The winter of 1944 came early and bitter.  The impossible had finally happened.  Spoonfuls of pitch black smoke flung out at the crisp sky and hovered low over icy fields littered with the bodies of men.  After years of promises and privations, the Fatherland had been overrun.  The new world brought darker men, shorter, dirtier men who spoke with strange tongue and whose eyes shone hungry.  It was the end, the downfall of values, a blight, a plague, a human disaster.  It was a horrible tragedy, a defeat born on the backs of cold days.

As she pulled aside a makeshift lace curtain and looked down upon a slow moving column of Soviet tanks crossing the main street, Christa decided it was madness.  To her, tanks were all the same.  The only difference she could discern was red stars instead of swastikas.  The day before, the south part of the little town had been reduced by shelling, and she guessed that these behemoths passing below had probably been the instruments.  Their ponderous display made her think that the Russians cared more about confidence than haste.  Their meandering sluggishness was like a parade.  As they passed under her flat, the trumpets shook the walls and floor.  She felt a tingle in the soles of her feet, a vibration that delighted the senses but contradicted the will.

Christa shifted her feet back and forth to escape the conflict, and her gaze lingered on the heavily dressed soldiers and their crawling machines.  The column drove on, followed by more of the infantry in disorderly pockets.

She had no idea what to do.  Her first thought had been to flee when word came that Russian occupation was imminent.  Rastenberg had fallen, and all the towns to the south were swiftly being swept in, absorbed into barbarism, digested.  She was scared, but she didn’t leave because she thought her husband might somehow come back for her.  He was a sergeant in the Wehrmacht, and his unit was in the fighting nearby.

A loud bang on the door broke her stare, and a surge of panic twined through her back.  The door shook as the pounding repeated, followed by gruff voices that came through the wood with muted urgency.  She froze.

The door crashed open, and she expected to be shot right then and there.  A hand steadied the door open, and a soldier pushed a thin, old man into the room.  He almost tripped over a leg gone useless under the unexpected weight.  The fellow came to a stop a few feet away and squinted at her.

The Mayor of Feldharben had certainly seen better days.  His grey coat was torn in the front, and his hair was a mass of wispy tangles blown all in one general direction.  She had never seen him without his glasses.  His furtive eyes darted around in their usual shiftless way, sizing up details that could bring some kind of advantage.  They reminded her of her grandfather’s little wisdoms -- if you don’t look, how can you expect to find anything?  In spite of the difficult circumstances in which he now found himself, it was obvious to Christa that those eyes were still searching.

The Mayor cleared his throat and pressed out the folds of his coat wanly.  The two guards stared at her blankly.

“Frau Kessler,” he began.  “It is good to see you are well.  These are trying times.”

Christa had a vague sense that his dissimulation must be the front for some kind of trap.  She glanced at the door, oblique on its remaining hinge.

The Mayor continued in an unsteady voice.  “Well.  Yes.  Right.”  He cleared his throat.  “Trying times,” he repeated.

“Is there something?” she asked and then stopped.  “Something I can do for you?”

“Well that’s just the thing.  The Russians have taken the town, and you see, they’ve rounded up almost everyone.  Most of them are under guard in the old church.  All the women and children, the nuns and everyone from the orphanage.  Anyone caught in the streets.  They do sweeps through the neighborhoods.  You can hardly find anybody left.”

“I don’t understand,” she interrupted.  “Are these men here to take me in?”  And why did they send you?

Mayor Hensen frowned.  “Not at all.  That’s not it at all.”

He began dry-washing his hands and looked down.  One of the guards folded his arms impassively.  He had the look of a man who doesn’t speak the language.

“Then?”

“Look, it’s like this.  The commander of this district, Captain Rolovsky, has . . . .”  The Mayor’s voice broke off and he swallowed.  “Well . . . he has requested you.”

“Me?” she asked doubtfully.  “Who am I?”

