Past Tense, Part Four, chapter three

[skull_bearer]

Part Four, chapter three

It was early when they sleep, after the disturbance the previous night they were both still tired, and when they wake up it was barely light. It’s almost mechanical, like clockwork. Eyes close, they sleep, eyes open. Like a switch. It used to be they’d be wide awake when they woke up, but that’s faded.

Again, the security has changed them. Even in the hospital, surrounded, Erik had been able to doze, although how much of that was fever and how much was assurance he didn’t know.

He is acutely aware of Charles lying next to him. Although he’s technically lying on a separate bed, Erik knows he’s there, a warm presence he can almost feel. It’s strange, but so familiar it no longer registers.

“Erik?” Charles voice is soft, but starts Erik out of the half-doze he’d sunk into. “Are you awake?”

“Hmm.” He grunts assent, and rolls over on his back.

Charles’ hand touches his arm. Apparently that assurance was all he needs, because he doesn’t speak again, gently rubbing circles on the skin with his thumb. He squeezes gently, his fingers almost surrounding Erik’s arm.

They had, before. When they had first left the hospital, and before when Charles had half-dragged, half-carried him out of the rotten Belsen barracks. He didn’t remember much of that, but he did remember slipping and almost falling, held up only by Charles’ grip on his forearm. He didn’t know how his friend had kept his grip on his arm, or how he’d gotten him upright and on the train, because at that moment the pain shot through his shoulders, the fever gripped his mind and he was in the station once again room, hung from the ceiling and feeling his arms slowly dislocate.

Erik blinks away the fever memories and stares up at the ceiling. The blankets are thick, but the air on his face is damp and chill.

The cold, the utter, bone-crushing cold of the Auschwitz winter, their thin clothes wet through from the snow.

The tent above their heads hangs heavily, and Erik can just about make out the light pattering of rain on canvas. He represses a sigh. One thing they haven’t been able to find in the boxes were wet weather clothing, and after Charles had first fallen ill out here he isn’t about to head outside for any length of time.

Which means they are stuck in here all day, or until the rain decided to stop.

Ah well, they can always talk. “I would never think,” He attempts, “That I would hate doing nothing so much.”

“Never have thought.” Charles corrects and smiles. “I know what you mean.”

He doesn’t speak again, and Erik hopes he’s not keeping quiet after what happened yesterday. Luckily not. “What would you like right now?” Charles asks eventually.

My parents. My family. To wake up and find this was all a dream. To be able to walk for any length of time without getting exhausted. To be able to kiss you in public without being taken away. The list goes on forever but it’s not what Charles means. Erik turns his mind to the little things. “Some chocolate.” The memories of the thick slabs carried into the hospital are still fresh and it’s been years since they’ve had chocolate.

The last time had been in the train, after Charles had set his shoulders. He didn’t know how long had passed between that and when the pain had begun to ebb, only that Charles had been there, an odd prelude to what was to come. He’d been suspicious, angry and in pain and it was probably fortunate Charles couldn’t understand Polish when he recalled what he’d said to his future friend in that time. He’d probably realized it wasn’t friendly.

Charles had somehow been able to keep his bag with him, and even after the long journey from France to Poland, there’d still been food inside it. Probably he hadn’t even realized he was hungry. Erik hadn’t been when Charles had first offered him part of a sandwich. He’d eaten it anyway, the ghetto had already taught him that lesson, and had stopped snarling at him.

Between them they’d emptied the bag down to an old half-melted bar of Cadbury’s stuck to the bottom of the sack. He’d hadn’t had chocolate for two years; he wouldn’t have it again for another three.

Charles squeezes his arm again. “Chocolate would be nice.”

Erik knows what Charles wants him to say, he smiles. “What about you?”

“I’d like a book.”

Erik blinks, then smiles. Yes, Charles would ask for a book. He was good at thinking up things like that. The little things.

Like asking the nurses in the hospital for medicine, something which Erik wouldn’t even have considered. He’d remembered the camp, and the ghetto before that, and how asking there would have been useless, even lethal. Charles had remembered that, and before, when you could go to hospitals to get medicine, even though he described it as remembering a former life. He’d envied Charles for that.

“A book would be good.” Erik agrees. Then, because they have nothing else to do and breakfast won’t be served for several hours, “What kind of book?”

“I don’t mind.” Charles rolls over onto his stomach and stretches. “An English book, because then I could teach you to read it.”

Erik is slightly insulted, although it’s undeniable. “I do know how to read some English.” Although after all this time, he can’t be sure if he can even read Polish any more.

