Always with the solemn faces. The more you punch the Germans, the less they speak. And the looks they shoot you when they think you’re not looking. You’d think they won the war.

The only time I hear them talk freely is in the prison yard, when they think no one is listening. And then all they ever do is complain. If you asked me what the quintessential German characteristic was, my reply wouldn’t be discipline or barbarism, it’s moaning. They are never happy with anything and will come together like a couple of bored house wives, lamenting flaws in everything from the quality of food to the little amount of beating they received. To point out the shortcomings of reality itself was their preferred form of socializing, much like monkeys picking lice or cats licking each other’s fur. Kant, Schopenhauer, Marx and Nietzsche could only be the product of a nation of chronic complainers. Well, if history had told us one thing, it was better they just complained than made improvements of their own.

One time we found the inmates of cell complex A trying to communicate with cell complex B, which housed the officers, by scratching letters on the bottom of their mess kits. As punishment we put them all on bread and water for a week. I couldn’t believe my ears when afterwards I heard them moan not about the poor accommodation but the fact that we hadn’t done anything worse to them. To put it bluntly they thought we were wimps.

Maybe giving some of them a good whipping in the prison yard would have catered to their interests. They did like to publicly display the things us civilized nations did only behind closed doors. To them violence wasn’t something to be hidden but to be embraced and publicized. To fulfil that base desire they discretely showed each other their marks and bruises. Sleeves rolled up a little too high, so the blue badges of honour would peak out – enough to estimate the size of it, but not enough to seem desperate. One could of course not hold the head as high as they were accustomed to while also begging for attention. It was an almost neurotic habit, like a beaten wife, who covers up her black eye with make-up just enough to hide the vulgar ugliness of it and give the impression that she is indeed trying to hide it, but not enough to cover it so well that no one would take notice and pity her.

When I first got to interrogate them the were all black and blue around the edges, giving them more to show and less to complain about. Evidently their captors and guards enjoyed using them as punching bags, something I had to put an end to immediately. Not so much out of humanitarian reasons but to prevent an inconvenient hardening. I needed them susceptible to physical abuse and this sort of selfish random beating meant I would immediately have to resort to more severe means of torture if the need arose.

~

The chief prosecutor and I sit in a brightly lit office room with concrete walls and bars in front of the window. He kissed my hand with a smile that made my skin crawl. A disgustingly false personality is a professional necessity. He tells me all about the inmates, their history and command structure. For each of them he pulls out a single piece of paper with his name, signature, rank, company, the war crimes he was accused of and a mug shot pinned to it. Half an hour later 51 of these papers are spread out on his desk like a Nazi murder mystery game. 51 faces, young and old, mostly handsome, a variety of types too, mercenaries from all over Europe. The higher up you get in the chain of command, the more likely you could find a smirk instead of the proper military neutrality. I take note of a few ones looking distraught with eyes wide and chin clenched.

My first subject for interrogation had been neither distraught nor cocky. Frederick Berger is standing in the doorway of the interrogation cell with a black hood on his head and his hands tied behind his back. He is wearing a black Panzer wrap, the SS kind, with all the insignia ripped off. Maybe some lucky GI now uses them as props for his stories about how he killed those Nazi fucks. His pants are of a civilian type, grey, and tugged into a pair of American issue boots. I motion the guards to remove my prisoner’s hood and untie his hands. Another motion towards the door and they leave us alone.

Frederick is a good looking young man. He has high cheekbones, a strong jaw and thin lips. His hair is dirty blond or as the Germans say: straßenköterblond – street dog blond. I estimate him to be about 180cm tall, a little taller when he assumes the military posture. That is: head high and arm at his side, bend at the elbow, fingers together, thumb to the index finger with a slight curve to the hand like he’s begging for orders. That’s how they teach it to the SS boys and you can always tell an SS boy from any other soldier because he just can’t help but stand like that. And Frederick stands just like that, such a good SS boy, silently staring forward into nothing. I tell him to sit down. He glimpses at me surprised to find a woman in the interrogation seat and one speaking German too. I smile wide, teeth showing maybe a little too much, I never did get the hang of it.