The Mayor smiled sadly.  “Well, you see, he has heard that you are the most beautiful woman in Feldharben.”

“What?”

“Or anywhere around, for that matter.”

Christa drew a deep breath.  Her light blue eyes flashed with heat.  “I don’t understand.  What do you mean?”  What friends and neighbors had considered a vanity, -- for she really was the most beautiful creature this side of Rastenberg --, had now transformed into a liability.  The metamorphosis instantly rankled.

She had always noticed how men watched her, with eyes that belied the indifference of their talk.  Her husband had once watched her like that.  Many men still did.  For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel even a slice of pride in it.

“He wants you to stay the night with him.”

There it was, the naked fact.  She felt raw and insulted.

“What?  That’s crazy!  I don’t sleep with Slavs.”  The last word seethed with a visceral contempt.  “Herr Hensen,” she added almost as an afterthought, “I’m married.”

“You don’t understand, Christa.”  The Mayor was growing impassioned.  “If you don’t go, and go to him willingly, Captain Rolovsky says he will kill every man, woman and child in the church.”
She raised her hand to her mouth and took a step back.  One of the guards smiled.

“My family is there, too.  My daughter and her children.”  The Mayor’s voice cracked.  “Christa, there are over three hundred people in there.  If you don’t go, we’ll all die.”

“You can tell him to go to hell,” she decided.  “He can rape me, but I’ll not go willingly.  He can’t make me.”

“Christa,” he pleaded, “please consider what you’re saying.  Some of them are infants.”
She began to cry.  This was impossible.  A short spurt of gunfire erupted in the distance, penetrating through the window and drawing blood from her resolve.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered.  His hand touched her shoulder and she recoiled from it.

“Child, I wouldn’t ask this of you.  No one would, but . . . .”

“I can’t.”

“You will,” he continued softly.  “You have to.”

One of the guards gave an order and lifted his rifle in the Mayor’s general direction.  He must have deduced the Mayor had made the offer.

“It’s time, Christa.  I’ll be back in three hours.  Captain Rolovsky has given you that long to decide.”

She gave him a pleading look before he turned away.  When he reached the door, he peered back around a thick, restraining arm.

“He says if you disappear or take your own life, the prisoners will die anyway.  He says you are free to go, though.  They have orders not to stop you.”

A forceful shove put the Mayor out the door, and Christa heard the thuds of boots as the escorts and prisoner passed down the stairwell.  The declivity dimmed the sounds, but these nonetheless echoed on in her mind with the persistence of a rhythmic and unstoppable certitude.

She shook down a silent shriek and swung the door shut.  It groaned on its hinge and struck the frame dumbly.  She grabbed it by the edge and smashed it against the frame, but it only crashed back into her body with another offended groan.

This time she kicked it.  The wood impacted so hard it knocked her foot back.  She started crying again.  She kept repeating that it was impossible, and that made her sob even harder.  She shoved at the door again and again, but it wouldn’t close.  Finally, she pressed her back against it, holding it shut, and slid to the floor.  Her head sank to her knees, and she wrapped her arms around her shins.  Her body shook beyond all governance.

A Slav!  It’s impossible.  I?  I am to lay with one of those Russian, Jewish . . . filth.  It’s impossible.

She writhed in anger and disgust, raging at a world gone wrong.  They had said the Soviet armies would be turned back.  They had assured the cowardly bombing would soon be at an end.  They had promised the victory of Fatherland and of race.

Still, here he was, this leader of vermin, armed with the specter of an act unimaginable in its thousand details of horror.  Slumped over against her broken door, she poured over the thousand details.  She didn’t want to, but visions of what would happen -- how it would happen -- formed in her mind, following one after another in racing succession.

She stared at the floor as if in a trance.  She conjured a fat, bearded Cossack with muddy boots and begrimed uniform.  He was dirty, greasy, with yellowed teeth and a hoary, lustful smile.  He licked his lips in anticipation of a shiny and forbidden fruit.  He had blackened nails, and he kept wiping his hands on his soiled jacket. 

