Past Tense

[skull_bearer]

 

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Part Five, chapter one

Charles thinks its June by the time they finally reach the top of the hill. It’s easier than he’d imagined, although having shoes that actually fit does help. The view is as breathtaking as they‘d expected, the gothic architecture of the hospital make it look like a toy castle, the khaki tents congregating around it like badly hidden defenses, the road like a grey ribbon stretching away behind them. They’ve got their backs to a grove of trees and the warm, damp smell of rotting leaves and mushrooms makes him smile.

Erik is smiling too, he’s left his coat in the tent and his bare arms are strikingly pale against the darker fabric of his shirt and the ink tattooed on his skin. His fingers are playing with his necklace; he’s taken it off and is frowning at it in a way that’s become rather familiar recently.

Erik hadn’t managed to repeat what he’d done with the pail, though not through lack of trying. In the last few wet, windy days spent huddling in their tent he’d tried and tried again and again with just about everything they owned, from the new book to Charles‘ old shoes, to no avail. They’d sit on the bed, Charles squinting through the dim light, trying to read while Erik experimented. Occasionally he’d give up and join Charles in looking over their newest acquisition, and Charles spent most of that time translating. He remembers lying on the bed, Erik’s fingers tracing out a sketch of a ribcage, his lips moving over the names of the bones. Useless knowledge in this place, but knowledge nevertheless.

Charles runs his fingers over the book for the hundredth time.

He liked the feel of it, the cheap binding crackling pleasantly under his fingers, a solid reminder that they’re in a world where there are books. After three years he’d been starting to forget.

He looks at Erik in sympathy. There’s nothing more frustrating than failing at something you know you can do, and Erik’s never been good at accepting his limitations. He sits closer anyway, and looks down at the pieces of silver on their chain.

“Is it just metal?”

Erik blinks, looking up from the silver, “I think so Charles.” His hands tighten on the chain. “It feels different.”

“Maybe it would work better with iron.” He suggests, when Erik looks at him he shrugs, “The pail was iron, and it’s a magnetic metal so I thought…” Another shrug.

Erik looks from Charles to the pendant. “Magnetic.” He murmurs, tasting the word, and Charles realises he probably doesn’t recognise it.

“Magnets,” He tries to explain. After the last few days, he’s used to it. “Metal that sticks to other metals.”

“Magnets.” Erik repeats, then frowns. “Metal that… sticks.” He closes his hands tightly over the metal, then opens them, like letting a bird take flight. The chain lifts from his hands so fast it takes Charles a moment to understand.

“Oh.” The pieces of metal are floating a few inches above Erik’s hands, between their faces. They spin lazily, as though underwater, the chain tracing strange shapes through the air.

“Magnetics.” Erik is smiling.

“Oh.” It’s like some bizarre, impossible illusion. He touches the metal with one finger and feels a brief burst of static electricity, it stops twirling and the chain molds itself over his finger. “That’s amazing.” He should be finding it hard to believe what he’s seeing, but somehow part of him is ready to accept this as perfectly normal. Or maybe he’s just become impervious to shock over the last three years. He looks down at the book, and wonders if there might be something in there to explain what’s happening. He doubts it. He doesn’t think this is something anyone has even heard about, let alone written about.

Erik shakes his head. “It’s easy.” He can’t seem to believe it would be that easy. “When you said- It was that. Like… magnets.” He shakes his head again. “It was easier with the iron.”

“That makes sense,” Charles says and almost laughs at his words. His friend is just demonstrating levitation and all he can say is that it makes sense. The chain tickles his hand, light as feathers.

Erik takes hold of one of the pendants, not holding it up, just holding it. The chain whirls between their fingers and Charles smiles as it cuts through the air between them, long, scything swings like the bars of a whisk.

--

It’s like grabbing hold of a live wire- an electric fence- but Erik pushes that thought away, he’s not going to let it ruin this. The most striking thing is how easy this is. It’s like being blind and trying to see, only to realise you just haven’t opened your eyes yet. Like trying to move something with your mind before you realise that you have hands. So easy, so very easy. He can feel the metal hanging there, not only with his hands- he can feel his hands, as though the chain had become part of his body, with nerves and skin to feel- but with another sense entirely. He doesn’t think it has a name in any language. He gives it an experimental nudge and the chain spins a little faster. Pulls a bit and it slows. Pushes it and it winds itself around Charles’ wrist like a friendly snake. Charles doesn’t pull his hand away, smiling in wonder, the pain and weight falling away from his face until Erik is smiling too, because this is so fantastic and beautiful and impossible, and if can get this right they will never have to be hungry or tired or scared again.

The scream of bullets hurtling towards his back.

The clenching claw of hunger in his stomach.

The burn of the sickness he could no longer fight off.

The fear, the overwhelming, inescapable fear that had followed them even to this place. The fear that having happened once, it could happen again. The fear of being separated. The fear Erik had wondered if they would be ever rid of.

If he could stop bullets- and if nothing else, he knew he could do that- or bend barbed wire… engines are complicated, it couldn’t be too hard to get one to jam. Locks could be unlocked, bars could be broken, door hinges could be unraveled... What couldn’t they do? What could be done to stop them? If he could control this properly, maybe get better at it… what would they have left to fear?

