Iron to Iron (Wolf by Wolf)

IRON TO IRON

by Ryan Graudin

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Once upon a different time, there was a boy who raced through a kingdom of death. He wore a brown jacket where all others were black, and it was said that his face could snare the hearts of ten thousand German maidens at first sight. His own heart? Hidden behind layers of leather and sneer and steel. Untouchable.

Until it wasn’t.

Nineteen fifty-five was going to be Luka Löwe’s year.

He could hear the screams of the Reich pulsing through the walls of the Olympiastadion’s changing room as he laced up his boots. The chant beat against his temple when he double-checked the safety of the Luger pistol hidden in his waistband. (The last thing he needed was to get his
Arsch
shot off by his own gun.) The yells roared, louder and louder with every passing minute. Feral volume, constant beat.

“Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”

Hail victory.

It was not his name they were shouting, but it might as well have been. Two years ago, Luka had been the face of this phrase. After his astonishing win in 1953, posters of the fourteen-year-old victor had been plastered the Reich over: from the walls of Germania’s U-Bahn stations to the alleyways of Moscow. It was a watercolor portrait by Mjölnir—one of Joseph Goebbels’s favorite artists. The man had painted Luka in the style of a war hero: sharp jaw, tight-cut hair, black jacket, arm rigid in a salute as he stood by a Zündapp KS 601. A swastika standard billowed in the background, its red edges melting out into a map of the Axis Tour. Ten cities—Germania, Prague, Rome, Cairo, Baghdad, New Delhi, Dhaka, Hanoi, Shanghai, and Tokyo—all connected with a scarlet line: 20,780 kilometers. Half a world of sand, sweat, mud, blood, and—on more than one occasion—death.

The Mjölnir version of Victor Löwe stood in front of these things: a conquering hero. The actual Luka hated him.

Pride. That’s what the poster was meant for. That’s what Luka should’ve felt surging through his veins every time he looked at the propaganda piece. He was the best of the Reich’s racers, but being the best didn’t fill him with a sense of glorious purpose. Instead it did the opposite. Whenever Luka saw the boy on the poster, he felt all at once smothered and drained.

Years of training. Days and weeks and months spent at the racetrack. Striving, striving, striving, getting dust in his teeth and road rashes up his arms and burn marks against his calves. All for this:
SIEG HEIL! 1953
.

Luka’s face was on a poster, and he was the best of the Reich’s racers, but there was still something crushing inside him. Something missing.

One victory was not enough. It certainly hadn’t been for his father. When Luka first returned from Tokyo with his Iron Cross, all Kurt Löwe had to say on the matter was, “I bled on the fields of the Muscovy territories for my cross. I lost an arm for it, and now they’re handing them out as prizes for a
gottverdammt
race?”

If being the best wasn’t enough, Luka would just have to be the best of the best. Not even Kurt Löwe would be able to shrug off
two
Iron Crosses.

“Victor Löwe?”

Luka barely heard the knock on the changing room door, much less the official behind it. The screams for VICTORY had reached a drowning volume.

“Time… procession…”

Ah yes. The procession
. Where the twenty racers were led out onto Olympiastadion’s manicured grasses and presented like racehorses: trot and all. This part was always laborious to Luka. He hated pomp and circumstance, standing still when everything inside was chomping at the bit.

He shouldered on the final, most essential piece of his uniform, zipped it into place, and walked out into the stadium. The place—with its thousands of spectators and their lung-bursting
heil
s!—was so loud that Luka could hardly feel his own footsteps. When the crowd caught sight of his trademark brown jacket, their yells swelled even louder.

“Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”

The smell of gasoline soaked through the March air. Twenty factory-shiny black Zündapp KS 601s sat in a staggered row. Every lens the Reichssender television channel owned honed in on Luka’s face as he led the line of Reich racers into the center of the stadium.

There were the usual pleasantries. Racing officials gave speeches about the importance of March 10 and the Axis’s Great Victory and the providential destiny of the New Order and the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere and on and on. Anthems were sung, and racers were introduced, while the sun beat down at the height of its afternoon strength. By the time they were allowed to mount their motorcycles, Luka could feel his skin sizzling—sunburn making itself at home.

His wasn’t the first Zündapp in the lineup. That particular honor belonged to Tsuda Katsuo.
Victor
Tsuda Katsuo, a sixteen-year-old from Japan who’d cut Luka’s 1954 victory out from under him. The boy was a good racer, an even better saboteur. If Luka wanted to win the Double Cross, he needed to be a better racer, the best saboteur.

Tsuda Katsuo was Luka’s biggest threat, but far from the only one. There was Georg Rust from Munich, third in the starting line. Kobi Yokuto—the younger brother of Victor Kobi Eizo, who’d won the Axis Tour of 1951—was fourth. Both racers were seventeen, medal-less, and in their last eligible year of racing, which meant they’d be determined. Nay, desperate.

