Tag: jochen peiper

Wünsche vs Peiper I

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Peiper just does not like Wünsche and his toothy grin. It makes his skin crawl.

Peiper could never do Wünsche’s act, the grandiose behavior, the boisterousness, the natural chumminess. He has to force himself to put on a face. He hates speaking to groups of men, all of them hungry to find a flaw, all of them distant and unpredictable and he can’t look at all of them at the same time to see which way they are turning.

Hordes are a nuisance to him. Wünsche however loves them, because the mind of the horde, unlike any individual mind, is very limited and effectively too stupid to see behind his jovial mannerisms. Men are drawn to Wünsche like moths to the flame or more precisely, Peiper thinks, flies to feces.

Peiper’s distaste for Wünsche is even more increased by his physique, which is so unlike his own. It’s not just Wünsche’s height. He is built like a bull. Standing next to him his presence is overwhelming. And he certainly takes advantage of it. He likes to get uncomfortably close, disregarding all personal boundaries which aren’t dictated by rank. He loves breathing down men’s necks. He is very generous with his touch too. Finger crushing handshakes, a pat on the back hard enough to make the unprepared stumble. All in good fun of course, except he dictates that it is fun and everyone else has to swallow it.

The one thing Peiper doesn’t realize about Wünsche is that he has the destructive curiosity of a child dropping the family china to see in how many pieces it would shatter. And Peiper made for fine china, the finest really Wünsche had ever seen. If it wasn’t for Peiper’s resistance to Wünsche’s charms, he would be only half as good to break.

With a little alcohol greasing his tongue Wünsche begins to try his best to scratch Peiper’s armor, tear down his unmerited arrogance and tease him out of that annoying uptightness. He is rude and boisterous, invades Peiper’s private space whenever the chance arises, in short uses all the mannerism of social warfare between men but to no avail. Peiper has a sardonic reply or arrogant look for every thinly veiled insult. When he isn’t staving off Wünsche’s attacks he sits stiffly in his chair, nipping on his drink. He disregards Wünsche completely and is silent except occasionally he laughs at the rough jokes of the other adjutants and bodyguards. It only serves to make Wünsche more determined to get to him. The task becomes easier with each person leaving the Great Room, hurrying to follow their bosses like the obedient lapdogs they were, until eventually Berghof is silent and Wünsche is all alone with Peiper. It is then that he finds Peiper’s weak spot: “So I heard the little bunny gave birth. Is that yours then or Himmler’s or one of her other bucks’?”

Peiper’s anger is reflected on his face much the same way Wünsche had thought it would be. His jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together and his lips a tight line. “Don’t speak about her like that,” he says and his voice wavers. What a relief to finally break through. Now Wünsche is in his element. Demonstratively slowly he gets up out of his chair and he is pleased to see Peiper doing the same. They stand toe to toe.

When Wünsche looks down at Peiper, it’s such an exaggerated movement, he seems not half a head taller but two. “What are you going to do about it?” He bares his teeth to the grin that is his greatest asset. The comeback is cheap, predictable but effective nonetheless.

Peiper strikes Wünsche in the face with the back of his hand. It’s not a strong blow, more gesture than assault, but it comes as a surprise and it’s not a gesture Wünsche is willing to take. His grin distorts to a snarl. He jumps at Peiper with the graceful violence of a lion, sending them both the ground. Adrenaline flushes over them like cold water. They wrestle on the ground, a black pile of wool and polished leather. Wünsche is too big, too strong and too angry to make the fight last longer than a couple of seconds. He flips Peiper on his stomach and straddles him. Peiper struggles still, his hips twitching between Wünsche’s thighs, his hands looking for something to hold on or attack but Wünsche is too heavy, it’s like holding down a child to him. He grabs Peiper by the arms and presses his weight on his back. It pushes the air out of Peiper’s lungs. The iron cross digs into his skin and suddenly the adrenaline is gone and he feels dull and empty and painfully aware of the weakness of his own body. The way Wünsche’s hands wrap so easily around his arm, thick fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic and leaving bruises on the skin underneath when he moves against their grasp. He remembers noticing the thick veins on them earlier. Something to make you stop for a second, deliberating the anatomy of man.

The adrenaline still tickles in Wünsche’s fingertips and Peiper looks good with his cheek pressed to the ground, glaring at Wünsche as if his gaze could somehow shame or, even more laughable, stop Wünsche by power of his will alone.