There’s fear is in Charles’ eyes as he turns his head away, looking back towards the hospital. And that very fear Erik hopes could be banished closes on his heart. It’s a ridiculous fear, no one knows they’re here, no one cares, and anyway they’re too far away to be seen. No one could know what they can do. But Erik can‘t push it away, the sharp, stabbing dread. If the people here would take them away just for what they were for each other, what would they do if they could find out what Erik -- or Charles -- can do?

He had only been in Mengele’ s laboratory once, and that was too much. He hadn’t realised the danger, not at first, and if anyone had told him he wouldn’t have believed them. Charles hadn’t believed him, he’d had to see with his own eyes to realise the truth.

Mengele hadn’t been there, for which Erik will be forever grateful. He wasn’t there to see Erik’s expression when he saw the tortured, ragged chunks of flesh that were all that was left of his latest experiment. The body had been opened up along the veins, revealing blood as green as antifreeze. He didn’t see Erik’s hands tighten on the handle of the broom he was supposed to clean the room with at the sight of the victims face, impossibly intact amidst the gore, mouth fixed into an eternal scream.

He didn’t see Erik drop the broom when he realised why he hadn’t heard the cries, Erik’s hand brushing along the badly-stitched length of the dead man’s throat, where his vocal cords had been cut.

He didn’t see Erik flee the room, and didn’t come back before Erik had been able to steel himself to go in and retrieve the broom. If he had, he might have started to wonder.

Erik’s hands jerk, and the chain falls dead, hanging from Charles’ fingers. Charles is right, it is dangerous. He can tell himself as much as he likes that the people here won’t behave like the SS, he might even start to believe it, a bit. But he can’t tell himself they won’t behave like Mengele. Even Charles hadn’t been able to believe that.

Charles takes his hands, the chain caught between their palms. The touch helps and Erik lets out his breath with a sigh. The skin is warm and dry, the chain sharp and cold, almost alive under his touch.

Never to be afraid again.

Scalpels snap.

Knives break.

Bullets shatter.

They threaten him with metal, and if he can control that, they can never threaten him again.

“I could stop them.” He thinks of Mengele, of the SS with their guns, of the German police who took that man away. “I could stop them.” He repeats.

And Charles smiles sadly. “Erik, there are a lot of them.”

Erik pulls his hands back, taking the chain with him. “I could get better.” He insists. Then “You could- try.”

He doesn’t know how else to say it, but if he could stop bullets, Charles could stop people from ever pulling the trigger. He had stopped those dogs.

His friend flinches as though Erik has threatened to strike him, and looks away. “That’s different.”

It is different, but it needn’t be. “You could try.” It frightens him too, very much. He remembers Charles raving and screaming that night in the barracks, and wonders if he’d done the same while delirious with typhus. Remembering the hallucinations and terror, he lets the matter drop. Asking Charles to experience a real version of that, whatever the result, was impossibly selfish. He shakes his head and his free hand closes on Charles’ wrist in apology.

Charles nods, pursing his lips. “I don’t…” He stops, and tries again. “I don’t want to try, but if I did,” He shakes his head. “The only one I’d try it with would be you.”

Erik frowns. It sounds like a good idea. Actually, it sounds like a perfect idea. The worst things in his head are the things Charles knows perfectly well himself, and he definitely likes the idea of Charles inside his mind, to be together even while apart, and always know if the other was safe.

“It’s not you, Erik,” Charles explains. “It’s me. Those dreams,” He presses a hand to his temple. “I don’t want you to see them.”

There’s nothing Erik can say to that.

--

“I wouldn’t mind, Charles.” Erik says finally. He’s pulled his hands away and is playing with the chain- with his hands, not his mind. He taps the side of his head, the chain clinking against his wrist. “I wouldn’t mind.”

It was three days ago that Erik had made the same offer, with his body rather than his mind.

It’s just as tempting, that trust.

Erik lifting his head as Charles ran the razor down his throat. Their soap was coarse and crumbling, impossible to work into lather, but he’d done his best and was trying not to cut his friend. The razor was notched and blunt, but the inch-long sharp stretch he was using could still cut deeply.

Erik growled something in his throat, and tilted his head further back, the tendons jutting out, the blue veins visible, the pulse beating beneath his skin, letting Charles shave under his chin.

Erik finds it so hard to trust anyone, these demonstrations mean so much.

The German nurse was handing out food two days ago, under a tent of tarpaulin to keep the rain from watering the soup. She’d smiled at them, “No chocolate today, nein?”

Erik had bared his teeth, and Charles had seen her smile fade.

And to touch his mind would be nice, just like having sex would be nice.

Charles was shaking so hard he’d almost fallen off the rotting hospital bed. The night was freezing but he was sweating uncontrollably, the fever burning through him. He’d felt the fear start to set in, the terror that they were not going to get through this. He wouldn’t be able get up to work the next day. If he wouldn’t go Erik would also refuse. Mengele would be performing an inspection tomorrow. His breathing grew rapid and desperate, the fear combining with the fever to drive him to near panic.