From there the threat level took a sharp decline. Of the three remaining sixteen-year-old racers only one—a slender boy from Frankfurt with the surname Wolfe—had qualifying times that came anywhere close to concerning. Max Kammler (fifteen, in his second year of racing) was another to watch. On the Japanese end there was Saito Jun, who’d impressed Luka last year with his ability to slip through tight racing formations, and Watabe Takeo, the boy who liked sharp knives.

The rest were wet-behind-the-ears first-years and boys whose qualifying times had no
drive,
no
oomph
. They were what Luka liked to call the “cataclysmic racers,” whose only chance at the title lay in some force of nature coming along and sweeping away the rest of the competition. (See the flash flood of 1951.)

But all these boys were behind Luka. The only thing he could see was Katsuo’s fender, blinding his eyes with concentrated chrome sunlight.

“Lovely day for a drive. Eh, Katsuo?”

The boy turned at the sound of his name. When Luka wiggled his fingers in a wave, the Japanese racer’s expression hardened: as iron as the cross around his own neck.

Katsuo’s many-worded response contained neither
konnichiwa
nor any of the choice Japanese curses Luka happened to know. But body language was universal, and there was no missing the disdain that coated Katsuo’s syllables.

“Same to you!” Luka’s mouth hooked into a half smile—more mock than not. He settled onto his Zündapp, testing the ease of its throttle. Everything seemed to be in place. “Enjoy the view of the open road while it lasts!”

The other victor’s nostrils twitched. In one fluid motion he twisted around, kicked his bike to life, revved the engine. A wave of exhaust slapped Luka’s face—pipe innards and angry asphalt. The smell stank, but Luka’s smirk only grew. His words were wriggling under the Japanese victor’s skin, making him emotional.
Good.
High emotions meant rash decisions. Rash decisions would not a double victor make.

Luka cranked his own motorcycle, all traces of a smile retreating as he glared at Katsuo’s fender.

This would be the year of Luka Löwe.

“Take your marks.”

Double victor. Hero of the Third Reich.

“Get set.”

Tough as leather, hard as steel.

“Go!”

Worthy.

The racers tore through the capital’s streets, wheels spinning out as many kilometers per hour as their engines would allow. Germania to Prague was the shortest section of the Axis Tour: an afternoon of driving on Grade A roads. Luka had navigated this leg so many times during training that he figured he could drive it with his eyes closed. He almost wanted to. Katsuo’s fender kept winking an annoying shot of sunlight at him.
Catch me. Catch me if you can!

It was tempting bait.
Verdammt
tempting. But Luka knew better than to go for it.

Georg Rust didn’t.

They were just past Dresden, where the grandiose cityscape of palaces and churches faded into cherry tree orchards still a month shy of bloom, when Herr Rust edged into the frame of Luka’s goggles—pulling from third place into second. Luka didn’t try to block him, watching as the boy passed and fell into line behind the wink, wink, lure of Katsuo’s fender. Georg waited a few kilometers before he tried to overtake it. The move was sharp and fast, bold enough to succeed. He drew even with Katsuo, then passed him, rip-roaring down the autobahn.

Though the thought of falling behind made Luka itchy, his hand stayed steady on the throttle. Speed was important, but it was only a fraction of what it took to win this race. Victory was a complicated tapestry. Endurance, sabotage, knowing your competitors’ weaknesses and strengths, careful alliances, sheer luck—racers needed to know how to thread all these things together just to finish the Axis Tour. Much less reach Tokyo at the head of the pack. You couldn’t just barrel into the horizon like a Persian cat with its tail on fire and expect to win.

It seemed Georg Rust disagreed. The boy’s maneuvering skills were nothing to scoff at. Five times Katsuo tried to reclaim his lead, and each time the seventeen-year-old from Munich cut off the victor’s path with hair-raising precision, refusing to back down even when their motorcycles were centimeters from touching.

Georg was first over Prague’s checkpoint line. Katsuo second. Third—it pained Luka to see his name etched in that place.
But,
he reminded himself,
there are 20,433 kilometers left to change that.

Herr Rust hadn’t even broken a sweat. The boy parked his bike and shucked off his helmet. A fine wave of sunburn marked the goggleless half of his face, and he was grinning through the pink. Katsuo’s face was red—more emotion than burn—as he stared at the back of Georg Rust’s fair head. It was a stare Luka knew well: stalking-tiger savvy. The stare he’d made the very grave mistake of ignoring.

Hours had passed since the end of the leg, and Luka’s soup was long gone, but the road jitters had no intention of leaving. Luka always got them after a day of adrenaline: that feeling of nerves flayed open like electric wires, jolting his insides to
go, go, go
. Cigarettes usually helped. They were illegal and tasted like
Scheisse
, but they whispered to the fears inside him. Brought all the chaos and noise and striving down to a quiet hum.

