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Chapter Text

The snow fell gently. For all of Europe, it would be one of the saddest snowfalls in its history. White nights, dark days... endless cycles of the same thing. Two pale figures walked through the wide and by this hour deserted streets of Paris.

The city did not know them. In fact, they were both mysteries. Despite the war, the city retained its tenderness. It was the city of love. The man ran erratically. And because the asphalt was slippery from the snow, he couldn't help but trip. He fell chin-first to the ground, and although he was able to soften the impact of the fall with his arms, the cold was so damned that the touch of the cold floor was so awfully painful he didn’t even want to move. The Austrian man who was following him did not hurry his pace, walking casually until he reached his prey.

—See what you did? Come on... give me your hand... —He had already picked up his arm, but the other man frantically moved away. Although he had twisted his ankle, he stood up and remained a few inches away from Hans, still struggling to maintain his balance. Surprisingly, he had not scraped his chin or arms, but he felt the smell of blood so near.…

He couldn't help but burst into tears... it was the revulsion and disgust, the humiliation of falling. The Austrian reached out to him with open arms; this was not the time to struggle! Now that he felt as worthless as the rubbish on the ground... —Laissez-moi tranquille ! Lâchez-moi ! Laissez-moi tranquille, espèce d'Allemand !  —The rage with which Lucien threw those words at him was so intense that it made his own body tremble. Hans had never seen so much wrath in so few expressions, so few vulgar words, on such a beautiful face… he shouted at the top of his lungs, struggling against the other man's grip, who was resting his head on his chest, trying to calm him down.

In the middle of the street! How outrageous, someone could encounter them in such a compromising position. The man continued to hysterically shout and kick, while complaining and struggling.

He slapped him harshly for his insolence and released him for a moment, though he had no intention of letting him go. He saw a passer-by walking down the street ahead, turning onto a block further down. He then hit Lucien on the underside of the head and, before he fell to the ground again, picked him up in his strong arms, hugging him tightly and making his way between the blocks. His “ beloved” was still breathing, obviously. The blow was strong enough to have clouded his senses to the point that he was about to fall. And now he could not resist him. Hans didn't want to see anyone on the avenue. Not with an unconscious young Frenchman slumped in his arms. 

On the way home, which was a good ten blocks long, he arrived at the young man's parents' residence. It was an apartment in a high-rise building in the heart of the city. The doorman was not there at around eleven o'clock at night, so he slipped unnoticed past the reception. He took the keys from Lucien's coat and opened the apartment door.

When Lucien regained consciousness, he was lying in his bed, not as he recalled his last action When Lucien regained consciousness, he didn’t had his coat and gloves on, he was lying in his bed, not as he recalled his last actions... His head was still spinning, but he had regained consciousness. He looked around the room, searching for the man responsible... and found him in a lonely, quiet corner of the room. He blew out the candle on the desk where he was leaning, a candle in a wine bottle, and then approached the bed. He had been there watching over him and observing him since he brought him there.

Almost instinctively, he recoiled, but then relented, seeing that Hans only wanted to give him the cup of tea that was on a tray on the bedside table.

—Come on, drink it. It won’t kill you. It will do you good, for your head must still be reeling from the blow. You should know once and for all... that nothing harmful would I ever serve you... I already had the opportunity to kill you, to poison you, rape you... lots of things, and I didn't do them because I didn't feel like doing them. My sentiments are pure here.           —He said, although his words came with a violent edge, like a demand. He didn't feel very comfortable doing what the other man was ordering him to do... When he took the cup in his hands, he could see two capsules dissolving at the bottom... He looked at Hans in disbelief, a confused but displeased expression on his face, ‘Did this stupid German really think I was foolish enough not to notice?’, but the other man, knowing that he had discovered the drug in his tea, did not deign to offer any explanation. He stared at him with a cold, unconcerned expression. Even so, he was very thirsty, his lips were dry, and he needed something to drink... He took a few small sips, trying to savour the medicine on his lips... by the shape and colour of the capsule, he could tell it was morphine. Morphine in capsules. He threw the cup abruptly onto the bedside table, half of it spilled.

The man shook his head in disapproval but then approached him with a bowl of a warm meal.

— Eat up. See... it's apple purée, you like that much, don't you? Eat up. There's nothing in this one.