By now most women would just have whimpered or cried their eyes out until their faces were all puffed up and red. He could fuck a girl like that if he bend her over something hard or pressed her face into something soft so he wouldn’t have to see her ugly face. Wünsche enjoyed the feeling of them around his cock and the cries he could fuck out of them, but in the end it was just a forgettable distraction. Like a deep drag on a cigarette or a shot of bitter schnapps. A brief high that was over as quickly as it came. It had left him feeling disgusted at first and then eventually just empty, unfulfilled but always craving the next high.

But this is much better. Peiper has strong eyes, clear and bright and unwavering. That kind he needed to see filled with tears. Those silent tears which don’t drag the entire body down into a whimper, but just get trapped between the eyelashes and urge him on, taunting him to do worse so they would finally overflow. The anger that had itched in Wünsche’s arms wanders, spreads throughout his body, warm and seedy, trickles down into his lap where it settles and makes his cock feel heavy with lust.

Recognizing the change Peiper’s eyes widen subtly. Disgust mixes into his defiance.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Wünsche snarls, presses his hand on Peiper’s face and rubs it on the floor, grating Peiper’s cheekbone against it like a rough caress.

Peiper closes his eyes, trying to shut out the humiliation and that greedy look in Wünsche’s eyes. The dark red of his eyelids amplifies every sensory input and now he can hear Wünsche’s heavy breathing and smell him, a mix of cigarettes, aftershave and dubbin. He remembers that dubbin smell, mixed with wet clothing and chlorine. He remembers the pale electric light, the cold tiles, the laughter and the hands. How little he had changed in all those years. Small Jochen with the sun dyed hair and the body too weak to fight back but just soft enough to tempt his comrades.

Wünsche is angry again, angry not because of the disgust in Peiper’s eyes but because of a deep-rooted dislike of everything Peiper stood for. The fake class, the useless touch of intellectualism, the arrogance over his so called decency. He doesn’t feel it in his head or his arms. The hate sits in his loins and he needs to make Peiper feel it too.

Wünsche fumbles for his belt buckle. Peiper squirms again and whispers for him to come to his senses, but Wünsche has never been more keenly aware of what he wanted. He closes his fingers around Peiper’s throat and squeezes until the words stop and turn to gasps for air. He lets go and the small body under him is slack and compliant, sprawled out for him to take. He pulls Peiper’s pants down, frees his own throbbing cock and presses the thick tip of it between Peiper’s buttocks. He wants to torture him, make him beg for mercy or better still, beg for his dick, but the urge to just fuck him raw is stronger. He forces his cock into him, squeezing past the resisting muscle and Peiper groans once, deep and pained, and then he only trembles as Wünsche pushes deeper into him, inch by inch like a blade parting flesh. Peiper is so tight around his cock he can’t last long. He fucks him quick and hard and before he is done spilling his last drop into Peiper Wünsche already feels disgusted and empty.

One Chance

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(A midnight encounter between Jochen Peiper and you, submitted by @ichhabekeinennamen)


The metal plating of the Panzer sends a shiver down your back as you sidle against it to prevent yourself from being seen. Only a few metres separate you from the café you are eyeing, and you can already see the dark outlines of men and women shifting on the windowpanes like characters in a puppet show. You suck in a breath when you hear the door open and shrink to sit on your hunches. You can hear the crunching of the snow under their feet, and you remain still until the sounds died slowly. Cautiously, you glance left and right before you jog – as quietly as you can – to the next Panzer. You peek out from the side of the vehicle and squint at the curtained windows.

To catch a glimpse of the famed Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper is what you most desire tonight. You ache to know if the handsome colonel in the news is as attractive in the flesh as he is on screen and on print. You long to know if he smiles the same way as he does for the photographers as he would for anyone else and if he talks with the same aristocratic flair as in the numerous interviewers for television and radio.

Your mind wanders to a newsreel in which he rewards one of his men. His fingers deftly undoing the fastenings of the camouflage smock to presumably pin the Iron Cross on the chest of his soldier. You can tell that he has done this before by the nonchalant way he pulled apart the strings holding the smock together. He takes his dear time as his country watches, and he flashes a smirk that melts you every time you remember it at his soldier.

You have always wished that it were your clothes that he was undoing – that you could feel the back of his fingers brush against your breasts as he works his way down the buttons of your dress. You think that he would be as deft as he was in that newsreel. After all, you have heard of numerous stories about him – stories that do not concern the war, stories from women who have been with him. And you cry to them sometimes because you know that you will never have this man.