His father had taught English in the ghetto, although schools had been banned. He had learnt it from his father, and Erik kept thinking how much better it would have been to have had him as a teacher. He’d taught Erik English and German, and his father was nowhere near as good. He tried not to think about him if possible, or any of his other relatives who had stayed to defend their farm from the Polish police.

“It’s easy.” Charles agrees.

“What would you like to read?” Erik insists, it’s easier than Charles asking him what kind of chocolate he’d like. Besides, this is a very pleasant conversation, and much better than the awkward one he’d been anticipating.

“War of the Worlds.” Charles is smiling faintly, staring up at the ceiling, a million miles away. “It’s what I was reading while we were in France, I never finished it.”

“What was it about?” He’d been rereading an old book about the Great War before they‘d been deported. It had been a present from that same grandfather and he wondered what had happened to it.

“Martians invading the world.”

Erik smiles too. “I could manage that.” Martians didn’t exist, which was more than you could say for Nazis.

“I think you could. I could just imagine you attacking them with a crowbar.” He looks at Erik, Erik smiles again, weakly. He knows what Charles means; he wouldn’t necessarily have to be holding the crowbar.

“Or make a bucket of water fall on them.” He agrees.

“That might work.”

“So, how did they lose?”

“I don’t know, I never finished the book.”

“Oh.”

“What would you like to read?”

“I don’t know.” Even his grandfather’s book was notable only because it was his grandfather’s. The writing itself was rather dull. “Your book sounds good.” He smiles, “A cookbook.” Although that might be as much torture as pleasure.

Charles' smile fades. “You know…” He hesitates. “They should still have chocolate in the kitchens, and I think we could find a cookbook…” He hesitates again, trailing off.

Erik looks at him. For Charles to suggest this, no matter how indirectly… well, Erik’s not too sure what to think about that. Pride maybe, pride should be there, so why does he feel so disappointed?

Giving himself a mental shake, Erik nods. Yes, some chocolate would definitely be nice, although the cookbook might not be such a good idea.

If they are going to do this, they had better start soon. It must be about five in the morning, and the staff starts making breakfast at six, at least, that was when the smell of cooking pervaded the hospital.

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It seems more like a game than anything else, and Charles would rather keep it that way. It is fun when they start, dressing in their darkest clothes, Charles pulling his hood over his head, Erik turning up the collar on his coat. It is like getting dressed up, children playing cops and robbers only this time it’s just robbers. Erik actually smiles when Charles turns up his collar- he himself has a hood, but Erik doesn‘t and it might be best to hide his face, a wonderful expression that kills any desire to change his mind. He looks so sweet, almost playful. Charles can’t help himself and goes up and hugs Erik tightly. Rather than pulling away with a blush, as Charles had feared he would after last night, Erik leans in and actually laughs a little. He’s warm and the coat is the same one as yesterday. The army coat. Charles is the one who blushes, when Erik kisses him, and quickly turns away to leave the tent.

He’d been dreading Erik’s reaction to last night. Mostly because in hindsight, he simply can’t bring himself to regret it. If Erik had, it would have made things unbearable. He’d been very glad to be wrong.

He wonders why he isn’t feeling more enthusiastic. He’d never liked stealing even in the camps, but after seeing the food that had been brought in he’s more than willing to hang morals and break in. Erik of course has no objections.

It disappoints Charles, oddly enough. It’s ridiculous and hypocritical since it was his idea to begin with, but somehow he expects Erik to be better than this, even if he isn’t.

And that’s even more ridiculous to expect from Erik, who went through far more than he had. How much worse to lose your family when they are people you actually love. To suffer for six years rather than three. Stealing had been the only way for him to survive, and even here it was the best way of getting anything.

But now, as they get ready to leave, it’s suddenly a great deal less fun. The small fragment of childhood evaporates and they are left shivering in unwelcome reality. The rain is still coming down, and Charles is having second thoughts. “This isn’t a good idea.” His whispered to Erik, “They already want to send us away; we shouldn’t give them an excuse.”

Erik shrugs, “They’ll not know. And even if they do, some missing chocolate will not make a different. If they want to send us away, they will.” He bites his lips, then shrugs, as though dismissing whatever he was thinking.

Charles sighs and nods, unable to keep a smile for making a stealthy appearance. Chocolate.

He remembers the bar he had smuggled to France. He hadn’t thought much of it when he bought it, just something to take for the journey over from England. In the end he’d been so seasick that the bar had ended up lost and forgotten at the bottom of his bag. He hadn’t found it again until a week later, in the train when he and Erik had been scavenging anything edible from the bag.