The boy took a few spoonfuls. Although he hated the condescending tone with which he was being treated, being fed as if he were a baby, he did not feel brazen enough to complain about it, or at least not yet. He had nearly finished the whole plate. The soldier then sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, leaving the plate on the table.

          —That's all you deserve, you damn moron. I was about to knock your teeth out with my fists. It was foolish of you to shout like that. Exposing me like that. What were you trying to achieve, anyway? Who was going to rescue you from me, eh? —He said accusingly, while gently and carefully stroking the golden strands of his hair. Pulling his fringe to one side of his forehead. His touch was so uncomfortable, so patronising, and so deprived of emotions... he was just mocking him..      —I wanted to bring you back alive because I wanted to talk to you.

—How did you know I was Jewish? Who told you...?           —Lucien replied, rather conflicted about his feelings. Although it was impossible not to notice the malicious way in which the other man played on his misfortunes, his touch was so gentle, so delicate, and his attention so undivided... he couldn't escape that presence, as overwhelming as it was intimidating. He closed his eyes as the other man continued to stroke his hair.

—I had no need to inquire. I always knew. Always. And you are a fool for thinking you could have deceived my senses.

His hands went to his wrist, and he took it in his.

—Lovely watch, it's Swiss, isn't it? A Tissot.…

Lucien understood what he had been trying to say; it finally clicked. His father's initials were engraved in Hebrew on the watch. He had told him, when they first met at the bar, that the luxurious watch had belonged to his late father. Lucien tried to pull his arm away, but the man held it tightly in his hand.

—What surprised me most was that you were the one who was indignant here. I never lied to you, little boy. You always knew exactly who I was. Regardless of whether I had known from the beginning that you were Jewish, the fault lies with you, not me. Why did you keep looking for me? Why did you even look for me? You rushed off hysterically when I confronted you, believing that you had fooled me until then, that you had outsmarted me until then. Why did you do it in the first place?

Finally, he released his grip on his wrist. And the man seemed reluctant to speak. After having had a heated argument in some other bar, after having played hide-and-seek for a while, it seemed that the time had come to rectify the situation.

Deep down in his heart, he always understood how terrible it was, the damage it did to his will every time they met, or stayed at his home... yet he had come to think that things were less grim than they seemed at first glance. That he wasn't sick, that it wasn't disagreeable and repulsive... He had found so much affection and attention in that man, whom he had met shortly after his father's death, as a glow, as a colour in the pitch-dark world he knew, a man with colour and history... Now there had been no reaction on his part, the joint forms shaping an unruly character, a despicable man, an agent of evil. A sinner guilty of being an imminent and irreconcilable enemy of all the righteousness and benevolence within the Mankind. A menace to someone like him. Even so...

—When you ask me like that... I simply don't know. Maybe it was to get the satisfaction of not being treated differently... or, no, that's a very vain reason... I suppose I was very lonely... and you were so easily lovable, despite everything... I don't know, it's strange to describe.

—Sounds a bit daft. Am I not as terrible as you initially thought...?

—It’s not that I think that.

—Well, then.

—What will be of me?

—Someone will pull the trigger right up to your head, but it won't be me.

Lucien raised his head to look at him after hearing that. It wasn't comforting at all, and he still doubted the man's true intentions – although something seemed to please him, and that was the fact that all this time he knew his secret, and yet... no, that only made things worse. It wasn't a pleasant exception.

The young man unbuttoned his shirt, leaving only his white undershirt. Hans, who was still sitting next to him, was a little surprised that he preferred to cool off in the harsh, cold environment of the room rather than simply rest between the warm sheets. His body was all bone. He began to caress his shoulders with his cold, rough hands, and Lucien simply let him do so without resistance. Hans leaned back on the headboard and drew the young man into his arms, pulling him close and resting his head on his chest.

—It seems you have a penchant for fatherly affection, don't you? Silly Jewish boy.  I’ll stay here for the night.

The young man did not answer. He was too caught up in his own thoughts to discuss it now, and he was so very cold. Hans hugged him tightly, running his hands over the beautiful contours of his body. He was a tall, lean man, but even so, he was easily appeased. He didn't understand if it was the age difference or the twisted dynamic, but the one who would have been an implausible victim turned out to be the most delightful. Fascinated, he kissed his hair, then moved down his neck and shoulders. Perhaps it seemed horrible and unthinkable to him, but he didn't resist, he never did, and he loved having the young man always at bay.