Luka was on his third of the evening, filling his corner of the checkpoint’s dining area with rebellious haze. No one had come to reprimand him for the black-market smoke. No one ever did. It was one of the benefits of being a victor. Short of treason, Luka could do whatever the hell he wanted.
Petty laws need not apply.

He smoked, he listened, he watched. You could tell a lot about a racer by the way he handled his road jitters. Herr Rust was all laughter and high spirits as he dug into his soup. Some of the younger German racers had swung by his table to congratulate him. Hans Muller, August Greiser, Walter Graf, Peter Schaub, Max Kammler. They clapped Georg on the back and asked him to recount the move for first. The story stretched a bit more with each telling. By the sixth version, Georg had nearly run Katsuo off the road while trying to claim his lead.

While Georg’s tales grew taller, Luka’s cigarette burned shorter. His eyes sought out Katsuo on the other side of the room. Like Rust, the victor had acquired a gathering. The boys around him were listening, nodding, and—Luka was willing to bet one of the cigarette packs he’d smuggled into his pannier—plotting. Katsuo kept shooting his glare across the converted warehouse, hitting the oblivious Herr Rust every time.

Let the competition take out the competition. Luka had better things to do.

Georg might have the ears of half the German roster, but he had no one to watch his back. Luka sat with his own back to the wall, exhaling a cool screen of smoke as he scanned the room.

It was slim pickings for allies this year. Language barriers and national loyalties prevented him from approaching any of the Japanese racers. Georg Rust was out of the question, and Luka had no use for the boys crowding around him. (If they were this awed by a simple pass, they wouldn’t have the nerves to carry out what Luka had planned.) Kurt Baer and Dirk Hermann were hunched over a table, voices dropped to scratching whispers, making plans of their own. Perhaps they’d want to form a triumvirate.…

There was one other racer: Felix, from the Nürburgring circuit. He too sat in a corner with his back to the wall. A lone Wolfe. The boy was slender. Had Mjölnir been tasked to paint him, the propaganda artist would’ve bulged out the jaw and beefed up the arms. The racer already looked half-statue due to the white-paste zinc oxide smeared—war paint style—from cheek to cheek. Sunblock.

Luka’s own rosy nose stung. A glance at the scoreboard reminded him that Herr Wolfe had finished fifth for the day.

A smart, fast loner without vanity issues. Just the sort of ally Luka was looking for. He stubbed his cigarette out on the tabletop and made his way across the room. Felix was still eating, though when he saw Luka was headed his way, his chewing slowed.

Luka chose a seat on the wall side of the table, where he could keep his eye on the rest of the racers, and left a chair between them. The Wolfe boy froze, palms flat against the table. Mjölnir would have definitely altered those hands, painting harder knuckles and fuller veins, pumped with adrenaline and Aryan blood. The artist would’ve squared off the nails, too.…

Felix slipped his hands under the table, saying nothing. His expression was stony under the cracked zinc oxide.

“You got any more of that makeup?”

At the last word the boy’s face moved. A frown.

“The sunblock,” Luka clarified. “Do you have any more of it?”

Felix didn’t answer. Silence wasn’t a response Luka was used to getting. Girls, press, fellow racers… Luka’s presence often sent these parties into a frenzy. But this boy, with his wordlessness and eyes unmet, acted as if Luka weren’t even there.

“Chatty, aren’t you? Look, you want my advice?”

This time Luka was graced with a glance. Mjölnir would have a field day with those eyes. They were a rare strain of blue. The light, sparkly kind you’d find under the case at a jeweler’s shop.

Luka pointed at Felix’s soup, steaming into open air. “You better keep your food covered, especially when
Schweinehund
s like me come sniffing around. There’s all manner of drugs floating around here that’ll have you diving headfirst into a toilet bowl for days.”

Felix hooked his arms around the bowl, pulled it closer to his person.

“Look,” Luka went on, “I know this is your first tour, so I’ll make it simple. You’re not going to win if you play the lone ranger. You need to form an alliance. Find someone to watch your soup bowl when you can’t. Someone to lend you zinc oxide when the sun gets too harsh.”

“The sunblock isn’t for you.” Felix’s words were brusque. Forceful enough to make his voice crack.

Rejecting a victor’s offer to team up? Felix Wolfe was either the most foolish racer in the Axis Tour, or the smartest.

Triumvirate it was. Luka looked toward Kurt Baer and Dirk Hermann. Dirk was in his third year of racing. Too experienced to pass up the offer Luka was about to make him.

“Your loss,” he informed Felix as he stood.

“You’re the one with the sunburn.” Herr Wolfe picked up his spoon with those twiggy fingers and dug back into his soup.