Erik smiles back, his mind obviously dwelling on the same thoughts. Charles wonders how often Erik has had chocolate. Probably not much, although Poland is close to Germany, and Germany makes good chocolate if nothing else. Certainly not since he was sent to the ghetto.

Seeing his friend smile, Charles wonders how much he’d smile after some chocolate, and decided that it’s worth the risk.

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The hospital is dark and quiet, and although the lights are off Erik is reminded of the night they arrived here, although that memory already seems long ago, for all that it’s only been two months.

He couldn’t remember much of it; the memories are blurred from time and the burning edge of fever. He remembers lying in a corridor with Charles, and watching the stones sway and edge away from his vision as the typhus tightened its grip on him again. He remembers being carried by the American nurse, trying to fight because he couldn’t touch Charles but his limbs refusing to obey him. He vaguely remembers the doctor, but his face keeps sliding into Mengele’s and is fuzzy around the edges with dizziness and nausea.

Remembering this is surprisingly reassuring. He has been ill, so ill that it’s almost impossible to believe he’s here now, standing on his own legs, dressed in his own clothes, with no one but Charles with him or knowing where he is.

Charles is smiling nervously, but Erik knows his mind is running the same mantra of its okay, it’s safe, they won’t hurt us, this isn’t the camp, they can’t hurt us that is running through his own.

He’s tried to reason the fear away, that this is certainly not the first time they’ve stolen something, but it doesn’t work. This isn’t the same as stealing from prisoners or the camp kitchen or even from a kapo. If this has any connection with their -not life- existence in Auschwitz, it would be like stealing from the SS. And he had certainly never been desperate enough to attempt that.

Besides, it feels wrong, in a way that theft in Auschwitz never had. There, they were stealing to survive, without the extra food it provided them they would have died long ago. But they don’t need to do that here. Here they aren’t starving. Here, they aren’t even hungry. Erik stops, this isn’t fair. He doesn’t want to do this. As unpleasant as the hospital staff might have been- Erik hasn’t forgotten the threat of morphine, nor that of sending them away- they have been clothed, sheltered and fed, and stealing seems a poor recompensation.

Charles turns, “Erik?”

Erik sighs. This had been his friend’s idea, and the memory of the luxury food is almost enough to get him moving again. He doesn’t, and Charles walks back to stand beside him. Erik sighs again, and only looks up when Charles takes his hand. He’s smiling, and Erik smiles back ruefully. The pride and love in Charles eyes doesn’t quite make up for losing the chocolate he’s so been hoping for, but Erik knows he’d hate himself if he went through with it.

He’d never hated himself for stealing before, not even to begin with, in the ghetto. His family had been relying on the food he and his little brother could steal, and after witnessing how the people of Warsaw had treated them, he’d had no sympathy for them.

Charles’ hand lifts and brushes his cheek, his smile is tender and Erik feels his disappointment fade a little more. He glances around but it’s more instinctive than fearful. They know they’re alone. This part of the hospital is almost silent and any footstep would echo enough for them to hear. It’s still, and for a moment they just listen to each other breathe.

Lying in the bunk in Auschwitz, listening, through the coughs and gasps of the other prisoners, for the sound of each other’s breathing. The knowledge that the other was still alive, that they weren’t alone.

The memory is so sharp it makes Erik start, so clear he might have been back there. He shudders, and Charles touches his shoulder gently. The tension dissipates almost immediately, like electricity drawn through a conductor. Erik wonders where the analogy came from.

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Charles rubs his shoulder, and smiles gently, “You know,” He starts, “There could be someone in the kitchens at this time.”

Erik looks at him, frowning. They had acknowledged that possibility. The idea had been that the corridor would be dark enough for them to see if the lights in the kitchen were on.

Charles continues, “We could just go over there and ask.” He shrugs again. “What can they do?” He’s painfully aware he’s trying to convince himself.

Erik’s expression is almost comical; he blinks at him as though unable to comprehend what he’s hearing. It was one possibility he clearly hasn’t considered and Charles’ smile broadens, glad he’s finally won one over on his friend. Finally, Erik drops his head and laughs softly. Twice in one day, who needs chocolate?

“Do you want to try?”

Erik doesn’t answer, but when Charles holds out his hand he takes it and follows.