—Your cologne is simply delightful, darling. It’s tragic that you ended up being nothing but a poor waste of everything you and your parents work for.

They stood in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. They knew silence well; not a single soul could be audible at that hour. It was gratifying and disturbing at the same time. Lucien moved away a little, and noticing that he wanted to stand up, he let go of him. He walked barefoot, pretending not to mind the cold, as if he did not want to return to the warmth of his bed and the man in it... but Hans knew better than him. He thought for him.

The apartment was open plan, and from the master bedroom he could see into the dining room. He walked through the living room, looking at the young man at the refrigerator. There was nothing but milk, cheese and butter. He took a large piece of cheese and a knife, then sat down to eat at the bar.

Hans had lit the fireplace before, so he was not bothered about being almost half naked in the cold apartment. He saw the Austrian man sit down next to the fire, in a chair near it. They had a lot to say to each other, but they let it go for now. Hans observed him almost obsessively. He would never admit that he was genuinely attracted to a young man of only 17... it was revolting. Even so, something motivated him to keep seeking him out and giving him what he wanted every now and then. It was not comparable to the feeling of possessing a woman and then discarding her. Women were shallow and superficial, but this man had character and history, interesting and tragic, and so beautiful, despite being just a poorly fed young Frenchman. ‘Women indeed are such a despicable and vulgar creatures.’ he thought, ‘Nothing could compare to this guy next to me…’ The first time he had taken him, the nervous and still dazzled boy had asked him if a woman's company was as charming as his. Hans replied, ‘No, not at all... what you are looking for, you would never find in a woman.’ He had rejoiced in knowing that he knew nothing better than him. That was the allure. There was no way forward or backward; Hans was his only past and his only future.

There was a small pot on the fireplace. He took it off the heat; it must have warmed up since he left it there.

He approached the kitchen counter, where the young man was still sitting, and poured two cups of hot wine. It wasn't a mulled wine with fruit and a sugary flavour... it was the nostalgic, bitter drink he used to have since his childhood, and especially in these days of war. He appreciated the gesture to a certain extent and smiled slightly at Hans when he gave it to him.

—I would have preferred you to leave me on the street when I fell. I have no desire to continue living.

—You make my job too easy, lad.

—The path I have taken tonight corresponds to my indifference towards life. I have allowed myself to be slapped, knocked down, dragged along...

—You are very precious to me. I have never been fascinated by anyone the way I am by you.

He disbelieved every word the older man said. And he hoped he was lying. It would be so strange to have those feelings. But in a dead zone, where the only pride is arrogance and there are no feelings more complex than pride, it was all too easy to discern and fall into cruelty, into what is not normal.

'I can see through that gaze full of nothingness, envy or pity. If life weren't so tedious and unsettling for you, you would be content living the life that is yours, but you feel a lot, and you lie a lot. You live trapped in your own words, and when you look at me, or when you look at the ceiling, you see nothing. You never had the time to look me straight in the eye and uncover my emotions outside of words. I almost sympathize with you. Because at the end of the day, you're just a poor wretch, nothing more, a beautiful little creature and a poor bastard, and your incredulity is my delight.'

—Have you ever thought about what will become of you after the war?

After a few sips of hot wine, Lucien’s lips were stained a beautiful rusty red. Ironically, the alcohol only made him feel more sober... his words dragged on, he felt heavier and heavier... every touch with reality more insipid.

—Every night of my bloody existence... I've been thinking about maybe... moving to America. I've heard Canada is good too... or maybe I'll just stay here...

Hans couldn't help but laugh when he heard the innocent expectations that were still forming in Lucien’ head after experiencing such a depressing journey into manhood.

—Suppose the Allies win, which is ludicrous. Tell me, what will you do every time you think of me? What will you do without me? Everything we experienced will never be erased from your memory, and it will come back to you like new news every time you try to forget, because I will be gone, and your heart will remain with me.

Those words attempted to crush his thoughts and mind; he knew it. He suddenly felt a profound solitude that had been inaccessible until then. Perhaps he had not considered the role that man had played in his life, but the mental image of him, in the same tenement, but without Hans, seemed even worse than anything he could have imagined at that moment. For the first time, loneliness seemed worse than helplessness, and all its forms. There is no way to love, or to be a man, if you are not free. Of course, he was too young to truly grasp the enormous mistake he had made.