“Your name is Frederick Berger, you’re 21 years old, the last rank you held was Sturmmann. Is that correct?”, I ask matter-of-factly.

“Jawohl.” Pleasant voice, not too confident despite the choice of military jargon.

I look up from my paper to muster him. He stares at me with unconcealed curiosity. These people have no subtlety. It is always all or nothing with them.

“I’m Edda Wolff and from now on I will be questioning you about the war crimes you committed.”

I have now thoroughly destroyed his curiosity. He does what they always do: shuts his mouth and stares ahead in demonstrative disinterest. Back to nothing. In this state I could ask him for hours and get nowhere. Of course I could slap him across the face and call him a dirty German pig, but from my experience that would hardly make him open up. Instead I opt for the friendly route, which comes with a sweet smile (no teeth) and hint of Bavarian accent. Germans can’t help but like people from the south. Not that unlike Americans I suppose.

“You were a Ladeschütze, right?”

His surprise confirms it. Well it’s not too hard to spot the Ladeschütze out of a crew of five. He’s the one with the thick arms and torso and the rough blistered fingers. The commander is equally easy to identify. Usually he is the oldest, sometimes as much as twice the age of the others. A proud father of four young lads. I never thought much about why it was that way. It wasn’t like the tank commander had an actual position of authority over the others. Did that perhaps mean that these old veteran commanders had climbed some burning tanks before, leaving their crew to die a horrible death? I shuddered to think about it. What a lucky boy this Ladeschütze was then, finding himself in my hands, not burned to a crisp in a metal box.

“Who do you share your cell with?”, I proceeded with my usual questioning.

He runs down four names and I carefully write them down. I didn’t know they cramped so many of them in one cell. I’ve seen one of those from the inside. They are tiny. Not to mention there is only one bed which is barely big enough for one adult man. Ah, how adorable.

“Four… Is that your crew?”

He shakes his head. Just his commander and three from a different battalion. Well, he got his commander with him at least, what a lucky boy.

“Are you happy to be with your commander?”

Some hesitation. He is questioning my motives.

“Yes.”

“Was he a good commander?”

“Jawohl.”, he says proudly. There is glimmer in his eyes and he can barely hide a smile. He must admire his commander so much. Oh, how could he not? To be encased in this steel plated coffin with no other purpose but loading shells, like a human machine. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t fight, he had absolutely no autonomy, just his commander’s guiding voice. What a wonderful tightly knit group such a crew must have been. Five men merged into one terrible war machine. But now he has been peeled out of his tank and ripped from his comrades. Just a boy with a neat haircut and the torn up remains of a uniform of a country that is no more.

“Do you like him?”, I ask with a warm smile.

He hesitates again, not because he is searching his feelings but because he doesn’t understand my questioning. His last interrogator must have been such a bore. How could you not savour these men?

“It’s a simple question. Do you like your commander?”

“Yes.” His feeble voice doesn’t fit his hard jawline.

“Does he like you too?”

“Yes.” Eyes down and up again in the flicker of less than a second. I wish he had put his hands on the table, so I could see them clench.

“Are you two in a sexual relationship?”

I have never see a man flush that red that quickly. He’s not just embarrassed but personally offended. “No. Please stop that.”, he almost shouts, stumbling over his own words. I take it that the commander is more of a father figure then and Frederick only sometimes touches himself while fantasizing about him. What’s the German saying? “Was nicht ist, kann ja noch werden.” What isn’t yet may well still be. He mutters something under his breath. That’s just rude no matter how bothered he is by my implication.

“Would you rather have me ask about your involvement in the hanging of the French civilians?”

That shuts him up. He’s still red and very agitated, but appears to be struggling with himself now rather than me.

“Good. Now is there anything you need?” He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t, no one cares for his needs now. I elaborate: “Goods, something the Americans forgot” – air quotes – “to give you. The necessities.”

“We only have one blanket. And it’s cold at night.”