In the winter air, you shake and try to warm yourself by pulling the wool cardigan tighter around your form. The noise in the café radiates through its wall. Music can be heard, and laughter covers it from time to time. You picture the scene inside. There must be dancing. You wonder if someone is dancing with Obersturmbannführer Peiper – if someone had her hands on him and his on her; if someone is receiving his smile or, even better, his kiss; if someone –

Your eyes widen, and you pause. A scream is at your throat.

“What are you doing here, miss?” The stranger behind you repeats in that familiar voice. You turn to him and drop your jaw. Obersturmbannführer Peiper stands before you. He has the black Panzer uniform on, the silver insignias on his collar stand out in the moonlight. You want so bad to lick the skin underneath them, but you say nothing as he approaches. He observes you with a hard expression; and you avoid his gaze, not because you were scared, but because you would reddened to the shade of a tomato if you ever looked straight into his oceanic blue eyes.

You catch his scent when he stops only inches in front of you. He smells of cigarettes and gunpowder, and you long to bury your nose into the crook of his neck to inhale more of that intoxicating scent. You know that you are being stupid. Every man smells of cigarettes and gunpowder these days. But something about Obersturmbannführer Peiper is different. He exudes a quiet sense of command, unlike the boisterous officers you have met.

In a soft voice, he asks for the permission to pat you down for any weapons, and you nod silently – surprised that he would even ask when other men from either sides would do so without consent. His palms are warm against your skin, and you stifle a gasp when he crouches down to examine your lower half. You worry that he would see your arousal seep through your dress but traitorously wish that he would put his hand exactly there. You watch as he meticulously searches for any signs of danger from you and admire his sense of duty. Your heart is thumping in your chest when he meets your eyes to say that you are clear. You always imagine him being on top of you, but now that he is down there, all you can think of is his being below you – pleasuring you with his mouth.

But that moment is cut short when Obersturmbannführer Peiper stands. Although he is only slightly taller than you, you feel yourself become small. There is something about him that makes you feel as if you are nothing – as if you are facing a god instead of a mortal man. He asks for the reason why you are here. He does not sound angry, and he does not at all sound genuinely clueless. He seems to only want you to vocally admit the reason why you are here. You stutter and swallow hard when his hand cups your jaw.

You cast your gaze on him, directly into his eyes this time. He no longer holds the hard expression from before as he has a somewhat amused smile now. You lean into his touch, and he takes it as an invitation to kiss you on the lips. You taste the tobacco on his tongue, and you are too overwhelmed to think about your actions as you let your hands wander his torso. He sighs into the kiss and then squeezes your bum which makes you jolt. He laughs deeply at that and pulls away hastily.

You see his eyes shift to the café, and you know why. It is way midnight, and the visitors of the café will be going home soon. You have to make this opportunity count. This may be your only chance with Obersturmbannführer Peiper. Thus, with a nervous and shaking hand, you touch his crotch, causing him to gasp and turn his attention back to you. He crashes his mouth against yours, seemingly able to read your mind regarding your intent. The aggressiveness of the kiss smoulders your control of the situation, and you willingly submit to him as he undoes the buttons of your dress and slips a hand inside. He massages one of your breasts, and you moan in pleasure. He grinds against you, his clothed erection presses onto your groin as he hoists a thigh onto his hip. You bite your lower lip to prevent yourself from being too loud.

Perhaps impatient, he turns you around, and you brace your arms on the metal of the Panzer as he pulls down your underwear. You hear him unfasten his pants and groans when he sheaths himself inside. He thrusts in and out of you furiously, which causes you to cry out in pleasure. He holds you still at your waist, treating you like nothing but a sexual device. The gentleman in him is gone as he builds up his own desire, and this makes you even more aroused – seeing such a controlled man fall into the throes of sex.

He plays with a nipple between his fingers whilst holding your breast. His grip on you is becoming harder and harder. He pants heavily behind you, and you take in every detail of this encounter. You need to document this in the recesses of your mind – to think back to when everything else seems to be taking a wrong turn. Courageously, you move his hand from your waist down to your arousal, and he complies to rubbing your clitoris. You nearly scream when you cum, your muscles clenching around his erection. He groans deeply. You feel his erection pulse inside you, and you close your eyes once more to welcome the hot spurt of semen inside you.

