing anything malicious from him. His gray eyes
study me intensely. Curiosity and intrigue color his expression.

“You are quite breathtaking, my dear.” Again, he says it in
English. “I can see why the American media is so enamored with you. Usually,
captured spies don’t even make the afternoon news, even back when we executed
them, but you’ve landed spots on prime time.”

Sadly, he is indeed correct about media indifference.
Whenever one of us is captured, no one really cares. But I’ve apparently
garnered a certain level of national attention, though I have no idea why—I’m
just a spy. I’m not sure extra news coverage is a good thing. I fear the media
may be heightening my importance in the eyes of the Third Reich. This
mysterious, high-ranking visitor seems to confirm my suspicion.

A bit uncomfortable under his heavy stare, I break eye
contact. My eyes take in his uniform instead. I can’t help but notice the
differences. Details have always been my thing. The yellow stripe and the
crimson braid are the most striking differences, though he has a couple of pins
on his tunic that my captor doesn’t have. And unlike my captor, he has a
sidearm clipped to his belt. I haven’t seen my captor’s sidearm since the night
he arrested me.

The stranger turns my face gently toward a lamp. I study his
eyes, wondering about his motive. He’s furrowing his eyebrows. He looks
confused.

“It’s not the light,” my captor declares in English. He
approaches us and sets down a coffee cup near the stranger.

“Why do her eyes look like that?”

“I have no idea.” My captor sits down in a plush chair
before taking a sip of his coffee.

“There’s something of a curiosity about her.”

“Really? I think it’s more of a vulnerability.”

“Are you certain she was put through the same training as
the others?”

“As far as I can tell. All the classic markers are present.
She remembers the hospital, the migraines, even the bloody tears.”

The stranger grimaces before stroking my cheek again.
“Please give me your hand.”

I can tell he’s talking to me. A bit hesitantly, I offer him
my hand. He interlocks his fingers with mine as his thumb strokes my knuckle.
My fingers look delicate and pale between the patches of the stranger’s black
leather gloves.

“Does she understand what they did to her?” Without
releasing me, he takes the coffee cup in his other hand.

“No.”

I don’t understand what they’re talking about. It’s weird
for them to talk about me in front of me, but I take in everything they’re
saying with peaked interest. They’re not trying to hide anything. They’re even
speaking English. Questions start to gnaw at me. What did
they
do to me?
Is there something wrong with me?

“Honestly, how can any nation justify such a practice in the
twenty-first century? It’s barbaric. The Americans act like the concentration
camps are still open. Don’t they understand this is a civilized empire?”

My captor only rolls his eyes, obviously annoyed about
something. I’m not entirely sure what they’re talking about, but this isn’t a
good time to ask. What practice is this man talking about? What’s barbaric?

I find something odd about the stranger’s comment about “a
civilized empire”. Hmm, let’s see, I’ve been arrested, held captive,
interrogated, broken down, seduced and claimed as a war prize by an enigmatic
SS officer who won’t even tell me his name. I don’t even want to know what this
guy’s definition of an uncivilized empire is.

Of course, I
am
an American prisoner. All in all,
I’ve been treated surprisingly well. And I can’t say I hate the things that
have been done to my body.

I glance at my captor. He’s looking at his friend. He furrows
his eyebrows before speaking. “I don’t understand why the American government
is so adamant about refusing any
real
peace treaties. They don’t seem to
have any problem doing business with us.”

It’s not exactly a source of national pride, but the United
States is actually quite dependent on the Third Reich for several things. There
are multiple business arrangements and corporate peace treaties in place for
just about everything, including food, clothing and especially oil. Most
citizens don’t know that many of the things they buy are imported from the
Third Reich.

“We’re making progress,” the stranger comments. Holding my
fingers between his, he keeps stroking my index finger with his thumb. “We’ve
had a significant break in the auto industry. In time, the Americans will come
around.”

I know what the stranger means about the auto industry. A
few months ago, German cars started cropping up in the States. And unlike other
product names, American citizens know that both Mercedes and BMW are German
companies. I’ve heard the cars are actually quite popular. The dealerships that
sell them claim they fly off the lot, despite the high price. Capitalism will
most likely open borders eventually.

“You look really good, my friend,” his guest announces. “I
don’t think I’ve seen you look this rested in years.”

“Did I look bad before?” my captor asks, laughing softly.

