Tauschhandel

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You are reading at your desk when he opens the cell door. You know him, he is a frequent visitor. He steps inside and locks the door behind him. The old game. He pulls a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. Crayon flowers adorn the envelope.

“Look what I have for you, a letter from…”

He pronounces her name like a brand of cereal. 

You carefully close the book you were reading and put in a bookmark on page 48. You stand up and reflexively move your hands to straighten out your pants and pull down your tunic. You walk over to your visitor and kneel in front of him. You stare at up him, patiently waiting for the ritual to commence. 

“You’re a good boy, “ he says and pats you on the head. He is ten years younger than you.

He waves the letter back and forth like a treat.

“What does the American dog say?” he asks.

“Woof,” you say.

“What does the German dog say?”

“Wau.”

“What does the Nazi dog say?”

“Please.”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“No, no. That’s not right. That’s not what it sounds like at all. More passion!”

“Please,” you say dragging out the vocals, letting them vibrate in the back of your throat.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he says and fans himself with the envelope.

He drops one hand in front of your face. It smells like piss. You wonder if they do that on purpose or if they actually are this filthy. You lap at his hand.

“Good boy,” he says. Unimaginative.

He opens his pants. He’s hard. You don’t want to look at it, but you always do. He presses the tip of his dick on your lips. He reeks like arousal and more piss. 

“So what does the Nazi dog say?” he asks and cocks his head.

“Please,” you say and your lips drag over the wet glans.

“Please what?”

“Please let me suck your cock.”

Funny, you realize you have never said words like these in German. What an awful language they speak.

He jabs his dick into your mouth. The taste is vile. You suck him off.

“You’re getting good at this,” he says.

He’s right, you are. They aren’t content with just fucking your mouth anymore. You have to put in the effort and service them. It’s a little more humiliating and little less painful. He comes so quickly. They are all children. You swallow his semen. You’re not allowed to spit it out. You used to do that once they were gone, put a finger down your throat to get the dirty seed out of your belly and burn their taste off your teeth. But then you got very skinny and you thought of the people who needed you and now you swallow and smile when they slap your face, and when they ask if you liked the taste you nod and say “Ja” with that funny intonation that they like so much.

He wipes his cock on your face and drops the letter at your feet. He turns to leave, but then he stops, reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a piece of candy wrapped in red and gold. He drops it in front of you. You pick it up and say “thank you”. When he’s gone you add the small nugget to the collection under your pillow. You’re so happy. Eight pieces in all the colors of the rainbow, eight pieces for the eighth birthday of your little son. It’s not much but it’s all you can give him.

Two Minutes

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Reinhard’s face connects with the carpet, his face smeared in a hot, brilliant burn.

Better than last time; Lina’s nails digging into his scalp, cracking his forehead again and again against the wainscoting until a firework display erupted behind his eyelids.

“You’re disgusting,” she says.

Lina does take good care of her nails. Neat little crescents. They burn as she rakes them up his back. He can hardly stand it but where is he going to go? His eyes water against her knee as he rocks back and forth and presses his face against her thigh.

“Please,” he whimpers.

If they had more time Lina would make sure he felt like a slave in his own homeland. He could crawl naked through the cold puddled earth of Halle, her boot pressing down on his neck, his breath bubbling up from the wet mud.

“You’re going back to Salon Kitty?”

She asks the question but she already knows the answer. It’s only the cue for him to present himself to her. On all fours, even before he arches his back his arse presents itself nicely.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Well then.”

Which is all she needs to say. Heinrich keeps his position, on his hands and knees. He shivers at the sound of a rubber glove snapping onto Lina’s arm. Of course she wouldn’t touch him there with her bare skin. The glove itself is thick and ridged, she needs to get a proper grip after all.

“Don’t move you dirty little boy.” Lina smacks his balls when his pelvis starts twitching despite itself and tries to fuck against the dry, heavy duty material covering her hand.

Ejaculation is a necessity, Lina tells him, educating him with a long suffering look. One day they will find a way to cut out the male orgasm altogether but for now it can be a source of amusement to her at least; his desperation and the desperation of all males really. So unable to control themselves, so eager to hump against the nearest object.

If he’s going to Salon Kitty, he needs to be focused on what’s important, he can’t be distracted. Lina opens a container and shakes a liberal amount of rock salt onto her hand.

Reinhard doesn’t try to thrust into her hand.

At least at first.

His erection hangs heavy between his legs. It’s pulsing. He can dip his hips and wank himself against the sandpaper touch of her hand but if makes more of a show of himself.