But Obersturmbannführer Peiper draws away unceremoniously, making you whimper in disappointment. Yet, you remain determined to take his seed in you as you kneel in front of him like an offering. He pulls his lips to a grin and positions his leaking erection to your mouth. You take him in willingly, revelling how he tastes like. He drags himself to and fro in your mouth, and you moan around the organ. The velvety sensation on your tongue makes you wet, and you touch yourself. He sees this and thrusts faster – too aroused to care that you choke more than once and cums. His seed coat the insides of your mouth, and you swallow everything. In spite of its bitterness, it is the best thing that you have tasted.

Obersturmbannführer Peiper attempts to hold himself upright with a hand on the Panzer. You see his chest heaving – his eyes slightly wet and still dilated. Spent and contented, you rise to kiss him, but he turns away after only a few seconds. He thanks you gratefully as he tries to remove all evidence of his previous actions by wiping the sweat off his face and straightening his uniform. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, but you stop him. He cocks his head at you and, instead, offers you his cigarette lighter. You turn it around in your hands and sees his name engraved at the bottom.

“Take care of yourself, miss,” he says solemnly and departs with a nod. You watch him walk inside the café and bite back a sob. It is not enough to only be with him for a night. You barely even know him – barely skimmed the surface of his person. There are still so many things you want to ask him about. You want to know of his aspirations, of his past, of his viewpoints, and even of his favourite dish. Your curiosity for Obersturmbannführer Jochen Peiper surges, but all you could do is hold his lighter to your chest.

Ponderosa

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The Heydrichs invite Sigurd and Jochen Peiper over for dinner.


“Do you want to see me ride Reini?” Lina whispers into Sigurd’s ear.

“Ride him?” Sigurd glances at Lina with a skeptical look. Lina’s eyes are wide with excitement and a small smile raises the corners of her lips where the rose tint of alcohol has settled. Sigurd crosses her hands in front of her chest, a pose she often assumes without meaning to.

“Yes, sit on his back, like a knight on a horse!” Lina raises her voice again, unmistakably so that the two men sitting across them at the table could hear her.

Sigurd can tell just how uncomfortable Jochen is about the whole dinner situation, in particular sitting next to Heydrich, who is an awful conversation partner having only eyes for his wife and few words for his guests. She knows that thin lipped, barely concealed pout and the stiff posture. He always looked like that at work, which had drawn her to him in the first place.

Jochen perks up his ears at Lina’s words. Of course he would, Sigurd thinks. Always with the knights and horses, how transparent he could be sometimes, even Lina had picked up on it. Jochen stares at them now with eyes like nails.

“I’ll show you. It’s very funny,” Lina says and her smile becomes that wide grin which is just a wrong word away from condescension. She stands up, pats down the front of her crinkled dress and then motions with her index finger for Reinhard to get up. Jochen sees the gesture and thinks that she is calling over a servant, a child who misbehaved or Jochen himself, but the gesture is meant for a man who far outranks him. Without hesitation Heydrich drops his fork and stands to attention. Lina walks a few steps away from the dinner table, off the carpet onto the wooden floor that clicks under her heels. There is nothing elegant about her the way fair maidens are said to be. Nothing of the Nordic cold distance, which defines his Sigi. She looks like an ancient queen with a taste for ritual sacrifice. There is a demanding sexual energy in her posture and that thick body flattered by the cut of her dress. It asks to be wrapped in furs and adorned with gold. Another motion of her finger, the reverse, pointing downwards. Heydrich takes one step away from the table and falls to his knees. His heavy body comes down with a thud on the carpet, kneeling. Jochen stares in disbelief at the unfolding scene. He can see Reinhard’s face in profile, staring up at Lina. His skin is red with shame but the fox like features show a different, familiar expression: absolute awe. Jochen’s eyes flicker to Sigurd. He finds her studying his own face and he feels exposed. No one speaks a word as Lina motions her husband again to come closer and he does, shuffling on the floor on all fours. He looks absurd, ridiculous even in his wide breeches and tall black boots, in all those symbols of martial authority. His tunic is pulling at the back, it is not made to be worn by servants. The sound of his shuffling becomes louder on the wooden floor and then he come to a halt at her feet. Another silent motion and he turns 90 degrees, positioning himself in such a way that Sigurd and Jochen can see his profile. His narrow eyes are fixed on the floor, as if he thinks he can fall into it if he just stares long enough. He looks like a mixed breed dog at its master’s feet. An awkwardly proportioned yet endearing creature, despite all of his shortcomings he is still Diana’s favorite hound for the hunt. Lina pats him on the head. Jochen feels the pull of shame in his stomach, when he sees Reinhard close his eyes in pleasure as he receives the petting. Lina’s hand remains on Reinhard’s head for a moment, laying heavy on the slicked back blond hair. Then she traces the outline of his back. From the curved neck, across the hollow of his back, where the belt cuts in. When her hand reaches his bottom he becomes disobedient for the first time and jerks away from her touch. Jochen almost expects her to slap or kick him for it, but she just looks to Sigurd who smiles weakly and him who suddenly becomes aware again, that he is not watching a theater performance.