—But... what if Germany remains undefeated? What will become of you, young man? Homosexual and Jewish… The least you'll get with that is in a camp, doing forced labour. Or worse.

He didn't mince his words either. He didn't even intend to torment him further, it was just a warning. One that was quite possible at that moment. He approached him with a hug. He intended to erase the aftermath of his terribly sharp words with an affectionate kiss on his hair.

—Well, let's just say you end up in Manhattan, or in Canada... What will you do alone and lonely, if you know you can't take care of yourself? No... you need someone, you need me. How can you expect not to think about me? Every time someone is in your bed, someone other than me... how can you explain that? 

—I prefer to think that in the future, this will remain in my vague memory as a trivial experience from my teenage years...

—I mean much more to you than that.

—Yes, but it doesn't matter. This is more embarrassing for me than it is for you. I'm sitting in my house with a man who may or may not have murdered my parents, and even under that tedious and horrible possibility, I've let him sleep here, slip between my sheets, let him feel at ease rather than yelling at him or killing him, as any decent man would do. I'm disgusting!

And then he slumped down on the kitchen counter, his head resting on the counter. Always so dramatic... The house was again filled with complete stillness and silence. Somewhere deep in his heart, something urged him to reassure him. It wasn't love. It couldn't be, anything but love. He embraced him again, pulling him close, and began to quietly sob. Just like that night in the bar, when he had met a little bourgeois French boy, whom he found charming, and whom Hans was more than willing to give him his share.

It might have been the smoothness with which the musician played the saxophone, or perhaps it was a particularly warm autumn night... but those feelings of first-sight delight returned from time to time. They led him to believe that all this was not due to some strange morbidity, or simply malice against a young orphan bewildered by his situation. In any case, he had enjoyed the experience too much to let it slip away before his eyes. Although the other man was frightened, horrified by him, Hans felt that what he would do would be above all a gesture of compassion towards him.

Hans kissed him and clutched him tightly, touching him under his white shirt and fondling him. Better to give in. Better not to feel anything. Better something than nothing. His legs failed him as he walked towards the bed; he couldn't feel himself walking. Or maybe Hans was carrying him; he couldn't quite remember how he got to the room. Every thrust, every motion felt so pronounced, but he felt nothing. A mental blank, an incomparable numbness that stunned all rational thought for a big while.

It was probably four in the morning, and there was still an eternity to go before sunrise. Hans was sitting on the bed, and for lack of sleep, he was smoking, the ashtray on the bed. Never in his more than forty years of life had he felt so desolate. So disoriented, so sentimental that tears threatened to fall. He looked at the naked young man next to him, who was still asleep from fatigue and morphine, which had completely clouded his senses after about thirty minutes. He always preferred to abuse him rather than to have sex with him. It was more thrilling, it felt like fucking a corpse. But if only the corpse could speak, he felt so lonely in company...! He had never felt remorse for his work. He believed in the cause, and he believed it was necessary... but perhaps the war had taken too much from him as a soldier, and he just wanted to be a man. With all the mistakes and feelings that came with it. It was a privilege to be as unhappy as Lucien, Hans thought.

Chapter Text

          If only I could have imagined the terrible suffering I would experience for the rest of my life, I would have let myself be killed at the first given opportunity. However, there would have been nothing more pointless than backing down after all my efforts had already been exhausted. When there is nothing left to lose, it is not the time for surrender. One has given everything, fought long enough. Why kill oneself when it is too late?

—Berman, take your coat. It's quite cold outside.

I walked alongside Hans, whether out of fear or habit, I don't know, but there was something that simply compelled me to do it every single time. As if I had never known the consequences of my actions, even though I had experienced them first-hand.

I've felt stupid lately, but I think I'll cease to be so from now on. I couldn't see clearly, but now I can. I can excuse myself by saying that, despite everything else I am, I was innocent, not malicious... I didn't know the guilt and despair of an adult. But this morning, alone and worn out in my room, I didn't hear the noise of movement around me, nor did I hear my childish ravings. I found myself admiring life as it is, I don't get lost in that definition, it sounded like disillusionment and implausible despair.