She grimaced, imagining his bruising clutches.  He leaned closer, and his sweat rubbed onto her.  Its dank warmth traveled in waves of chills that smashed into her head, carried flawlessly by a million offended nerves.  His sickening heat had a dampening effect on her skin and mind.
As he laid on top of her, she felt the burden of his weight and excitement.  Soon her own skin went slick under his exertion.  Pockets of moistness coalesced into a humid lather, and he moaned unintelligibly in a gruff baritone. 

He moved his head closer and started kissing her neck, mouthing foreign words at her.  He shoved his face hard onto her lips, forcing them apart.  That’s when it hit her.  The panting, fetid breath stung her lungs as she tried to twist away.  But she couldn’t get away.  She arched her neck back, but he pushed even harder.  Her nostrils filled with a burning, alcoholic stench. His body odor pasted their bodies together like thickening glue.

Christa shuddered, woken from the chimera of her visions.  She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, but her tears had dried.  She scraped a line across her face, and they flaked off in a saline sprinkle.

Her only thought was to find the knife.  She already knew which one, the curved paring knife with the ivory handle.  She would plunge it into the Captain’s heart and stroke outward through his guts.

There was no question of her having to go.  She knew that.  She didn’t have any special fondness of the townspeople, even the children really, but she would go.  It was noble, and the duty was her beast of burden.  If the Russians killed them all in the end, well, what could she do about it?  She knew there wasn’t anything she could do to guarantee their safety.

She would take at least one repellent Slavic pig with her.  She hoped he was important.  She wished her fool of a husband would come and rescue her. 

The explosions outside in the distance meant that Germans fought nearby, fought on still.  The battle wasn’t over, and she would do her part.

Christa lifted herself and slid up the battered door.  She stumbled into the coffee table when her sleepy leg gave out for a second.  The scrape on her shin only distracted her for a moment before, with perfect purpose, she went to the kitchen.

Riffling through the silverware drawer, she searched for the object of her salvation.  It eluded her.  She banged the drawer up and down against its wooden housing, and the commotion sent several pieces flying onto the floor.  She kicked those nearest to the far side of the kitchen and pulled the whole thing out.  Shaking it with fury, she scrutinized the silvery sea without success.

Finally, she threw the drawer against the stove.  It broke into a morass of clamoring shrapnel.  Fierce eyes scanned the countertops.  She brushed a porcelain carafe into the sink and grabbed the weapon that lay behind it.

Christa stroked its edge and thought about what to wear.  She decided against her chemise because it was too sheer.  A cloak?  Too bulky.  She needed something that would conceal but allow quick access.

Within minutes, a simply organized closet had transformed into a chaotic mountain of discarded clothing.  She found the boot she wanted, calf length, just enough to hold a paring knife.  She spent several more frantic minutes rummaging through the scattered debris for its fellow and found a plain wool dress that was warm and suitably conservative.

Perhaps in compensation for the bland garb, she found herself in front of her mirror, primping waves into her hair, applying the last of her rouge from the caked and crumbling edges of a tin.  She placed the brush beside the knife with a delicate deliberation and looked herself in the eye.  A steady gaze glared back.  She made an effort to ease the sharpness of the look.  There were no wrinkles.

With a slowness that lasted an eternity, her eyes swept lower, drawing an arc across the mirror, past the reflection of her arm, over the oak shelf.

A hundred details froze in place, suspended in time and space for her amusement.  The darker shades in the folds of her dress around the elbow caught her attention.  She counted them one by one.  A tiny jewelry box on the shelf paused so she could study the green ribbons across its face and side.  They twisted into a neat bow.  In the jumble, she picked out a black comb that her husband had left.  Several blond hairs were stuck to the end.  Eight in fact.