Makes more of a show of his hips, his arse, thrusting up into the air while the salt stings his prick to a swollen pink mess.

The precome dripping off him doesn’t help. Just something for her to laugh at, to feed him. Does he think he’s clever? All she needs to do is play with his letter opener over his cockhead and he’s begging.

She strokes him. Closes her fingers around his shaft, drags the crystals of salt all the way up and all the way down again.

He does have a pretty glans, so pale pink, barely touched. She pulls his foreskin back and works the rock salt over the head of his dick. It looks like it’s weeping for her and she laughs. She picks up one little crystal, balanced on the pad of her forefinger and then presses it against his slit.

He’s still hard.

Lina sighs pushes him down onto his belly. Spreading his buttocks wide his damp little asshole is winking at her. She dabbles her fingers into the salt again and gets ready for the milking.

“You’ve been working very hard, Reini, so you can choose,” she says.

“I’ll stroke you off like this.” She presses her hand into the salt again. “Or no one touches your cock for another month.”

Keeping warm in the cold might require some unorthodox measures

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Wilhelm, lieber Wilhelm, wie schön du einst warst. Erinnerst du dich an die Wandertage und den Sommerregen, als wir unter dem Schirm der alten Tanne standen wie zwei Liebende und du mich hieltest und ich dich? Die Milch deiner Haut ist vergoren, blau und schwarz ist sie gefroren. Die zarten Lippen, die so stramme Lieder sangen, sind zersprungen in rote Scherben; die Hände, die ich so oft hielt, zählen zehn Finger nicht mehr. Die schönen blauen Augen starren noch in die Ferne, doch sie sehen weder das Grau des Himmels noch das Weiß des Schnees, über das sich bis zum Horizont der zerrüttet Haufen deutscher Mannen schlängelt. Komm, Wilhelm, steh doch auf, keine Zeit zum Ruhen, heimwärts geht es, heimwärts. Krüge von Bier warten auf uns und dicke Suppen und ein Hund, der dir die Wunden leckt. Und wir sitzen zusammen vorm Kamin und ich leg meinen Kopf auf deine Schenkel und alles ist gut. Wäre das nicht schön? Dein Atem stockt und plötzlich bist du fort. Die Augen brennen, der Wind beißt. Ich mag nicht weinen. Ich nehme mein Messer, ich stoß es durch die edlen Lumpen in den toten Leib und schneide den lieben Körper auf vom Hoden bis zur Brust. Ich wärme meine Hände in dem dampfenden Blut seiner Därme, ich lege meinen Kopf in seinem Bauch. Das ist sehr schön. Ich werde müde und wir schlafen zusammen ein.

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Zuckerbrot und Peitsche

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Peiper is still looking at the map, gloved fingers holding firmly onto it, so the cold wind can’t tear it out of his hands. He’s got his head drawn in deep into the collar of his leather coat, worn out body hiding under those cracked folds that look like the remains of a starved animal. He has no idea where we are, no one does, the sky is a cacophony of detonations and fire and we all, whatever is left of us, just need to get out, but where to? And we all look to him, hoping he will lead us to safety, willing to follow him into certain death.

There is an American on the side of the road. Plump, brown and half frozen to death. He’s got no coat, his fingers are blue and he doesn’t speak at all. Peiper won’t even try to talk to him. He’s still looking at that map and then throws just one quick glance at the American. I’m close enough to see the change in his expression, for the fraction of a second there is disgust in his eyes, so familiar it makes my stomach churn. Then it seems like he looks through the American, so endlessly bored, and back to the map. No command, no comment. His silence grows louder, it muffles my ears, almost swallows the rumble of artillery in the distance. I know what he wants me to do. He’s not even studying the map, just looking at single point on it, thinking maybe, as he waits for me to remove the nuisance and finally get rid of the man.

I lead the American a few steps away to the wall of a bombed out building, not out of sight or hearing distance, just far enough that no stray bullet can hit one of our men. The American doesn’t understand what’s going on, he looks at that wall and back to me and back to the wall. I drive a bullet through his head and he instantly drops down like a wet sack.

Peiper hands me a handkerchief to clean the blood and other, grislier residue off my hands. I keep it, because he doesn’t demand it back. It’s white with a blue line around the edges and his name embroidered in one corner.

It smells like I imagine he smells, gasoline, old leather and the faint hint of women’s perfume. It’s probably just the pocket of the coat it’s been in, probably just that he used it before to wipe some spilled liquid, but the smell becomes inseparable from him in my head and the note of blood I added to it too.