No money was in my wallet, which I kept in my trousers, which were lying around on the floor. I also heard that shrill voice of that German man, who was complimenting me on last night, and a couple of bruises on my back, which were not inflicted by me. I normally hurt myself on my thighs, sometimes hitting myself so hard with the belt that it hurts when I walk, and my skin is covered in bruises. I believe I stopped doing it a few days ago and should do it again.

I believe that every man gets his share of reality when he is young, but I have already had too much. So much that I wouldn't even care to take advantage of it. I am no more mature than I was before, I am not a better man, nor am I more of a man, to be frank. It has been nothing but constant suffering that never ends. Just when I think that life cannot curse my existence any more, it does, somehow. And none of that makes me understand. But after being drugged, robbed, raped, and belittled in the process, I feel like life has just smacked me in the face. A lesson I wish I hadn't had to learn the hard way. Oh, if only I had someone to make me see sense, but I'm selfish and I can't give myself up to the streets or the ‘authorities’. Much less kill myself. I don't have the courage to give it my all, and it would be a shame to leave this world as a miserable bastard in my last breaths.

I must admit that I have been so traumatised and horrified by living again that there is not much prospect of that happening, which is perhaps why I let myself be led astray by that terrible man. And I did not have the agency that I acquired in just one morning, for the purity of my mind is already greatly diminished, and I am capable of imagining evil as it is.

The streets were still at this time of the night. The city was well lit by the new establishments and the new Imagery that could be seen in the streets. What Lucien liked most was seeing the perspective of ordinary people at this time of night.

Even language was not coarse enough to express himself, Hans thought. French was a soft and expressive language, German was less vulgar but less mellow. He lacked the ability to convey the sheer power of that lovely, sparkling gaze, which was a sensation in itself. His body had acquired a strange feeling of happiness, of optimism. He was usually a very rigid man, so much so that he never admitted how he felt emotionally, but having left certain assumptions behind, he felt quite happy to have taken what he wanted and what he had.

—Du bist so still.

—Ich bin still.

—I know you well. You're not a silent man, just shy, but you easily loosen up, right?

—I don’t feel like talking.

Wandering the streets as if he owned them, taking life with the rigidity and resilience of a man who knows what he has and what he is not willing to lose, that was Hans. They stopped for a moment at a half open magazine and postcard shop. The young man looked impatiently from side to side, nothing he saw mattered to him. Hans leafed through some magazines.

—I sympathise with you, young man, I really do...      —said the Austrian as he leafed through the pages without dwelling on anything in particular.

—I too grew up hearing everyone talk of democracy and parliaments... things that never really worked, neither in Germany nor in Austria. Those are bygone days, of course. And I am proud to be part of such an important peacekeeping enterprise for all of Europe and the world! Over time, you simply begin to appreciate it. It is a delight, an art even, how effective our system is.

He lingered on a specific page of a magazine and showed it to the young Frenchman – nude photographs of beautiful black and gypsy women posing for the low-class cabarets of Paris. Lucien simply looked away, embarrassed and disgusted at the same time. Yet, he blushed a bit.

Hans chuckled a little at the young man's innocent reaction.           — But I thought you said you wanted to move to America? I'm looking for a nice postcard for you...

Leblanc, the man running the place, who knew Lucien, observed the odd scene attentively from a distance. It was so bizarre, a German soldier and a young man, on what appeared to be a friendly outing. Monsieur Leblanc exchanged a few glances with young Lucien Berman. He did not know whether they were looks of disfavour or amazement.

—Monsieur Louis Bayrou, what do you think of this lovely postcard? Would you like me to buy it for you? It would be for your parents.

Berman rolled his eyes when he heard the man referring to him by the alias he used. Leblanc seemed quite surprised by this, but then again, it was none of his business.

—No... I don't want anything.

—No? Well, nothing of interest in here, it seems. I have hope one day you French will have something better to adore. To your betters. We're saving you from those nègres and the Jews! Am I right or am I right, Monsieur Leblanc?          —The man who looked at the exchange with curiosity simply nodded, and Hans grinned wryly. He found the passivity of the Frenchmen truly remarkable.

—We still have a lot of work to do, but we'll take it one step at a time, won't we?   

Leblanc looked at him with such abhorrence, “who does this stupid Kraut think he is, and why is he with him?” But of course these were just thoughts.          —“My English is not very good, Monsieur. Qu'avez-vous dit ?”