Gently, with tiny movements, Christa studied every nuance until at last her scan ended at the weapon.  She picked it up and gripped the handle, edging it until the light caught on the blade.
A voice broke through the trance.  Mayor Hensen was calling to her from the front room.  He sounded worried.  His voice was rising to a plaintive high pitch.

“One moment,” she shouted.  When she turned, the knife fell from suddenly clumsy fingers onto the floor.  She knelt down and fumbled for it, her attention focused on the hallway.  An unsteady hand found it and cautiously slid it down into her right boot.  The handle stuck on the rim, and she forced it in all the way.  It felt uncomfortable.

“You decided to come then.”  The Mayor’s words came out in a breath of relief.  He quickly masked it with an expression of concern.

Christa nodded her assent, and the old man put his hand on her shoulder. “No one will forget your sacrifice.”

The guards were waiting downstairs by the entrance, and Christa felt the chill from the open door.  She missed the last step and caught herself by the railing.  Her foot had twisted, and she gave a short cry.

“Now there.  It will be alright.  Come on.”

The knife had dug itself into the underside of her foot, and every step pinched a little deeper.  As they entered the street, she clenched her teeth and tried not to limp.  Very soon, her toes were wet.

After a few more steps, Christa’s limb started throbbing in its boot.  She began to favor the other leg.  The guards grew impatient.  They were determined to make their appointment.  Focused.  Eventually one of them shoved her from behind.  She landed heavily on her damaged sole, and it was all she could do to keep her mouth shut.  The knife bit in a little further.
They arrived at the Lumberger Brau, presently the location of Russian headquarters in the district, too late for the guards’ itinerary and too early for her wounded flesh.  The Captain’s offices were upstairs.  By the time they got to the top, Christa was sweating.  She knew that she would somehow have to balance her fear of the encounter with the pang of the cut.

One of the guards knocked and ushered her into the room.  He pointed at a spot on the rug where she was meant to stand.  He stood at attention and said something stiffly.

Captain Rolovsky stood at a long curio table, looking out the far window.  He lifted an arm dismissively, and the guard backed out as he closed the double door.

Christa waited dumbly on the spot, unsure what to do.  She was scared, angry, wary, hurt -- a kaleidoscope of emotion all at once.  She held her breath to an even motion and made sure not to lean.  The boot was sticky, and she couldn’t move her toes.

He seemed lost in thought, silent and unmoving.  His head was shaved close, and he wore a heavily starched dress shirt.  The line of a dark grey suspender fit tightly over his slim back, attached to his trousers by the button.  His forearms rested on the countertop, bare skin touching polished wood.  The sleeves were folded casually up to the elbow, and his look was both pressed and disheveled.

He removed the cork of a crystal decanter and carefully poured a dark liquor into two glasses.  He replaced it with an affected deliberation and picked them up.

“Frau Kessler, I presume?” he asked in a confident tenor.  “Would you care for a drink?”

She shook her head slightly, and he set one of the glasses down.

“It’s just as well,” he added walking toward her.  “May I call you Christa?  I should think we would come to know each other well enough shortly.”

His German was perfect, but she was more surprised by his appearance.  His nose was thin, a little sharp.  Defined.  The eyes above were green and brown, hazel and gilded as he came closer, surrounded by long lashes gently curved.  The hairline receded above a roundly shaped forehead.  He was a thin, attractive man who showed a bright kind of intelligence.  This scared her even more.  He could easily pass as Aryan.

Christa drew in a deep breath, haggard from the conflict within.  The exhale was worn.  The Captain finished his drink calmly and set the emptied glass face down on the desk.

“Shall we?” he continued politely, raising his hand to the doorway of the adjoining room.  She followed his gesture mechanically and led him into his own quarters.

The room was simple.  The most notable accoutrements were a wooden bench with an army blanket folded at its end and a large table with operations maps rolled and unrolled on top.  A huge mirror across from the table gave her reflection.  A hand pressed against the small of her back, and she gave a start.

“You can still go back if you wish,” he advised.

