It’s strange to meet Jochen again after all those years. When I had last seen him we were both in uniform talking tanks and war and Germany. He addressed me so formally then, what was it again? SS-Oberführer Meyer? Dates and titles are hazy.

Now there he is in a room full of old men, alcoholic beverages and heavy food. For so many years I only had the words in his letters but my visual impression of him and the sound of his voice was still fresh in my mind.

Sometimes his letters sounded so bitter, even depressed. He would never say so of course, but the desperation for contact was clear in his closing words. The whole ordeal never struck me quite as severely as him. I’m not a man of intellect but cunning. The ramifications of my actions and circumstances aren’t quite as obvious to me as to him. He sees a darker future where I see a grey present.

He is different and all the same. Older of course. Unlike me he didn’t gain weight, it seems like he never really got the fat back on his rips after the war stripped it off him. He’s a little grey around the edges, but still as handsome as ever. And so very solemn. His face lightens up the moment he spots me. He embraces me and laughs. He stills sounds like Berlin royalty, his controlled choice of words is in pleasant contrast with the relaxed demeanour. And he has so much to tell, but even more so he wants to hear about me, about Canada, Britain, my plans of escape from the POW camp. I see he’s still glowing with the same admiration he had for me the moment we first met. He would still call me SS-Brigadeführer had I not literally shaken it out of him. I get nostalgic again. But no more ranks now, It’s just “Kurt” and “Jochen”.

Sepp is there too. Like the good old days. We laugh a lot. It’s a good night with plenty of alcohol to grease the tongue. We drink to the fallen comrades.

Time passes quickly. Jochen misses his ride home. As the meeting splits up I offer my hotel room. He gladly accepts. We throw ourselves on the bed in the gloomy bedroom. There is no space for sitting areas in old fashioned places like this.

I’m not tired and neither is he. I’m not even sure he’s really drunk, had it not been for the missed ride home. I feel tipsy and unfocused yet his eyes are so clear and so unwaveringly pinned on me. You need a pair of balls to withstand a look like that. It’s not like he means harm, but he’s just so damn intense in everything he does. So much will for such a small body. Well, I shouldn’t be talking.

He takes his jacket off. The fit of his pants is flattering around his hip. My mind makes two jumps.

“Probably the worst thing in there was having no decent German around. I heard you guys could really spend some quality time together?” He nods, his eyes are still glued onto mine. “I heard Sepp had a… special kind of friend.” His expression changes ever so slightly. I’m too drunk to read it.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

God, he sounds cold now. Where is that warm admiration? He makes it sound like I implied him in the matter. I wouldn’t dare. I need to win him back, think of something.

“The Americans. Did you ever?” I imitate a gun with my hand and make a shooting motion. He looks at my hand and back into my eyes. Is that a little curiosity maybe? I set the gun to his forehead. His body tenses visibly. “Did you see it?”

“I wasn’t present,” he says in a rehearsed manner and then a little calmer, “and if I was I had other matters to attend to.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

He looks intoxicated now. The red shows so easily on his pale skin. The tip of my fingers are still on his forehead. I’m not sure I understand his expression any longer. Is he flirting with me? I feel hot. When in doubt, keep talking.

“The Canadians… I’ve seen it all. When… I forgot his name… when he shot them. Every one of them. That moment when the light leaves their eyes and they spill their brains. Such a funny way to go.” The memory is still vivid. It brings a smile to my face. I feel dizzy.

Jochen holds his breath. He’s tense. I feel something I haven’t felt in years. The urge to grab his throat is suddenly unbearable. I could swear his eyes beckon me to do it too. I can’t refuse. I grab him by the neck and pin him to the headrest. To my surprise he lowers his eyes into an almost submissive expression. Then they shoot back at me again, warm, glowing with newly kindled adoration.

“I hated thinking about the noose,” he says. Slowly, carefully he also grabs me by the throat. Smaller hands but a firm grip. I can’t tell if this situation of mutual choking is comical or intimate. It makes me giggle either way.

“Did you ever think about what it would feel like if they don’t snap your neck immediately? To have your windpipe slowly crushed. Not enough air to live but enough to draw your death out for hours if they want to.” A sad smile. “What a disgrace, for a knight of the black order to dance and moan and soil himself in front of a common hangman.” There is something so much more vulgar about his choice of words than my plain vocabulary. My thoughts are too dirty for this. Does he even understand what he’s doing to me? I always grin when I’m horny.

Evidently he very much understands what he’s doing to me. His eyes flicker down. No way of hiding this. Oh, how will he deal with that? Himmler’s first man. Such a decent German couldn’t possibly accept sharing a bed with someone as degenerate as me? He lets go of my throat. I hastily follow. I expect some insult, disgust. Yes, I’m pathetic. Normally I would never. I’m not that kind of man. Just a little too much alcohol and dirty talk.

His hand drops on my chest. Heavy fingertips going up and down with every breath. One finger slips between the buttons of my shirt and rests on the sticky hair of my chest. I feel like a disgusting slop. His every move is so controlled. It seems silly, that he could seem so reserved when he places his other hand on the bulge in my pants.

“Tell me.” He stops to think. “Tell me about Russia.”

I know exactly what he means. I dig out my most exquisite memories. That church filled with Russian peasants, crammed in there like cattle to the slaughter. I give him every detail. Their screams as the fire starts to engulf them. That disgusting meaty sound as the grenades detonate between them. The wails, the smoke, the smell. God, that smell.

He listens as if I’m giving an interesting lecture. But his hand seems to be operate separately from his brain. He opens my pants, pulls out my cock. I’m leaking and desperate for touch. I don’t dare break eye contact lest I break the spell and make him stop. I keep talking. He jerks me off. More details, more horrors. I never told anyone any of this. I feel like a piece of meat, a little toy soldier, just pathetic. But I need this. I have to keep talking. Can I talk about the women, what we did to them? I’m so close. He stops.

“Do you think that is becoming of a German soldier?” he asks. He looks so angry. I buckle into his hand. Don’t do this to me now.

“This is disgusting, Kurt.” I can see the delight on his face as he says that. My name is a delicacy to him. Twisted little fuck, I always knew there was something wrong with him. No wonder he liked me so much. Sadistic little shit just like me. I want to hurt him, but I just rub my cock on his hand like a stupid teenage boy. I want to fuck him now. I imagine his cocky little face pressed into the sheets. Wouldn’t be so fucking arrogant with my cock up his ass. No more sarcasm, just muffled screams.

“Over my dead body,” he says and laughs. He looks like one of those Hitler Youth boys on the posters. His hand moves erratically. I wince. He’s hurting me. I close my eyes, think about tearing into him and come.

While I’m still catching my breath he stares at the pool of semen in his hands then back to me. “How can I make you lick this up?”, he asks innocently. Fuck that. I resist the urge to throw him out of the room in a fit of disgust. He cleans himself up and we just sleep next to each other like an old married couple. I’m glad he doesn’t touch me again. I don’t feel like I can trust my body any longer. God knows what he’d make me do.