Hans was more than satisfied with that. Berman was rather embarrassed, left the establishment, and waited for his companion at the exit. There were still a few men out on the street, most of them not French.

Rather, he was annoyed by listening to his preposterous political speeches. He felt so conflicted about his emotions. Oh, how easy it was to forget what was important. He felt important when he was with him, how bloody sick, what delirium. Not as less as a strange romantic relationship.

His stomach churned just remembering it, ‘Oh, mein süßer Junge. Wie sehr ich dich liebe...’ While he sweet-talked him with sweet nothings... it even seemed as if he was forcing him to feel guilty after the night, reminding him what kind of man he was dealing with, in case he forgot. Sometimes he remembered with such fondness the good deeds of this Nazi bugger, whatever those deeds may have been, whether they were motivated by hypocritical or malicious intentions.

They walked like strangers, as if they did not know each other on the streets, between the distances, it was easier to forget what they were really doing.

They walked around the city for quite some time, until night had fallen a little more, and in a few streets, it was just the two of them and the city. Hans enjoyed the other's company, more in his arms than in any other way. His arm went around his companion's shoulder, and they continued their aimless wandering.

—You'll never convince me that you loathe me enough. I don't believe it; life with me is that easy. Do you see this beautiful city, abandoning rubbish for its grandeur? Isn't it beautiful? Those spinning lights, way out games and dizzy heights below you… And if I ought to hate you, I couldn't, my sweet. Even if you can't comprehend a word I say... It's terrible to try to talk to and understand a man who is predisposed to not being your equal. If only you could understand...

Some echoing soft piano notes could be heard in the city, along with some chattering, life beyond what they could perceive. What a beautiful feeling! A charm that could sway one, then burn and betray one, but thrill one the way only he does. He didn't see that feeling as something sacred and special, but as an interesting gamble on life, rolling the dice, no matter what the outcome, it didn't matter, because playing with someone's life in your hands was so addictive. Within his heart, incandescence ignited when he was with him.

It reminded Lucien of times gone by, when the night was magical, filled with the sweet aroma of wine, olives and liveliness, jazz and a touch of fun...

—I hope you know where we're going.

—No, as a matter of fact, I thought you would know, where are we heading?                    —The young Frenchman asked, somewhat confused.

—I am by no means referring to the path we are currently taking.

—What we have done…

—Much more than fate had in store for us! I know! Have you ever felt that fantasy unfold in your life, and then not known what to do with it?

—No... I don't feel the same way. In the end. I think... fantasy? What do you mean? This is anything but something imaginable or desirable...

—Ah, but I find it just fine.

Lucien couldn't believe such cynicism in so few words. Or the nature of the situation. One of them. It was harder to imagine a negative response maybe he was the one who was confused. But one of them was right about the true to his words than he would have liked. He leaned against the wall of an alley that was impassable at that hour. He could not imagine anything more shameful than the role he was playing in history. But hell, he was weak, though no more so than yesterday.

Monsieur Berman adjusted the collar of his shirt while shaking his head.             —I cannot stand your affection for me; I find it repulsive.

—It is not indifferent to you.

—I hate it. And I hate myself.

—That's not true, ‘Louis’. You love me enough, and I'm glad about that.    —That smile that was ever so deceptive, so apathetic within the pleasantness it sought to convey.

The wind blew cold, and no matter how hard he tried to feel indifferent, he was unable to burden his heart with such desolation. Hans watched him curiously, with a stern expression, trying to guess at all those little knots forming in his heart...

—Ah, but what difference would it make? Nothing changes, at the end of the day...

—Was meinst du damit? Sag es mir, sei klar.

—While I am here, living through what seems to be a terrible nightmare from which I cannot break free, no matter how hard I try to escape, I have found something much less painful for my compliance. You...

Anything more explicit would have been unnecessary. The breeze breathed on them both, life urging them to live more than ever. In times of war, the only thing that matters to man is living. Their faces were flushed from the cold, their bodies shivering. Their minds looked bolder, and they seemed to have seen something less deceptive than reality. Possibilities rubbed against the vast air, which felt both scorching and suffocating at the same time. Lucien continued walking along the sidewalk, and Hans, who followed him from a distance, seemed less foresighted than before.