“No.”  Christa shook her head gently.  “I’ll do it.”  She tried to keep an even balance, but the urge to lift some of the weight off her right leg was powerful.  She didn’t want to turn around.  His hand moved up her back slowly, fingers lightly caressing the tense muscles they encountered.

“For your people?”

She felt a deft touch draw the zipper down all the way to the bottom.  The dress fell onto her boots.  She thought about how to get at the knife as the Captain unfastened her bra with an obviously practiced movement.

His hand slid up her arm and stopped at the ball of her bare shoulder.  With a restrained strength, he pressed it down and bent her over his table.

Christa squirmed a little as he entered her.  He was much bigger than her husband, though the pain was nothing compared to what seared through her foot.  As his motion became more insistent, the table shook.  She watched as the unit pieces of battle vibrated, tipped over and scattered.  Her face lay on the operations map somewhere between Rastenberg and Berlin, and her vision started to blur.

He pushed her down harder and pounded himself into her body with animalistic abandon.  His pace quickened and grew rough.  The table moved a little.  The Captain adjusted.

As he finished, he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back.  She gave a cry and felt his warmth.

When Christa opened her eyes, she could see him behind her in the mirror.  He had forced her to that exact view.  He had been watching them the whole time, and his face bore a dark expression, a satisfaction of conquest and triumph.

She breathed harder, redness rising to her cheeks.  He let her hair go with a spiteful shove and withdrew himself.  She panted in fury.  This was the time.

She watched him turn around and pull up his trousers.  He started tucking in his shirt.  Both hands were behind his back.  She untied her boot and winced as she pulled out the knife.  It came out hot and slick.

Christa checked the mirror one last time.  Captain Rolovsky was still putting himself together.  She spun around in silence and struck.

She watched, stunned, as the knife lay before her, stopped in air by his grip on her wrist.  He twisted it slowly until she screamed.

“You know, Christa,” -- he emphasized her name as though it now belonged to him --, “I’ve seen many men, many women wounded these last five years.  I know why a person limps.  You can always tell by the gait.  It’s your foot, isn’t it?”

He smiled knowingly while she shook her head, helpless against the pain.

“Stupid Aryan bitch,” he breathed, twisting her wrist just enough to snap it.

Christa yelled out wildly and started sinking to the floor.  He held her up by the same grasp and eased the pressure.  Her face was the face of obliteration.

“I’ve been waiting for this, Nazi whore.”  His voice was thick with contempt.  “And this is what Nazi whores get.  This is for what you’ve done.”

He took the knife out of her ruined fingers and called to the door.

The two guards came in dragging Christa’s husband.  He was alert, looking through one eye at his naked wife.  The other eye was swollen shut, and his nose was broken.  They set him down in a chair by the door.

“Your Sergeant Kessler, is he not?”  Christa shuddered.  “Well?” he repeated, twisting her wrist slightly.

“Yes!” she screamed.

“I had to be sure he was the right man.  After all, it’s too great a matter upon which to be mistaken.”  He walked over and stuck the paring knife into Kessler’s abdomen.  “There we go.  He should live long enough to see.”

Captain Rolovsky barked some orders, and Christa could hear more soldiers coming up the stairs.  She writhed as several came in.  Everyone stared at her, except the Captain.  He walked up to the first man and said something.  She didn’t understand Russian.

The Captain returned to her and looked at her coldly.

“I told my men to take their turns with you until they are satisfied.  If you give them any trouble, I told them to do this.”

He swung out and punched her wrist squarely.  Her face contorted into a brutal silence.

She looked up into the dark eyes of a heavy soldier than came forward.  His face had a film of sweat.  Yellowed teeth broke though a lusty smile.  She tried to back away, but he grabbed her arm harshly.  His nails were dirty.  His beard scratched into her breasts, across her face.  His breath was rancid.

Sergeant Kessler died of his wounds before the first man was finished, and Christa spent the afternoon in flames as she took the seed of Slav after Slav after Slav.