Oh no, the poor men don’t have enough blankets. I think about them clinging together for warmth, piled up on a bed barely big enough for one of them. It requires a lot of strength not to bug Frederick about it. I think if I did he would go back to pouting again and that would be a shame. He looks adorable now with the red still visible around his ears and his eyes flickering left and right, looking for a trap or an escape. I want to touch his pretty little face.

“You can have a second blanket if you let me do this.”, I explain and without further hesitation reach out. His eyes follow my finger tips. He’s completely frozen. Just a little closer. I’m stretched out over the table, the edge is cutting into my hips. Just a couple inches more. I break through some personal barrier and he flinches away like a wild animal.

“I won’t hurt you. Just a little something for me.”, I purr. I won’t mention his reward. He’s not stupid. When I reach out again he doesn’t flinch. The skin of his cheek feels harder than his age suggests, it’s clean shaven though just like the back of his neck.

If you really want to rile up the Germans, you refuse them access to razor blades. You could take their food, their water, their clothing and dignity and they’d just take it like it was nothing but you take their razor blades, or worse shave off all of the beautiful hair on their heads, and they will hate you with the force of a thousand year Reich. I do however like them looking neat myself, too much to ever inflict such shame on them.

I give Frederick some time to adjust to the sensation of my fingers on his skin, but it’s no use. He’s shaking in his boots. I hear them dragging on the floor. I’m too greedy to wait. I trace the hollow of his cheek, the narrow nose bridge. “If you allow me to do this we can skip the serious talk.” No answer is agreement enough for me. I follow the sharp line of his cheekbone to his ear where the stubble of his shaved hair begins. I tap along the lobe of his ear and then stroke him behind it, enjoying the feeling of freshly trimmed stubble. All the while he tries not to look at me, but I’m too close now to avoid. We make eye contact. “It’s okay”, I whisper, “I’ll take good care of you.” And then the most wonderful thing happens: he leans into my touch. It’s just a small, subtle movement but unmistakably he’s trying to get closer to me. I can barely hide my joy. Slowly I caress the back of his head. His boots are still shaking under the table but he is leaning into my hand like a cat rubbing its head on its master’s hand. So desperate for affection, he can’t even resists his captor, poor little thing.

He quickly becomes my whore. Over the following weeks I pay him in blankets, chocolate, and cigarettes. In exchange he lets me touch him. I know he craves my touch but the exchange of goods serves to make it impersonal.

One time I have him undress and I study every inch of his body. I make a mental map of his scars. So many burns. He’s cold and embarrassed.

I kiss him on the temples and ask about his childhood. We dropped a bomb on his sweetheart. Poor little SS boy. He cries and winces when I kiss him.

He is so pliable. He has no will of his own, but will put his heart into doing as he is told. Germans make for a good pets.

He is sitting between my legs. His face is buried in my lap. His nose is buried in my panties. Hands behind your back, no fingers allowed. Obedience secures his hands more tightly behind his back than any rope. And he tries so hard. Pulling and tearing at the fabric that’s between his tongue and my cunt. You can do it. Good boy. How eagerly he laps me up.

He bends me over the table and fucks me as I taught him, slow and deep. I love the way his thick arms squeeze my abdomen when he reaches around my body. I’m dripping wet. His fingers search and prod and slip in the mess he has made. Finally he crushes my clit under the flat of his thumb until I can’t feel anything but his cock buried inside of me and the feeling rolls over my body and into my head and I come slow and deep.

He doesn’t even get himself off. He just sits back down, ready to proceed with the farce of an interrogation. It’s a pathetic sight, that cock poking out of his pants, so wet and pink. This time I can’t help myself and jerk him off. It takes just a few strokes to push him over the edge. He looks so pretty when he comes. His eyes are pressed shut as if in pain and his whole body twitches with each spurt. The come gets all over his nice little jacket.

I think about him returning to his cell, his uniform stained and stinking like pussy and semen. They must know by now. How else would he be earning all of these nice things to share with them? The thought occurs to me that maybe he tells them he is seducing me. That he got into the head of the the ditzy American secretary, who couldn’t resist his Germanic charms. It doesn’t sit well with me.

