Dreams

"Killain, Killian, Killian..." Nikolai's soft kiss woke Werner, making him shoot upright in his bed, sweating. He felt the soft soviet fingers trail over the skin of his neck, felt the cold breath on his shoulder. He turned around, smacking his shoulders as if he were smushing bugs that had lighted down on his bare skin. There was nobody behind him; nobody in the room. Where was Nikolai? Werner sat there, shaking, it must have been a dream. He slowly sank back into the covers, but the scratchy material could have been the fabric of a man's shirt...He got up, hopped off the cot and started to pace through the room. Why had he dreamed of Nikolai? Was he alright? He convinced himself that his nerves were simply on end because of the interrogations. 

Wojciechowski suffered a similiar fate. He dreamed not of Nikolai, he didn't know the chap, but he dreamed of the Lagerführer. His memory took him back to the time they'd driven through Poland together and their car had broken down. Both being scholars they had no idea how to fix the machine. They'd paid the next driver everything of their pockets to fix it. And as he'd screwed and hammered they'd shared a few cigarettes. The Lagerführer - Joseph - had told Wojchiechowski his biggest secret; 'I think I'm going to do great things, Igor.' He wasn't a vain boy, his father hadn't allowed him to be, but deep in his heart he was scarred by vanity. Wojciechowski had shrugged; 'only time will tell'. But he'd already been nervous then; his friend liked to flirt, not because he was really interrested in the girls, but because he wanted to feel like he could make them like him, he liked to fight, but not because he wanted to install justice; he wanted to win, and he liked to provoke people but not because he stood for what he argued, simply because he wanted to make them uncertain of their own views. That feeling of nervostiy he'd felt back then caught up to him now. The Lagerführer didn't really care about Dr. Ziegler, he didn't even care if they found a cure to cancer, all he wanted was to feel powerfull over the people he couldn't beat. The position of Lagerführer didn't mean anything to him; he'd feel just as powerful as a soldier; as long as he could make some people hurt, people he hated for no apparant reason. 

But of course, as smart as the polish doctor and psychologist was, he didn't know it all. Their friendship had deteriorated in 1933 with Hitlers rise, and Wojciechowski had not been there to see Joseph evolve and grow up. 

The Lagerführer certainly liked power. He'd written an article about older men and young girls and sent it to the paper, where it was rejected, but he'd remained proud of his piece. It was baldy written; in university he hadn't been much more than a clown, but the text shed some light on his view; even though one had to squint their eyes to understand it. He'd written: a fourteen year old girl and a twenty year old man is not problem as long as he is an intellectual and not a worker. I will justify; the worker wants sex, wants the pleasures a female body can give, he simply sees with his eyes, he's sadist, he's dark-skinned and dark-humored. His lust for a childish body is pedophilia; it is sin. An intellectual man seeks escape in her youth, finds no question she can ask one he cannot answer. She is still free from dark thoughts and deep conversations; something an intellectual needs as a balance. She's sweet and loving, unlike women when they reach the age of fifteen and older, she's kind and giving and she'll believe what you say, she will have sex because she does not know what sex is. She'll blindy follow you into a cave because she doesn't know the dark. But, and please bare with me, she can feel all of this is wrong; and that's the key point. One day she will crack under his touch and tell him they can never see each other again. An intellectual has thought through everything; his moral compass has gone berserk, he can no longer tell right from wrong. A young woman can straighten it; for she lives simply under morals law. They're relationship can and will only be fleeting, but it will reset the intellectual mans path. He will never sin again. 

The Lagerfüher was obsessed with youth and longevity. He was possessed by the feeling that he couldn't die. He wished for one thing; Macht über Leben und Tod (power over life and death) and he found that power in the NS-regime. He found that power in friendships and relationships where he was the stronger one. 

And that's why Nikolai didn't fit into his concept. Nikolai was neither young, nor with a short skirt, nor was he weaker. The Lagerführer had long questioned his sexuality, but he'd never found an answer; Nikolai solved the question, but the Lagerführer wouldn't take the answer for one. The only reason he liked Marie was her stupidity, her foolishness, and the fact that she looked at him with doe eyes. He only liked his wife because she could pleasure him and didn't ask questions he couldn't answer. But Nikolai? He didn't like him because he felt powerful and in control. He liked Nikolai because his jokes made him automatically smile, his voice, deep and slightly seductive, made his skin prickle and Nikolai's touch warmed his frozen hands; letting all the caked blood wash off, leaving him a free man. In a different world, Joseph might have confessed his feelings to Nikolai, but this was not the place and not the time. So he continued to string his needle, sewing the wound he opened himself, he continued to throw gasoline into the fire, causing the flames to roar and he continued to ride the stallion of power. 

Nikolai was the only man who slept soundly that night. Perhaps because his wife at home had prayed for him. She knelt on the floor, accompanied by his two darling girls, and they prayed for their father.