He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’s managed to win an argument with Erik. At first, he lost because Erik knew what to do and how to behave to survive, for which he is always grateful. But it was because of that that Erik always won arguments afterwards, because he didn’t feel ready to challenge his friend. Now, he knows the rules of survival as well as Erik does- perhaps better- and he knows that he knows it, and the only reason Erik keeps winning their arguments is that he is even more stubborn than Charles is.

The lights are off when they approach the kitchen; they’ve planned well, but as they approach they hear footsteps coming behind them. Charles hopes it’s not one of those who they had to deal with before.

It isn’t, and Charles isn’t sure if he should be glad or not because it’s the nurse who hands out the water. He doesn’t think Erik has said anything too unpleasant to her- certainly no more than anyone else, but she’s German, and he really doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

She blinks when she sees them, and Charles can see the emotions flash across her face; surprise, worry, a hint of fear, guilt and underlying everything, disgust. Because they are still filth to her, filth in ragged clothes and wrecked bodies and empty, haunted eyes. Never mind that it’s because of her country that they’re in this state.

Charles doesn’t know how he knows this, only that he does and it’s the truth, and it’s because of this that he finds it so hard to force a smile. She forces one back. Erik doesn’t bother.

“Morgan.” She greets them. That one word sets Charles’ teeth on edge.

“Good Morning.” He knows speaking English is a risk, but he can’t bear German.

Erik does speak at first, and when he does, Charles has to hide a wince at his heavy accent. Usually he barely notices it, but in contrast it’s painfully apparent.

“Chocolate?” He points at the door to the kitchen.

The nurse blinks, “You want chocolate?” Her accent’s even worse than Erik’s.

They nod in unison, and the nurse pauses, obviously torn. She wants to send them away, she’s probably not allowed to hand out chocolate to everyone, and in her opinion it’s wasted on them. But the guilt is at the forefront in her eyes, and the wish to atone, if only in their eyes, for what her country has done.

As thought a piece of chocolate could ever right that. Charles doesn’t speak though, and keeps his smile fixed, although it feels as though his lips might crack.

Finally, the nurse sighs and nods. “A klein bit chocolate.” She warns them, as thought they’re children begging at a pantry.

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It’s degrading, the way she looks at them. As though they’re the ones who should be grateful to her. They haven’t had chocolate for three years because of what her people have done, she should be grateful they’re even asking her, rather than just taking it. Theft wouldn’t have felt this unpleasant.

And they would have gotten larger portions. When the woman emerges, she’s holding two bare fragments, hardly bigger than the last piece he’d eaten, with Charles in the train. She isn’t smiling any more, and jerks her chin at them. Clear off.

“One thing.” Charles’ voice surprises both of them.

The woman frowns as she turns, “Ja?”

“A book?”

Erik looks at him in surprise. Charles’ face is fixed, determined, and Erik can see how hard it is to force him to stand his ground when every instinct is screaming at him to run.

“A book?” The woman is surprised. “What for?”

“To read.” Erik can’t help but smile.

“No. No books here.” She shoos them. “Go, out.”

Charles takes a step backwards, as though to leave, but Erik doesn’t move, although every muscle in his body is screaming at him to run. Instinct, or something like it, built up through years of fear. When they tell you to go, go.

If you don’t, you’ll be beaten, tortured, and shot.

Erik refuses to back down. No one has said they shouldn’t be in the hospital. They are not forbidden to be here, they have as much right as she has. There are books here and if Charles wants a book, he’s going to get one. “A book.” He insists. It probably won’t be War of the Worlds, but it’s better than nothing.

“No books.” She looks irritated now.

“Books on medicine.” Charles was a medical student before, he might like that. Beside him, Charles nods.

“I’ll bring it back.” Charles assures her. “I’ll look after it.” He speaks English so easily, and Erik knows its only apathy that’s stopped the staff from realizing they’re not brothers.

The nurse gives a long-suffering sigh, “I will look.” She holds up a finger, “Wait.”

He only notices Charles’ hand on his arm when his friend squeezes it, he is smiling. “Thank you.”

Erik shrugs, “I did say I would like one,” Is all he says.

Charles nods, “I’ll teach you to read it.”

“Thank you.”

The woman returns, she’d holding a badly bound paperback which she holds out to Erik. Erik lets Charles take it, glancing over his friend’s arm to see the cover; a book on anatomy. Charles is smiling, so Erik smiles too. On the cover is a drawing of the human hand, the skin removed to show the tendons and muscles.

“Thank you.” Erik murmurs, and Charles nods in agreement.

They are about to leave when Charles stops. “How is the girl?”

The nurse stops. “What girl?”

“The girl you sent out. How is she?”