He despises my love for him, but he doesn’t reject it. He gives me small gifts. That handkerchief, a piece of chocolate, a dazed smile when the high hits him, a firm hand on my shoulder, a pat on my back, concerned questions about the condition of my hand and that awful fracture. He’s so moody though, all smiles one moment and his boot on the back of my neck the next, hissing at me through clenched teeth, how I could dare to look at him like that, calling me vile and disgusting when I squirm and twist to taste the sole of his boots and I say yes and sorry and I think about how he could have me shot or hung or worse for having these thoughts, but more terrifying than the fear for my life is knowing that he is right and I do deserve it.

In the end dreams and reality become hard to separate. It’s all one, my depraved desires, little thoughts in the back of my head, the taste of his skin, the hardness of his body and the cold of his eyes, half experienced, half imagined. One of these nights I find myself kneeling and begging at his feet and how kind of him, he allows me to rub my face on the front of his pants and lick the coarse wool of it as I pull myself off with freezing fingers. Clumsily because my dick is only halfway peeled out of my uniform and every touch is a painful burning sensation. In a moment of compassion he closes his coat around me. I am engulfed by darkness and then slowly warmth and that smell of leather, gasoline and mud. I don’t get a single drop on him, but I faintly wish I had, so the stain could serve as a sign later to discern memory from fantasy.

Caesar

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“Show me,” Kurt said, “how did they patch you up?”

A tremor went through Max’s body, hardly noticeable were it not for Kurt’s hand on his stomach, placed there like one would place one’s hand on a small animal, careful not to break it.

“Perfect, good, it’s fine. It won’t be a problem at all,” Max said, his gaze fixated on Kurt’s forehead. The sweat on his upper lip exposed the lie. That was unacceptable. “Then show me,” Kurt said, smile drawn up to his eyes, which in contrast to the friendly curl of his lips perfectly matched the cool tone of his words.

The shrapnel had grazed Max across the stomach like a Caesarean section, a horizontal cut a hand width below his navel, just under the waist of his pants, which had clearly pressed and rubbed on the bare skin for a while. The cut was roughly stitched with thick, white thread now turned pink, the same colour as the sore skin around the cut. The blond fuzz of his lower abdomen did nothing to hide the condition of the wound. Kurt comically tilted his head and bent down to examine the piece of body exposed to him. Having scrutinized it for as while he pressed his index finger on the cut. Instantly, like a gun firing as you pull past the last resistance on the trigger, Max’s abdominal muscles clenched, very obviously so to Kurt, who was almost close enough to kiss the quivering body. He shook his head disapprovingly. “So this is what you call good, Max? It looks awful, frankly disgusting. They didn’t even bandage it and now look at it. Appalling.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Max repeated through clenched teeth. It was endearing really, in good spirit, but also entirely stupid and dishonest too.

“Ah, Maxi, Maxi, Maxi.. It’s really admirable what you’re doing,” Kurt said and he followed the line of the cut with the tip of his finger as if to emphasize how much praise Max deserved, causing the exact opposite effect, painful punishment. The gash in Max’s flesh though felt exciting, above and below was the soft, fuzzy skin and in the middle the sharp, very faintly moist edge of the cut and it was trembling too when he touched it. It was the sort of thing you wanted to touch again not just instinctively like an itching scab but deliberate and consciously, to feel every tiny sensation it had to offer, like the wet cleft between a woman’s thighs. The stitches were so far apart that when Kurt pressed on the slit, lips curling again in that familiar u-shape and a delighted twinkle in his eyes, the flesh yielded, split like a thin mouth and spread open to reveal the red, wet insides. Max gasped.

“Does that hurt?” Kurt asked pulling one corner of his mouth up even further, the crooked smile looking particularly cruel. Max nodded slowly as if any hasty movement could cause the finger to be plunged into the wound on its own. “Splendid,” Kurt said and with that word he did push into Max, under his skin, just a bit, but enough feel the wet heat inside and more than enough to make Max squeeze his eyes shut and groan, the sound rolling from the back of his throat and trembling when he exhaled it. Kurt thought it sounded an awful lot like the sort of noise Max made during orgasm.

Once the first onslaught of sharp external pain had faded into the dull pain of internal penetration Max looked down at Kurt again and that funny looking finger inside of him, eyes wide, struggling to comprehend the reality of the scene. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, don’t you agree?” Kurt said, winking. He gently curled his finger inside of Max like he would do inside of a girl to feel the rough texture that made her clench around him, but it felt all the same inside of Max, like freshly cut meat and fat skin that he could peel off if he wanted. He rubbed it anyway to see what would happen. There was that groan again, more controlled but still ripe with memories and then Max put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, steadying himself that way to endure the pain, breathing out loudly every time Kurt teased him with another caress.