“He’s a little nervous. He’s not used to an audience. But he’s a good horse, he likes to be sat on even if he doesn’t always want to admit it,” she says to them.

She swings her leg over his back and sits down on Reinhard’s lower back. Not in the sidesaddle style, of course not, she is not that kind of lady. She has to spread her legs wide to hold onto his broad back. Her skirt is pulled up revealing the top of her stockings. They cut into her fat thighs as she presses them into Reinhard’s side, presses so hard you would think she was worried he could throw her off, but he doesn’t budge or move except for a slight quiver of his lips. She grabs him by the hair again, the strands slip through her fingers until she digs down to the roots. She clicks her tongue and Reinhard raises his torso off the ground like a rearing horse, lifting Lina with ease. She holds on to him, squeezing her thighs into his sides and laughs like there is no greater joy than feeling his muscles twitch between her legs. The scene lasts only for some seconds but it ingrains itself on Jochen’s memory, clear like a photograph which he could dig out again whenever he had need for it, to laugh at it or touch himself thinking himself sometimes the horse and sometimes the rider.

Correspondence II

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Letter from Joachim Peiper to Hedwig Potthast, Himmler’s mistress and good friend of Sigurd and Joachim Peiper. Dated January 21, 1947. We recommend you first read this letter referencing the same events.


Dear Häschen,

If everything went as planned you will be very surprised about this letter reaching you from my dismal cell not by post but a good friend’s hands. Do not worry, I don’t intend to make you accomplice in some nefarious plan, I would not dare put you in danger. I merely wanted to write you without every word being roughly examined by an American warden.

My poor Häschen, I hope you are as well as you can be given the circumstances. Your loss is so great, yet you must mourn in secret. I wish from the bottom of my heart that I could be there for you now and make these unbearable times just a little more bearable for you. With the noose still swinging above my head, it pains me most to think that soon my dear Sigi will be left alone with the children in this hostile world. At least the two of you still have each other. Please promise to me, when I’m no more, you will look out for her as she looks out for you.

When I think of you and her it feels inappropriate to complain about my own situation, but there is some great weight on my mind and forgive me, good Schwesterlein, I need to burden you with it or I will break under it. Hopefully you can lick my wounds. My situation here in this prison cell, that cages my mind just like my soul, makes it impossible for me to do so on my own, I always end up tearing the wound open again worse than before.

I should burden Sigi instead of you with this, but I am frankly too ashamed. As long as the faintest possibility remains that she will hold me in her arms again I can’t bring myself to confess my plight  to her. I fear she would forever reject me as a thing too sullied to touch. I know I do her injustice with this thought. My mind wanders just to plunge me into deeper worries. Here I am left all alone to destroy myself. Stone becomes reflective surfaces throwing images at me that I wish to forget.

About a year ago four guards visited me in my cell to entertain themselves with me. I wish I could spare you the details of their torture, they are hard to read and even harder to write. But if I omit them completely you won’t understand my struggle.

I have told you before about the prison guards in terms more suited for the public. These men seem to have been recruited from the ranks of the worst criminals freed by the Americans. Not Russians of course, but not any better in nature. How lucky you are to have never seen this kind of man, which springs so frequently from Slavic soil. Men like beasts, slaves to their urges. They do not like me, like they don’t like anything German.

They came to me under the pretense of interrogation. Once they had subdued me they kicked and beat me with a belt. The buckle ripped my back open. In total intensity the pain could not compare to a bullet wound, but it was a more prolonged, methodical ordeal, designed to break my will. I want to believe they did not break it, but I can’t honestly say so, I only remember the soothing embrace of unconsciousness and then coming to my senses as they were fighting over my me like dogs over a piece of meat, pulling my limbs, each eager to have me next. They needed not to fight. They all got their turn. The rape of my body was humiliating but worse was it to have my own flesh succumb and surrender and betray me. I could not help but feel some semblance of sexual pleasure that I could not blame on anatomy alone. It felt like my inner most secrets had been laid bare to their ridicule. You know this streak in my character, that urges me always to push myself onto an open blade rather than evade it. But to submit to those least deserving of it. I can hardly remember our time together, Sigi and you and me, and how good you were to me without a numb pain. When I put my name under a document begging for my life there is this searing thought, that I should not, that I should await my end rather than go on as this pathetic half being which must always lie to others and itself. But then I think about a future for Sigi, the children and also about you and I pull myself together.