She shakes her head in disgust, but answers, as though deciding the sooner she gives them what they want, the sooner they‘ll leave. “Mad.” Her lips purse. “She don’t move, she don’t speak. We’ve called for help.”

Charles nods. Erik looks away, the sense of danger has returned but at least it looks as though they won’t be sent away just yet. Not if this is the result. He wonders it that’s why Charles asked. Probably his friend wanted to know for her sake.

He was starting to envy Charles’ ability to think of these things. It’s not as though he doesn’t care. He does, it’s just he doesn’t think of things like that at once.

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Outside is colder, but the unprecedented success is oddly warming. The chocolate is heavy in his pocket, the book familiar under his arm.

He’d always taken books with him before, books in his bag, books in his room, books tucked under his arm. It had taken him days to decide which books to take with him to England, and he occasionally wonders what has happened to them. Probably, the landlord had thrown them out or sold them after it had become clear they weren’t coming back.

It’s a thick book, though of poor quality. It feels as though several pages have already come loose from the poor binding and the corners are crumpled and dusty. Charles runs his fingers over the binding, feeling where the thread has frayed. A book. They own so little, but now they own a book, even if it is just borrowed. It feels strange, it feels good. He smiles at Erik, who smiles back, and risks taking his hand. Erik’s fingers are warm and curl against his palm. Charles shivers. Erik’s fingers flex, scratching his palm lightly. Charles’ brush over his knuckles, dry skin rubbing against skin. Erik’s lips thin, he’s chewing on the lower one and his fingers twitch again.

Luckily Erik doesn’t press more intimacy, and when Charles closes the tent flaps behind them, he seems satisfied to sit on the bed. Charles joins him, and gives him a rueful smile before pulling out the chocolate, Erik nods and does the same. It’s not very much chocolate, and far less than they’d have got had they just taken it, but it tastes wonderful, far better than it would stolen. Erik finishes his off first, and licks his fingers. Charles ducks his head down over his chocolate, trying to hide his blush. Erik runs his hand over his head and neck, his fingers are damp, and Charles has to fight the instinct to pull away.

Erik doesn’t remove his hand, and Charles forces himself to let him continue. It doesn’t feel bad, it feels good and why should he deny himself that? Instead he returns the favour, running his hand over Erik’s thigh; the hand on his neck kneads the skin lightly, before slipping around his shoulders and pulling him in for Erik to press a kiss on his cheek.

Charles pulls his hand from his thigh and wraps it around Erik’s waist, dropping back across the bed and pulling him with him. Erik is smiling at the ceiling, one hand still caught between Charles’ head and the thin mattress. Right now, Charles is just happy to watch him.

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“Charles.” Erik has no idea how to broach this, so just saying it seems the simplest. This is Charles, and he doesn’t think the worse possibility is likely. “Yesterday…”

Charles’ smile fades; Erik hopes this isn’t going to be too hard. The memory is embarrassing, but it’s the sort of embarrassment Erik thinks he can live with. He takes a deep breath, “I wouldn’t have minded.” Far from it, he’d have enjoyed it.

“I wouldn’t either.” Charles looks away, focusing on the ceiling, Erik does the same. “But if someone had seen us.”

It’s hard to live in constant fear, eventually you stop caring. “Charles.” He takes his hand in his. It’s warm and the touch is always comforting. Remembering yesterday, with Charles whole body against him, naked and… enjoying himself. Charles’ right, it is a risk, but wouldn’t it be worth it?

“It’s not worth being caught for.” Charles might have read his mind, but he’s still missed the point.

“It’s worth anything.”

To his credit, Charles doesn’t try and deny it. “We can wait.”

Erik snorts, sounding loud in the close tent; they’ve been speaking in whispers. “We can wait forever, it will not be safe. Where can we go?”

Charles shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

It’s ridiculous, how can he know? And how can Erik be surprised after what had happened to that man, a month ago? Charles is right, it is dangerous. He squeezes his hand reassuringly, he’s not angry at him, he’s angry at everyone else and Charles has the bad luck of being the closest target. Unfair.

“I’m sorry.” He frees his hand and strokes the side of Charles’ head.

The first time he did that, it was to calm Charles when he couldn’t stop shaking, the first night in the barracks. His fingers had brushed the badly shorn spikes of hair, different textures when the barber had left patches longer than others. In some places smooth skin, in others the fine brush of stubble. It had calmed him a little, and Erik as well, that first terrible night, and given him the determination to slip out of the bunk and steal Charles that shirt.