“No…well. You looked tired, a lot, especially after your
divorce. You were working too much. But you look good. I think your war prize
is beneficial for you.”

My captor only smiles at him.

The stranger studies me briefly before turning back to my
captor. “The embassy asked about her. They inquired about a possible spy swap.”

“Really?” My captor doesn’t sound happy. In fact, he sounds
kinda pissed off.

“The embassy was informed that she is now the official
property of the Third Reich. She’s not going anywhere, my friend. We had a few
other captured spies we were able to barter with.”

My captor looks relieved. I’m not surprised by the news. I
wasn’t expecting to go anywhere. Though, to be honest, I’m a little relieved
too.

“Could she read something for me?”

“Of course. Let me get a book.”

I’m not sure what’s going on. The stranger releases my hand.
My captor retrieves a book and hands it to me. “Read a few paragraphs aloud,
American. My friend only wants to hear your German.” Leveling a finger at me,
he smiles and adds, “And don’t color it with any other accents. Try to sound
like a native German.”

“Other accents?” his guest asks.

“Yes, she can color her German with another accent. It’s how
she tried to fool me at the checkpoint. It was actually quite good. If I hadn’t
been tipped off about her, I might not have caught it.”

“Really? That’s not easy to do. They don’t train spies to do
that.”

My captor nods. “I know. It was one reason I brought her
here. I wanted more time to analyze her.”

His guest turns to me. “Why did you do that?”

I’m hesitant to answer the question, but I know full well
they can force me to respond. “Because I knew my pronunciation would never
slide by an SS officer, so I tried to muddy the waters as best I could.”

Looking a bit surprised by my answer, he turns to my captor.
“That’s a very independent thought.”

“I know,” my captor mutters, taking another sip of coffee.

“And she remembers the hospital?”

My captor only nods. “Fairly vividly actually. She mentioned
a nurse giving her candy and the smell of alcohol.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. If she was put through the
same training, she shouldn’t have improvised. She should’ve tried to seduce you,
not fake another accent in the interview.”

My captor only shrugs. “I have no idea why she’s so
different. I asked every question I could think to ask.”

I’m not sure what to make of all this. I don’t say or do
anything.

There’s a long stretch of silence. “So what other accent did
she use at the checkpoint?” his guests asks.

“Irish.”

“Irish? She can speak German with an Irish accent?”

“Yes, and quite well too.”

“English is still spoken in parts of that country. It was
smart to choose Irish.”

“I thought the same.”

The stranger turns to me. He looks eager. “Please, read a
paragraph in German with an Irish accent. I want to hear this.”

It’s strange that I’m being asked to perform this task, but
I’m willing to try. Swallowing hard, I open the book and read several
sentences. I memorize a paragraph and mentally ready myself. I repeat the
paragraph and color my German with a subtle Irish accent. To me, it sounds
perfect. But hell, I guess if it was perfect, I wouldn’t be here.

No one says anything right away.

“Can you say it again?” his guest asks.

I only nod before repeating the paragraph.

“It’s very close,” he says to my captor.

“I know. At first, I thought I’d been misinformed.”

“Can you say the same paragraph but just in German, like a
native?” his guest asks me.

Again nothing about the request strikes me as vicious or
unreasonable, so I nod and then comply. Once more I don’t detect anything wrong
with my words.

“Her German is excellent, and her pronunciation is perfect.
But I can tell she’s forcing some of it.”

“Yes, I agree,” my captor states.

“I think the Irish may have thrown me had I been questioning
her since spies aren’t trained to do that.”

“It did throw me off. It was more about persistent
questioning that made her pulse betray her.”

“Interesting,” his guest declares. “And a bit concerning.
Perhaps greater rewards should be offered for turning in spies.”

A twinge of guilt hits me. Great, now I’m making things
harder for others. I’m hoping we’re almost finished. Much to my relief, they
stop talking to me and instead start discussing budgets and reports as well as
other mundane business, though they continue to carry on the conversation in
English, which I find a bit odd.

I only sit on my heels, grateful they’ve lost interest in
talking to me.

After several hours, the stranger finally stands, thanking
my captor for a lovely evening. My captor hands him a stack of papers in the
foyer and wishes him a pleasant night. The stranger only looks at me before he
goes but doesn’t say anything. I have a feeling I may see him again.