With increased distance in time memories become sharper again. I think about the back of your hand. Don’t be angry with me. I remain always

Your Brüderlein,

Jochen

Correspondence

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Letter from Joachim Peiper to former colleague William Jones from September 30, 1973.


Dear William,

Thank you for the photos, they really brightened my day.

As for your question about the events at Malmedy and whether I had been abused in a similar manner as you have have heard from other prisoners’ testimonies. You have asked me before and I had previously construed the question as simple curiosity in a matter of some public debate, but I’ve now come to understand that you have asked out of genuine concern for my well being. I have decided to tell you the truth as you’ve been a good friend. I don’t want to lie to you and don’t like being evasive. I trust that you will keep the matter entirely to yourself as I have no intentions of bringing my experience to public attention.

Rest assured that none of the things that were inflicted on me could compare to the horrors I have witnessed on the Eastern front. I have seen with my own eyes the disgusting things the Russians will do to surrendered soldiers of the Schutzstaffel. We found corpses of German soldiers which were used for target practice, violated with knives, gutted like pigs or burned alive. You have seen yourself what happened to the German girls who were unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the Red Army. Many Americans had no manners but they also had no malice.

Generally the behaviour towards me from the investigators, especially Mr. Ellis and even the Jewish prosecutors, was fair. They did not beat me during interrogations or ever threatened to do so. Their swords were purely verbal. They tried to undermine my character with trickery and lies. Some of these performances were at the expense of my subordinates who had to serve as actors in their plays. They were made to accuse me, beg me to lie or were simply displayed to me so I could see how low they had sunken at the hands of their torturers.

There was one incident of assault however, which I will describe to you in as much detail as I can recall. I will leave it to you to decide if you want to proceed reading. Read it all or none of it, it makes no difference to me.

One day in early January my prison cell was opened and four guards entered. This was at a time when I had been moved to a more remote but also more comfortable hospital cell. Usually one person would suffice to transport a prisoner to their interrogation cell. Another one might also come along to pick up a second prisoner, who would then be interrogated in the same or a nearby room. They did however carry with them at least one of the black hoods we were always made to wear on our way to the interrogation rooms. So I assumed this would be another one of those madhouse interrogation where I would now be made to see even more of my former comrades. But I quickly learned the guards had other plans. I say plans because whether the things they did to me were by order or by their own volition I can not tell, but they enjoyment they took in their actions suggested to me it was the latter.

I should mention that I had seen these guards before and they had always acted very harshly towards me, kicking me as I crossed the prison courtyard on the way to the interrogation room, shoving me up and down stairs and making liberal use of their batons. I believed them to be Slavic, maybe Polish from their looks and their accented German.

I followed the usual procedure of standing with my face to the wall and my hands behind my back in case they wanted to restrain me as the weaker guards sometimes did. I heard them walk into the cell and close the door behind them. One of them fastened the hood over my head. It reeked of blood. I can confirm this much from the other inmate’s accusations. He then removed the belt from his pants and tied it around my wrists, which you can imagine was absolutely not standard procedure.

Having restrained me in such a manner, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me on the cell floor. I managed to turn on my side so that at least my face didn’t make contact with the concrete. They insulted me in broken German. They called me a “disgusting pig”, a “dirty dog” and “degenerate queer.” The irony made me chuckle which enraged them more. One of them with a nasal voice, I believe he must have been the ringleader, said they would teach me humility. I refrained from telling them how any barbaric behaviour would have the opposite effect on me.

Nonetheless they weren’t satisfied with just verbal abuse. While taunting me further for not dying a warrior’s death, having been captured, not having followed my Führer, being at the mercy of them and the Americans and so forth they also started to kick me. First hesitantly as if they were testing the thickness of my skin, but soon hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs. Being restrained, blinded, surrounded and in increasingly more pain I had no way of protecting myself.