Always with the solemn faces. The more you punch the Germans, the less they speak. And the looks they shoot you when they think you’re not looking. You’d think they won the war.

The only time I hear them talk freely is in the prison yard, when they think no one is listening. And then all they ever do is complain. If you asked me what the quintessential German characteristic was, my reply wouldn’t be discipline or barbarism, it’s moaning. They are never happy with anything and will come together like a couple of bored house wives, lamenting flaws in everything from the quality of food to the little amount of beating they received. To point out the shortcomings of reality itself was their preferred form of socializing, much like monkeys picking lice or cats licking each other’s fur. Kant, Schopenhauer, Marx and Nietzsche could only be the product of a nation of chronic complainers. Well, if history had told us one thing, it was better they just complained than made improvements of their own.

One time we found the inmates of cell complex A trying to communicate with cell complex B, which housed the officers, by scratching letters on the bottom of their mess kits. As punishment we put them all on bread and water for a week. I couldn’t believe my ears when afterwards I heard them moan not about the poor accommodation but the fact that we hadn’t done anything worse to them. To put it bluntly they thought we were wimps.

Maybe giving some of them a good whipping in the prison yard would have catered to their interests. They did like to publicly display the things us civilized nations did only behind closed doors. To them violence wasn’t something to be hidden but to be embraced and publicized. To fulfil that base desire they discretely showed each other their marks and bruises. Sleeves rolled up a little too high, so the blue badges of honour would peak out – enough to estimate the size of it, but not enough to seem desperate. One could of course not hold the head as high as they were accustomed to while also begging for attention. It was an almost neurotic habit, like a beaten wife, who covers up her black eye with make-up just enough to hide the vulgar ugliness of it and give the impression that she is indeed trying to hide it, but not enough to cover it so well that no one would take notice and pity her.

When I first got to interrogate them the were all black and blue around the edges, giving them more to show and less to complain about. Evidently their captors and guards enjoyed using them as punching bags, something I had to put an end to immediately. Not so much out of humanitarian reasons but to prevent an inconvenient hardening. I needed them susceptible to physical abuse and this sort of selfish random beating meant I would immediately have to resort to more severe means of torture if the need arose.

~

The chief prosecutor and I sit in a brightly lit office room with concrete walls and bars in front of the window. He kissed my hand with a smile that made my skin crawl. A disgustingly false personality is a professional necessity. He tells me all about the inmates, their history and command structure. For each of them he pulls out a single piece of paper with his name, signature, rank, company, the war crimes he was accused of and a mug shot pinned to it. Half an hour later 51 of these papers are spread out on his desk like a Nazi murder mystery game. 51 faces, young and old, mostly handsome, a variety of types too, mercenaries from all over Europe. The higher up you get in the chain of command, the more likely you could find a smirk instead of the proper military neutrality. I take note of a few ones looking distraught with eyes wide and chin clenched.

My first subject for interrogation had been neither distraught nor cocky. Frederick Berger is standing in the doorway of the interrogation cell with a black hood on his head and his hands tied behind his back. He is wearing a black Panzer wrap, the SS kind, with all the insignia ripped off. Maybe some lucky GI now uses them as props for his stories about how he killed those Nazi fucks. His pants are of a civilian type, grey, and tugged into a pair of American issue boots. I motion the guards to remove my prisoner’s hood and untie his hands. Another motion towards the door and they leave us alone.

Frederick is a good looking young man. He has high cheekbones, a strong jaw and thin lips. His hair is dirty blond or as the Germans say: straßenköterblond – street dog blond. I estimate him to be about 180cm tall, a little taller when he assumes the military posture. That is: head high and arm at his side, bend at the elbow, fingers together, thumb to the index finger with a slight curve to the hand like he’s begging for orders. That’s how they teach it to the SS boys and you can always tell an SS boy from any other soldier because he just can’t help but stand like that. And Frederick stands just like that, such a good SS boy, silently staring forward into nothing. I tell him to sit down. He glimpses at me surprised to find a woman in the interrogation seat and one speaking German too. I smile wide, teeth showing maybe a little too much, I never did get the hang of it.