Max had that particular quality of instantly recognizing and submitting to authority of any kind, whether authority deriving from chains of command or from charisma. He fit right in, without complaint, doing his duty and what qualified as his duty was not up to him. It was essentially a good quality, but horribly encouraging to men of sadistic character. Fortunately Kurt loved him too much to find any enjoyment in prolonged abuse. “Well done, boy,” he said as he pulled out, drawing one last gasp. “You are not going to lie to me again, are you?” Max shook his head and still panting smiled wide. When Kurt squeezed his shoulders, mirroring where Max was still holding onto him, Max bared his teeth into a grin that swallowed all of his other features. They looked like two very happy hyenas about to embrace each other.

Goebbels is captured by the Russians and brainwashed (1984-style) into becoming a Socialist agitator.

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Empty corridors. White walls. Grey faces. Shaved heads. Hard beds. And always his foot aches and his eyes burn from all the light, day and night, day or night, all the same. Release is only one word away: love. Reject the false prophet, love your new father. Confess, profess and your sins will be absolved and you will be welcomed with open arms and the light won’t be quite so bright and the soup thicker and there will comrades too and you will be allowed to speak to your heart’s desire. If you heart is in the right place.

In the interrogation room the painting of Stalin looks down at Goebbels like a fat cat looking at a little mouse. Goebbels nods and puts his signature on the last page of a thick stack of paper, his confession. It was all his fault, everything, this whole terrible war and every wife left widow, every theatre in flames and every home turned to rubble. His hands are shaking. They make him sign it again with calmer hands. It must look right. And he is glad. All will be forgiven, every word and deed and every aching flaw. 

In the washing room he slips one last time out of the prison overall that’s two sizes too big on him. In comes a wardress roughly the age his wife would have been now. She’s heavyset and wears no makeup. Her face is flat like a Mongol’s, her hair tied back in a strict bun. Her hands are big and brutal. She pays no attention to his shame, the trembling of his hands, or that terrible foot, as she rubs him clean like a kitchen tabletop. He puts on the khaki uniform that she brought him. It doesn’t fit. Neither do the shoes. She smiles. “Follow me, comrade”, she says. Oh, how kind they are. He will make a fine preacher once again. Shed the hate and onward into a brighter, better future. Every war needs soldiers of the tongue.

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Pervitin (one again)

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The pervitin boys are good to screw up the ass. They don’t eat much, you see, so no nasty surprises. Their bodies are slight, their faces gaunt. Gaping white eyes and tight little holes, pink pussies, virgin guts. Pristine boys in dirty uniforms. And they won’t raise a complaint. They moan in staccatos. What good are their bodies but to be used and abused? It’s their duty to serve. Bend them over a table, fuck them up against a wall, push their faces into filth, throw them, kick them, beat them. Breach and pierce and split and rip. They don’t mind. Man sized killing machines. Industrial, electrified men. Make them bleed (I fucked one once until his bowels came loose and the good lieutenant didn’t even notice). Put on the right uniform, order them down on their knees, kiss my boots, present that ass. And the bitch obeys and doesn’t suspect a thing. Aren’t they innocent, those precious young men? Germany’s finest. Noble features, bright eyes, light hair, tan lines, peach asses and pink hairy holes. If only I could destroy them. Fuck them to death. But they twitch like insects in their death throes, only to get back up again, uncurling the shiny chitin limbs. There is liquid steel in their veins. Vacant stares from crystalline eyes and venomous drool dripping from bared fangs. And I’m the one left feeling dead, oozing my last spoon of spunk and falling asleep slumped over their backs. You, there, yes you, with the locks. Names are ephemeral. My office, now. Kneel. Revere thine superior. Praise order. Pray to authority. I shove three magic pills down his throat and make him down them with rum and the poor boy is all mine and I have him. Sore cock up his arse and down his throat, in that order, make him choke, fill him, spoil him, soil him, he won’t mind. And once you have served me well go back to your comrades. Cut your hair according to regulations and each morning shave your face and trim your nails and wipe that ass clean, outside and inside, scrape out the cum, pretty boy, before it festers. Ah, those good men, so many to choose from, an endless supply. Until they run out of boys to make into men or until one day one of those yank boys in their terrific planes drops a bomb right down on me while I’m balls deep in some lad and we both blow up into one majestic cloud of meat and bones and shit and piss and cum. And they’ll have to scrape us from the walls and put us in a bag and bury it in a grave that says on it: two unknown German soldiers.