One kicked me in the stomach with enough force to make me throw up. They proceeded to kick and pummel me. Lying on my back I was unable to rid myself of the spit in my throat. The matter was worsened by the wet hood clinging to my face. I choked on my own vomit, wheezed for air and struggled to remain conscious. After excruciatingly long seconds I found myself turned on my belly and the hood pulled off my head. I could clean my throat and breathe again. I was panting for breath, dazed and disoriented. Although my body would later turn red and blue and black I felt no more pain, just a numb warmth swelling under my skin.

With the hood removed I could now get a better look at the men staring down on me. In their expressions there was no reason, hate or anger, just pure delight in the destruction of others. I can always tell a sadist by that glimmer in his eyes, the redness of his cheeks, the shortness of breath. I realised the gravity of my situation.

Two of them pulled me up by the arms into a kneeling position. The one with the nasal voice grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face into his crotch. He said something along the lines of  “I’ll make you choke on something good” which elicited some dirty laughter from the other men. He asked me whether I was going to be a “good Nazi boy”. As I didn’t reply he slapped me across the face and asked again. This was repeated several times, but a slap wouldn’t make me budge.

I told him quite calmly that I was not afraid. This was partially true. At this point I considered myself a dead man walking, with a noose around my neck. My only concern was preserving my honour, that is to endure to my end with the dignity becoming of a Prussian officer. You will not be able to understand this but in a way the struggle was thrilling to me. The memory of the battlefield still lingered with me; a wild hunt through the night, the low humming of bombers overhead, a firework of muzzle flashes and screams. I’m not made for a comfortable life. The boredom was eating at my core.

The ringleader called me an “arrogant cocksucker” and said something to the others in Polish. To me he said: “Don’t try anything funny”. Despite centuries of Prussian occupation the Poles evidently had very little understanding of German dignity. One of the others, the heavy one who had previously tied my hands, undid his belt and freed my hands. He grabbed my tunic, trying clumsily to get it off my body. I took the matter into my own hands. I only had the clothing I wore on my body and did not intend to get any of their filth on it. Watching me put the clothing carefully under my bed seemed to amuse them. They burst into laughter and called me “kurwa”, whore.

I had to strip naked. They grabbed me by the arms, one man each, and pushed me face first on the bed. They spread my arms, each man pressing down on it with his body weight, so that I was bend over the bed and barely able to move. The heavy one stepped forward and hit me across the back with his belt.

Flogging is a matter entirely different from beating. There is only so many kicks or punches a body can take before it breaks irreparably, but you can whip a man for hours and only break his soul. It’s a completely different pain too. You will not grow numb, you won’t get used to it. Every hit cuts like a blade and rends you deep inside. The pain doesn’t fade, every hit with the belt just pushed the blade deeper into me. I counted to 40 hits when my brain stopped functioning. Everything turned white. I’m counting confirmed kills, prisoners, horses, gallons, miles. I’m being carried by now dead comrades, my back is dotted with shrapnel. I lie in the charred remains of my Tiger tank, my back is covered in burning oil. The blade has cut every nerve in my body. My thoughts turn red and then only black.

The next thing I remember is lying curled up on the bed, my back warm with blood. I was too weak to raise my body off the mattress. Still the flogging wasn’t enough to satisfy them. They took turns sodomising me. It was less painful than the belt. They became angry at my lack of anguish and tried find ways to humiliate me. One of them rubbed his filth in the wounds on my back. Another pushed it down my throat. They choked me with the belt. I thought of my brother Hasso who had come to me to cry his eyes out when something similar but less damaging had happened to him. I liked him, but he was too weak. I didn’t cry.

Once they had gotten their sexual satisfaction, the guards left me. I don’t think anyone was aware of what they had done to me. The doctors didn’t work at that time of the day. Four hours later a nurse returned to duty. She patched me up and didn’t ask questions.

My dear Sigurd knows of course and now do you. I expect neither pity nor sympathies.

I would like to talk to you about more joyful matters like the wonderful weather or the start of the hunting season but I have run out of paper. You know I try to avoid going to the shops, we are always short on the necessities here.

Looking forward to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Jochen

Waking up slightly hungover

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aus-der-traum:

Jochen woke up with a headache and a sore throat, feeling sore too, worn out and sticky like waking up from a feverish night, clothing torn from his body in a sick frenzy that he could not recall, but it came to him slowly, first behind closed eyes: vague shapes, moments and words, the voice of a trickster, good boy, a tickle down his spine, rough hands, hate, his pungent lust and how much of a good boy he had wanted to be. When he opened his eyes he found himself stark naked, wedged between Meyer and Wünsche. He managed to crawl out of their arms without waking them up and stumbled to the bathroom where he threw up in the sink; it didn’t erase the memory of what he had let them do to him but it burned pleasantly.