“Your name is Frederick Berger, you’re 21 years old, the last rank you held was Sturmmann. Is that correct?”, I ask matter-of-factly.

“Jawohl.” Pleasant voice, not too confident despite the choice of military jargon.

I look up from my paper to muster him. He stares at me with unconcealed curiosity. These people have no subtlety. It is always all or nothing with them.

“I’m Edda Wolff and from now on I will be questioning you about the war crimes you committed.”

I have now thoroughly destroyed his curiosity. He does what they always do: shuts his mouth and stares ahead in demonstrative disinterest. Back to nothing. In this state I could ask him for hours and get nowhere. Of course I could slap him across the face and call him a dirty German pig, but from my experience that would hardly make him open up. Instead I opt for the friendly route, which comes with a sweet smile (no teeth) and hint of Bavarian accent. Germans can’t help but like people from the south. Not that unlike Americans I suppose.

“You were a Ladeschütze, right?”

His surprise confirms it. Well it’s not too hard to spot the Ladeschütze out of a crew of five. He’s the one with the thick arms and torso and the rough blistered fingers. The commander is equally easy to identify. Usually he is the oldest, sometimes as much as twice the age of the others. A proud father of four young lads. I never thought much about why it was that way. It wasn’t like the tank commander had an actual position of authority over the others. Did that perhaps mean that these old veteran commanders had climbed some burning tanks before, leaving their crew to die a horrible death? I shuddered to think about it. What a lucky boy this Ladeschütze was then, finding himself in my hands, not burned to a crisp in a metal box.

“Who do you share your cell with?”, I proceeded with my usual questioning.

He runs down four names and I carefully write them down. I didn’t know they cramped so many of them in one cell. I’ve seen one of those from the inside. They are tiny. Not to mention there is only one bed which is barely big enough for one adult man. Ah, how adorable.

“Four… Is that your crew?”

He shakes his head. Just his commander and three from a different battalion. Well, he got his commander with him at least, what a lucky boy.

“Are you happy to be with your commander?”

Some hesitation. He is questioning my motives.

“Yes.”

“Was he a good commander?”

“Jawohl.”, he says proudly. There is glimmer in his eyes and he can barely hide a smile. He must admire his commander so much. Oh, how could he not? To be encased in this steel plated coffin with no other purpose but loading shells, like a human machine. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t fight, he had absolutely no autonomy, just his commander’s guiding voice. What a wonderful tightly knit group such a crew must have been. Five men merged into one terrible war machine. But now he has been peeled out of his tank and ripped from his comrades. Just a boy with a neat haircut and the torn up remains of a uniform of a country that is no more.

“Do you like him?”, I ask with a warm smile.

He hesitates again, not because he is searching his feelings but because he doesn’t understand my questioning. His last interrogator must have been such a bore. How could you not savour these men?

“It’s a simple question. Do you like your commander?”

“Yes.” His feeble voice doesn’t fit his hard jawline.

“Does he like you too?”

“Yes.” Eyes down and up again in the flicker of less than a second. I wish he had put his hands on the table, so I could see them clench.

“Are you two in a sexual relationship?”

I have never see a man flush that red that quickly. He’s not just embarrassed but personally offended. “No. Please stop that.”, he almost shouts, stumbling over his own words. I take it that the commander is more of a father figure then and Frederick only sometimes touches himself while fantasizing about him. What’s the German saying? “Was nicht ist, kann ja noch werden.” What isn’t yet may well still be. He mutters something under his breath. That’s just rude no matter how bothered he is by my implication.

“Would you rather have me ask about your involvement in the hanging of the French civilians?”

That shuts him up. He’s still red and very agitated, but appears to be struggling with himself now rather than me.

“Good. Now is there anything you need?” He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t, no one cares for his needs now. I elaborate: “Goods, something the Americans forgot” – air quotes – “to give you. The necessities.”

“We only have one blanket. And it’s cold at night.”