Erik’s hand trembles, and for a moment the conversation is forgotten, a thousand miles removed from the memories haunting his mind. A touch on his face brings him back to the world, Charles’ fingers brushing his cheek, bringing him back into the real world.

If that’s all it takes the make him feel better, how can Charles be surprised he wants to… to…

He doesn’t even know how to say it in English. He doesn’t even know if there is a word for when two men what to do what they do. There should be, and it should be as sweet and comforting as Charles’ touch, as strong and forceful as it had felt yesterday, lying close and warm and… Erik closes his eyes as Charles kisses him. “It’s okay.” He whispers.

“No.” Not like that it’s not. Because it’s not fair. They don’t deserve this. They shouldn’t be afraid any more. They should be allowed to do this, whatever this will be. He should be allowed to kiss Charles in public, and Charles should be able to kiss him, and when they’re alone they should be allowed to do things with their clothes off without being afraid someone will rush in and beat them or take them away or God knows what. “It’s not fair.” He sounds like a child.

“I know.” Charles strokes his face. “I do want to…” He trails off. It’s aggravating.

“What?”

“To… to have sex with you.”

“Is that how it’s said?” Sex, p

 

 

łeć, same thing. Charles can’t look at him. Is there no word for it them? Erik smothers a snort, if there was one; it’s probably been struck from the dictionary long ago. Still, he wonders. “Is there a word for…?” He waves a hand between them. “Sex for us?”

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Yes, there is. There are a lot of them, and none of them will ever pass Charles’ lips. If he’s got anything to do with it, Erik won’t hear any of them either.

Cain seemed to enjoy throwing those words at him, even after he’d taken up with Moria, sometimes he wondered if he’d done that just in an attempt to make him stop.

“She doesn’t know you’re a faggot then?”

“Do you ask her to bend over and bugger her up the arse?”

“No wonder you took up with a girl with no tits, I bet you can’t get it up otherwise.”

In his heart, Charles was glad Cain hadn’t survived to meet Erik.

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Charles doesn’t answer, and Erik doesn’t press the point, running one hand slowly along his chest. He changes the subject. “Where would you like to go?” They started the morning with wish-fulfillment and look what happened. It’ll be breakfast soon, they may as well end it the same way. Who knew, that might come true too.

“Sorry?” Charles is jarred by the shift in conversation.

“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

“Oh.” He pauses to think, one hand still rubbing Erik’s cheek.

He’d shaved yesterday, although the water was tepid when they finally got to it. Charles had picked up the razor hesitantly, as though wondering if Erik could now do it himself. Even if he could- and he couldn’t seem to, not yet- he still wouldn’t be able to see himself to do it. So he’d let Charles wield the razor for another day, and taken his turn with it afterwards.

“I’d like to go back to America.” Charles says finally. When Erik looks at him with surprise, he shrugs. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t mind. If they sent me back I’d be alone, but if we went there together…” He shrugs. The bed creaks. “You probably wouldn’t like New York, but you’d like Westchester.”

“Where your grandmother lives.” He stumbles over the long word, and it comes out more like German than English. Charles doesn’t mention it.

“Yes, there. It’s very green.”

“I don’t mind the city, Charles.”

Not before, anyway. He’d always found the countryside rather dull. There was something exciting about the city, and he’d always liked staying with his aunt in Warsaw. He’d even, naïve child that he’d been, looked forward to it when his mother told him they were moving there, until he’d realized under what circumstances.

“New York then.” Charles agrees. It’s easy, this fantasy. And who said the reality would be harder? No harder than they’ve known, not by a long way. “We could work in a hospital.”

“You could.” Erik doesn’t know much about medicine, other than their stay in the Auschwitz ‘hospital’ and that would hardly count as experience to any sane person.

“You could too, like the aids here. Only nicer, if more frightening.” Charles smiles at Erik and Erik manages to smile back, yes, that might work.

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It’s like building dreams in Auschwitz, they can imagine up to a point, but there are limits. What would happen then? Where would they live? What about food? No one would be feeding them there and Charles feels the old fear waking up. How could they do any of those things? What about taxes? Neither Erik nor he have papers or passports. It’s impossible. A strange, alien world that’s far beyond his understanding.

He won’t ever let himself miss the camps, that’s ridiculous and unbelievable and the memories still haunt him, the cold and hunger and the fear, the everlasting fear. But sometimes, when the staff are talking about sending them away again, and the world opens up like an endless void they’re about to topple into, Charles wanted to be somewhere (anywhere, anywhere at all but not here) that he understood.