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exhaustion

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aus-der-traum:

After three days sustained only by coffee, chocolate and pervitin my dear Standartenführer collapsed right where he was standing, one moment in conversation about strategy with a younger officer, the next his body just dropped like a marionette with its strings cut and his pretty face slapped on the frozen ground and it split his lip open, which I very much blamed on me and my poor reflexes as I was so close that I had nearly caught him mid fall but only nearly. With the assistance of that officer I carried him to the nearest abandoned house, where we laid him down on some straw and I alone watched over him like a keen guard dog remembering all the times he had patted me on the head just like one. And like a good pet I kept restraint for a good hour but when he awoke from his deathlike sleep to one less deep, shaken by dreams and murmurs and occasional moments of clarity, where he called out to me with a husky voice dripping with need, and when he twisted on his bedding like a diseased harlot and tried to tear off his uniform as if the warmth it provided was a great burden for his weak flesh, I could not hold myself back any longer, so finally, greedily, I gave his emaciated body some release, which he thanked me for with fluttering eyelids and soft sighs.

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Do you feel the noose around your neck?

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aus-der-traum:

“Do you feel the noose around your neck?” Kurt whispered into Max’s ear when he closed his hands around his neck and lifted him right off his feet. Jochen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it, Max whole body stretched out, toes extended, just about touching the ground, the muscles of his torso and his legs standing out from the intense effort of it and his fingers twitching, out of his control, the entire machinery of his body on the verge of snapping in some place; it reminded him of the way Max looked when Kurt was buried in him to the hilt. Kurt must have noticed the resemblance too, “do you want to fuck him like that?” he asked and Jochen considered it for a moment when he saw how Max rolled his eyes in protest, but he decided against acting on a whim, he lit himself another cigarette and stubbed the old one out on Max’s chest.

An offer you can’t refuse

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aus-der-traum:

There
are so many kindnesses he has to endure; Himmler’s considerate,
enduring smile, the hand resting at the small of his back, the
fatherly advice that echoes off the stone as they climb the spiral
steps together and remains unwinding from Himmler’s mouth as they reach Peiper’s room – so there is no hope of disentangling himself, so he can only lead the
way inside as always and nod numbly at the offer of help with his uniform.

Peiper’s
father had not had the same slithering ingratiation in his fingertips
as the Reichsführer does when he would undress him as a boy (those
touches had an immediate confidence of ownership that Himmler has to
build to every night, one accidental slip after another) but the
way he looks at him is just the same, so much love, oh they do love
their Jochen very dearly don’t they?

Himmler
breathes soft, encouraging noises against his ear as cups his hand
between Peiper’s legs and squeezes the limp little package of his
genitals; cooing his pleasure over what  a marvellous, vital lad
Jochen is while worming fingers between cotton and skin to stroke him
until he’s had his fill – leaving Peiper with a damp kiss on the
forehead and the tears he refuses to let spill over, staring
unblinking and unmoving at the back of his bedroom door, until he’s
sure it’s safe.

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Bent over a desk

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aus-der-traum:

Wünsche drags Peiper by the hair like slain prey and there is nothing Peiper can do about it, not when Wünsche sweeps the desk clean with one motion of his arm, sending papers and pens flying, not when he throws his plunder on the table (it tries to flee, crawling away from him and searching with its hands for something to fight him with, a letter opener maybe, but he gets it by the ankles and drags it back) and not when Wünsche flips him on his stomach and bends him over the desk and holds him down hard with one hand on the neck and with the other rips down his pants. Peiper’s legs are kicked apart, he struggles again, but swiftly Wünsche is on him, bigger and heavier than he is, the adjutant’s little body entirely covered by the grinning beast, one hand on Peiper’s mouth (in its mouth, fucking its mouth), the other in Peiper’s hair pulling back his head, forcing his body to arch (don’t snap its neck just yet), and his cock on Peiper’s arse, thick and heavy and terrifying. With one brutal stroke Wünsche thrusts into him (it yelps and shudders and shudders more when he pushes deeper, squeezing another inch into its tight hole) and fucks Peiper like he owns him (it’s impaled on his cock, rammed against the edge of the table, it’s bruised, bleeding, dripping come, it’s his). 

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