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Freikorps, more Freikorps!

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This a rotten, evil land. Wind blows harsh over barren fields. The sky is grey, the forest blind, the birch trees stand quiet. 100 years ago Napoleon sent 600.000 men into Russia of which only 20.000 were to return.The rest are strewn along the way, under our feet. The beautiful young sons of Europe lie here sick, starved and frozen, burned and beaten and buried alive. This soil demands blood. Red blood, white blood, Russian blood, Baltic blood, German blood. The harvest is ripe. 

No, this is not Russia, not yet, not if it can be helped. We must defend Riga, that pearl in the muck, white walls and red roofs and beautiful women with blond hair and brown skin and eyes the colour of the sea. The Teutons built Riga on blood and with blood we will defend it to the last man. Germany called and the democrats in Weimar grasped their laws by the handful and they cried their paragraphs from the rooftops to drown out her anguish but her call was louder than their screeching for those who still had ears to hear it and eyes not blinded by paper and gold. And we came for Silesia. And we came for Riga.

I was born and raised in Dortmund, son of a miner and a washerwoman. My mother’s hands were always red and dry. She was ashamed to touch me. My father could not scrub the coal from under his nails and sometimes when he coughed his spit was black. When I was young I used to think that he spat out dark spirits. When I grew older and spoke of the war and how I hoped to serve soon he raised his voice and cursed the Kaiser and sometimes he beat me and sometimes I hated him for it and thought of the black devils in his lungs, how one day he wouldn’t be able to disgorge off them anymore.

The armistice was signed on the day of my 18th birthday. When mother told me I felt close to tears. Making some excuse I ran into the cellar to cry, but the tears would not come so I just stood there in the damp darkness looking at a pile of potatoes and feeling very silly.

The first corpse I saw was a nude man staked on a tree. His guts were bursting from his pierced belly, hanging down to his feet, bloated and swinging in the wind like Chinese lampions. His hair was the same colour as mine and in his mouth they had stuffed his iron cross first class. The crows had already eaten his eyes and his face was twisted into such a grotesque mask of torment that it looked barely human anymore. That’s Friedrich, they said, the one that was captured, the one who had not taken his life in time, and their faces became hard. They pulled him down from the tree, pushed his guts back in and buried him in this bitter soil. Their eyes wept without tears. I had not known Friedrich but I knew many men like him and I knew it could be me hanging from that tree or Hans who sang the sailor songs or Willy who carried the ammunition boxes when I tired or Hermann who showed me how to hold a rifle steady, or Johann who read the Bible at night when no one was looking, or anyone of us. The warning was received and we came prepared. No prisoners.

Oh how wonderful it would be to cleanse this land. How beautiful it could be. A farm of your own and a woman with brown skin and blonde hair at your side. Clear lakes and blue skies and roaring seas of green as far as the eye can see. To stand with virgin grass under your feet, hurl yourself into the sun and dissolve into eternity.

Nichts blieb ihm auf Erden
Als Verzweiflungsstreich’ Und Soldat zu werden
Für ein neues Reich.

Let’s play Räuber und Gendarm. You’ll be the robbers and when we get you we’ll beat you black and blue. We’ll smash your idols. We’ll burn your houses and poison your wells and hang you from the trees. For Friedrich and for Max and Karl and Hermann and for all of them, for Riga, for Germany.

Now they caught me stuck in a muddy ditch with a machine-gun, no ammunition and Johann, struck by their bullets, lying and dying on me. He won’t stop bleeding and I can’t get him off me. His blood seeps through my clothing, layer by layer. I’m drenched in blood and it won’t stop, it soaks my trousers, it runs down my legs and it collects as a hot puddle in my boots. And the Reds come closer, slowly, carefully, rifles brandished. I can’t reach my pistol. I try to pull Johann’s Walther from his belt. He groans and stutters my name. Quiet, quiet. I put the pistol to his head and pull the trigger. His brain is everywhere. My ears ring. I put the pistol to my temple and pull the trigger again. It jams. Deutsche Wertarbeit. I try to get the bullet out of the barrel but my hands are shaking, I’m deaf and dizzy and sick. It’s too late. There they are, twenty of them, big strong working men with shabby clothing and fur hats and Russian rifles. Now it’s their turn to play.

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