Oh no, the poor men don’t have enough blankets. I think about them clinging together for warmth, piled up on a bed barely big enough for one of them. It requires a lot of strength not to bug Frederick about it. I think if I did he would go back to pouting again and that would be a shame. He looks adorable now with the red still visible around his ears and his eyes flickering left and right, looking for a trap or an escape. I want to touch his pretty little face.

“You can have a second blanket if you let me do this.”, I explain and without further hesitation reach out. His eyes follow my finger tips. He’s completely frozen. Just a little closer. I’m stretched out over the table, the edge is cutting into my hips. Just a couple inches more. I break through some personal barrier and he flinches away like a wild animal.

“I won’t hurt you. Just a little something for me.”, I purr. I won’t mention his reward. He’s not stupid. When I reach out again he doesn’t flinch. The skin of his cheek feels harder than his age suggests, it’s clean shaven though just like the back of his neck.

If you really want to rile up the Germans, you refuse them access to razor blades. You could take their food, their water, their clothing and dignity and they’d just take it like it was nothing but you take their razor blades, or worse shave off all of the beautiful hair on their heads, and they will hate you with the force of a thousand year Reich. I do however like them looking neat myself, too much to ever inflict such shame on them.

I give Frederick some time to adjust to the sensation of my fingers on his skin, but it’s no use. He’s shaking in his boots. I hear them dragging on the floor. I’m too greedy to wait. I trace the hollow of his cheek, the narrow nose bridge. “If you allow me to do this we can skip the serious talk.” No answer is agreement enough for me. I follow the sharp line of his cheekbone to his ear where the stubble of his shaved hair begins. I tap along the lobe of his ear and then stroke him behind it, enjoying the feeling of freshly trimmed stubble. All the while he tries not to look at me, but I’m too close now to avoid. We make eye contact. “It’s okay”, I whisper, “I’ll take good care of you.” And then the most wonderful thing happens: he leans into my touch. It’s just a small, subtle movement but unmistakably he’s trying to get closer to me. I can barely hide my joy. Slowly I caress the back of his head. His boots are still shaking under the table but he is leaning into my hand like a cat rubbing its head on its master’s hand. So desperate for affection, he can’t even resists his captor, poor little thing.

He quickly becomes my whore. Over the following weeks I pay him in blankets, chocolate, and cigarettes. In exchange he lets me touch him. I know he craves my touch but the exchange of goods serves to make it impersonal.

One time I have him undress and I study every inch of his body. I make a mental map of his scars. So many burns. He’s cold and embarrassed.

I kiss him on the temples and ask about his childhood. We dropped a bomb on his sweetheart. Poor little SS boy. He cries and winces when I kiss him.

He is so pliable. He has no will of his own, but will put his heart into doing as he is told. Germans make for a good pets.

He is sitting between my legs. His face is buried in my lap. His nose is buried in my panties. Hands behind your back, no fingers allowed. Obedience secures his hands more tightly behind his back than any rope. And he tries so hard. Pulling and tearing at the fabric that’s between his tongue and my cunt. You can do it. Good boy. How eagerly he laps me up.

He bends me over the table and fucks me as I taught him, slow and deep. I love the way his thick arms squeeze my abdomen when he reaches around my body. I’m dripping wet. His fingers search and prod and slip in the mess he has made. Finally he crushes my clit under the flat of his thumb until I can’t feel anything but his cock buried inside of me and the feeling rolls over my body and into my head and I come slow and deep.

He doesn’t even get himself off. He just sits back down, ready to proceed with the farce of an interrogation. It’s a pathetic sight, that cock poking out of his pants, so wet and pink. This time I can’t help myself and jerk him off. It takes just a few strokes to push him over the edge. He looks so pretty when he comes. His eyes are pressed shut as if in pain and his whole body twitches with each spurt. The come gets all over his nice little jacket.

I think about him returning to his cell, his uniform stained and stinking like pussy and semen. They must know by now. How else would he be earning all of these nice things to share with them? The thought occurs to me that maybe he tells them he is seducing me. That he got into the head of the the ditzy American secretary, who couldn’t resist his Germanic charms. It doesn’t sit well with me.