Page 74 of Besieger
The man laughed, a low and breathy sound; his shoulders shook from the effort to stop, his hand went up to cover his mouth. A knuckle pressed against the lips, a momentary flash of teeth.
Victor liked the sound of the man’s laugh. It had been a very long time since he had made anyone laugh. Since the war had begun, it was the first time he heard laughter that was not bitter or forced. There was warmth in the sound. He found himself liking the sight of the man’s face as it softened into a smile.
“Your German,” Victor’s own mouth had curled in a smile. “It is very rural, and oddly archaic. You remind me of my grandfather.”
It was not a pleasant association, but on this man the dialect was endearing. Like he had been lost in time and somehow found his way to Victor.
Again, the man chuckled, a faint flush crept across his cheeks. He pulled over a chair and sat on it, legs crossed.
“Is that good?” he asked, the mirth in his voice as sweet as the medicine he had offered. “I have been called many things, but never someone’s grandfather.”
Victor wanted to askwhat things, but he realized he did not know his friend’s name.
“You never told me your name.”
Victor felt he was being prised open by those black eyes.
“Erik.”
Germany was teeming withEriksandErichs—from princes and dukes to archbishops and writers, all the way down to the tanner his father trusted, and soldiers running across minefields. This Erik could be any one of them, and none of them. Victor squinted in the faint light, trying, and failing, to recall where he had last met Erik before his friend dragged him out from a sure death and into this abandoned building.
Friend.
Tobias had been Victor’s only friend and confidant, and Victor had watched him die.
Across from him Erik tilted his head; a small, unhurried movement, his eyebrows raised upwards just a little.
“If you are not Tobias—” Erik began and the German words spilled out, flowing. “—who would you be? If you were not a soldier, what would you be?”
Victor thought about it for a moment, flexing his broken arm, trying to move his fingers. The arm was badly hurt; if theSchutzstaffelwere to find him, he would not stand a chance. He was not even sure he could dress himself. And yet, he was lying in a fresh change of clothes, the blood washed from his face and hair. He remembered Erik helping him stay upright under the shower, all of Victor’s weight leaning on the tiles, his legscrawling with pins and needles, his breath ragged. The other man’s clothes were all wet from the effort to balance and wash Victor at the same time.
He remembered the cup with the thick medicine, how its warmth spread through him, seeping past his lips and giving him strength. Victor had never thought himself a good friend to Erik—after all, he barely remembered him, though something in their friendship must have endured. Something had compelled Erik to stay with him and nurse him back to health.
“A baker,” Victor said finally, slowly. As if he was afraid to admit he had ever dreamt of living a life. “We’ve drowned the Fatherland in enough violence. Maybe when there is peace, we can nourish it instead…feed it something warm. My mother used to make usMandelbrot… before the war.”
He paused, averting his gaze. Erik leaned forward, an inviting smile on his face, beckoning Victor to continue. His eyes shone with childlike curiosity.
“I have only ever tried makingRoggenbrot. I would like to try and bake sweet bread. LikeHefezopforStollen?”
The confusion on Erik’s face was so genuine that it was Victor’s turn to laugh. He could not remember the last time he had felt this energized, this hopeful.
“Well,” Erik said after a brief deliberation, “then I will make sure your hands heal…so you can bake.”
There was a sudden movement behind Erik. The door opened and a sliver of light ripped through the comfort of their conversation. A man’s face showed in the thin crack; his eyes narrowed in the direction of the sickbed. How long had that man been there—and had he heard them talk? He wore the same black uniform and the same dark complexion as Erik. When he spoke, it was as if the very air stood still to listen, anticipating the command.
“Rico?”
“I am being summoned.” Erik made an exaggerated bow and tried to use his greatcoat as a cape. Only now did Victor noticehe was dressed in the full uniform: shirt, greatcoat, the lot. Under different circumstances Victor would have laughed, but the weight of the stranger’s voice made him bristle with suspicion.
He is not here for you, my friend,a little voice cooed behind his ear, reassuring him.
Erik stepped outside, never quite closing the door, and the two men began to talk. Latin. Bizarrely enough, they were speaking Latin—as archaic as Erik’s German—and Victor’s head hurt trying to make out the words, to recall and piece together what little Latin he remembered from his school days. Yet he did not need to know the language to understand that the stranger was angry and Erik was trying to calm him down. Erik’s voice slowly faded, no more than a hush, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings against the mouth of a flower. The words dripped with nectar. Victor’s throat contracted, parched with thirst. The jar on the bedside had been refilled but it was not the cool water he wanted.
Right as his eyes darted eagerly around the gloom, searching, the door closed and Erik leaned with his back to it. He ran a hand through his hair, his brows knitting together, as if he had not expected it to be so short.
“We have to leave.”
Victor knew better than to think he was included in thatwe. Even if he had been fit to walk, he could not accompany these men.