There was a small bridge, which was hardly ever used, but very beautiful. It was so cloudy that the moon was not visible in the sky, but it was still a beautiful sight. There was not much to be thankful for, but at the very least he could look up at the sky. Despite being born into a Jewish family, he had never been particularly spiritual. But at that moment he felt a special connection with the One above, whoever that might be. The moon, or God. One could say that life smiled back at him. He had never been so busy with the present until now; he no longer saw things as they were, nor as they would be.

Hans stood a good three metres behind him, watching him.

They contemplated the gentle movement of the water beneath them. An idea came to him, ‘What if I jump?’ ‘Why would I do that?’ ‘Just for the sake of it, even though I know it's pointless.’ But no... he didn't dare.

He leaned against the bridge, turning his back on that possibility. It had stopped snowing, but it was terribly cold, and it had rained all day.

He would love it if he could lie down in the snow and freeze to death. He had wanted that for so long, ever since winter came! He took off his coat and threw it on the floor. He was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Hans stopped about 10 centimetres away from him. He found the poor boy leaning against the bridge.

—You'll never amount to anything as a man. When will you become a man, young lad?

The soldier smiled at him. They were in the middle of the road, any car could have passed by at that hour... even so, he approached him, cornering him against the edge of the bridge, and took his face gently, even softly, and kissed him... Lucien was too stunned, but he still let himself be kissed, even though the feeling had been too much to throw that old man into the river with him, or take him in the same way, he couldn't decide what to do.

He advocated for a sweet ending. His hands took the young man's head, as if he were holding something precious in his hands, and kissed his face, admiring every detail of that beautiful face. His mind wandered among his emotions, trying to explain how he could feel such admiration for someone as detestable as this Jewish bastard.

He had never experienced love. Oh, how idiotic! He had never felt it; his mind was not easily discernible either. It was not what moved his heart, it was his impulse, an overwhelming urge to simply give himself, but even such a vague explanation was quite emotional. He leaned against the bridge, their faces close together, facing each other. Lucien was confused, unsure, so excited that he gasped softly, he felt like crying... yet surprisingly, the man looked at him with the same disbelief and surprise, the same shock, as he did. He didn't understand the reason behind it either... The young man took him by the neck, between his arms, and Hans, still stunned by what he had just done, cradled him between his body, if someone would think of passing by... they would be damned.

—Willst du das, Louis? Willst du es?

The young man did not respond. His heart was beating wildly, and he was breathing so close to him that the other man was taking his breath away. Hans smiled at him and rubbed his nose against his, a gesture that was as exciting as it was romantic, as teasing as it was patronising.

—Warum rennst du nicht weg? Warum versuchst du nicht, mich jetzt zu töten, uns beide zu töten? Willst du dich unter die Brücke in den Fluss stürzen? Willst du, dass ich mich auf dich stürze oder mit dir zusammen? Gut, warum nicht?

Lucien couldn't prevent himself from smiling... his words always had an engaging effect on him. Not that he felt his body surrendering to what he already knew, it was something else, the intensity with which he brushed his impressions upon him. Furthermore, the connotation of his gesture...!

A Mercedes Benz drove by, not stopping long enough, and the headlights weren't working at that moment, although it was likely that the driver had recognised the two silhouettes. Both watched the vehicle fade away, leaving them once again in darkness and tranquillity. The young Frenchman laughed even more... out of nervousness and discomfort, while the Austrian man tried to do the same, to laugh...

—One cannot imagine the terrible suffering that my existence entails!

—Don’t even attempt to get off me. I want to stay like this longer.

Lucien rarely raised his voice; he was subdued, as it was appropriate for him to be, fearful. But he didn't seem to care anymore.

—I love tragedies for at least I get to feel anything, at least I'm still here... at least I can kill myself mentally by thinking about them, and get a chance to drink wine the next morning, that's it... I love you...

The German soldier, who still held him in his arms, felt as uncomfortable as he was pleased by the other's bizarre sentimental declaration. He didn't feel remotely similar, but he was delighted to know how much his life depended on him. Moreover, he was charmed to know that nothing was too horrible for this poor child, nothing seemed to matter to him in life, nothing very valuable. And he could live with that. Hans could also live with his life amidst his own desires. He lowered his head and kissed his hair again. The blond locks that still shone in the dim night light seemed so beautiful to him.