Erik’s hands had curled around his wrist, pinning it to the straw, his friend rolled over until his body was half on top of Charles’, the contact calming the mad fear. “Shh…” Erik whispered in his ear, his thumb rubbing circles against his pulse.

It seems impossible in retrospect, but somehow, with Erik’s weight against his and his voice murmuring soothing nonsense in his ear, he’d quickly fallen asleep.

Charles leans in against Erik’s hand, and kisses his palm. Erik smiles, the contact feels as good to him as it does to Charles, he would enjoy it whatever form it came in.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Erik whispers coaxingly. His thumb rubs the soft spot between Charles’ jaw and ear, he pauses, then taps Charles’ temple. “Share everything, remember?”

Charles smiles, and leans in closer. He doesn’t want to think about this, the very thought terrifies him, but if it means so much to Erik… “I’ll try.”

How, he has no idea. He has a vague feeling of… something, almost a separate place in his mind, but every time he tries to concentrate on it the dreams rear up in his mind like a sheet of flame. As a sheet of flame.

Charles shudders, and Erik slides an arm around him.

--

God, if it’s this bad Erik’s sorry he asked. It’s slightly exasperating, much like Charles’ refusal to have sex is exasperating, and like that, Erik knows he’s right. He’s right now, and Erik is far angrier with himself for asking. Charles might make it sound as though he’s refusing for Erik’s sake, but it frightens him, and remembering what had happened before he almost wishes he hadn’t suggested it.

Charles hadn’t slept for the rest of the night. He’d lain there, as stiff and unresponsive as a piece of wood, silently hugging himself. Erik had been pressed behind him, arms around him, otherwise he wouldn’t have known he was shaking. It had been awkward to try and calm him, murmuring reassurances Charles didn’t understand and that wouldn’t have helped even if he had. He’d rubbed Charles’ shoulders, feeling the thin muscles stand out like steel. It seemed like hours that his friend lay like this, almost silent. After a while, his breathing had grown faster and louder, until he was almost panting, and was shaking so hard Erik was afraid he’d slip out of his hands. Finally he’d paused and given a strange sound, half-gasp, half-sob, before falling silent, the muscles relaxing under Erik’s hands.

It’s not fair. He knows that. He can’t ask Charles to do anything he wouldn’t, and this is no different. He would like to think he’d try, if he was in Charles’ place, but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it had felt like, to feel like you were dying, over and over again, in the gas chamber, and then in the crematorium. If he did, maybe he wouldn’t be so eager to push Charles.

It had taken months from the wounds in Erik’s hand to heal. It was only when they had been sent to the hospital that the cuts from Charles’ teeth had finally closed and scarred. They’ve never quite faded.

He’s never really blamed Charles for it, although he knows Charles blames himself, but he did wonder what it had felt like, to hurt so much that he’d bitten Erik’s hand that hard and had barely noticed until afterwards.

Charles is looking at his hand, his right hand. The scars are there, faint and pale, only really visible when he clenches his hand, which he does. Charles runs his finger over the pale half-circle. Erik kisses him. It’s okay. Charles smiles, and leans against him. Erik rests his cheek against Charles’ head. This feels good, so good that surely Charles can see why it’s worth taking such a risk, in intimacy and in… whatever Charles can do.

“I’ll try.” Charles mumbles again.

Erik rubs his cheek against Charles’ forehead, and smiles. “Thank you.”

--

The sun rises higher, and they retreat inside the trees. He takes the book in one hand, and Erik’s hand in the other, the temperature’s more bearable here, and his legs are stiff from sitting down for so long, it would be nice to walk for a bit. The sky’s hidden behind layers of green, and the crickets have been left behind in the long grass. He can make out birdsong- probably the same bird that wakes them up every morning- and rustling in the sparse undergrowth.

Erik looks different here, without the backdrop of the tent of the hospital, the barracks or the blasted landscape of Auschwitz. More relaxed. More natural. More alive. He gives a strange, almost ironic smile, and Charles remembers what he told him about the shootings in the forest. Charles squeezes his hand.

“Is this like Westchester?” Erik asks.

“Not really. My grandmother’s land doesn’t have so many trees.” He smiles, “It’s like Oxford though.”

“In England?”

“Yes, by the Thames, it’s very beautiful. You’d like it, Erik.”

He’d really liked Oxford. Kurt Marko and Cain spent most of their time in London, Kurt to plan his sister’s rescue. Cain, Charles neither knew nor cared. His mother spent most of her time alternating between the London and Oxford bars, and Charles was left to study in peace for once, without his mother’s self-pity, Kurt’s cruelty and Cain’s behaving as though his aim in life was to make Charles miserable. It had been during one of these blessedly peaceful study sessions that he’d met Moria.

Charles rubbed the side of his face, another memory pushing itself to the forefront of his mind, overshadowing the more pleasant ones. “Like Compiègne too.”

“The place in France?”

“Yes.”

The place in France. That was as good a name as any. A waiting place on the road to death. A few houses ringed with barbed wire and guards -- and dogs. The trees black shadows huddling right up to the fences- perfect cover. The wire hadn’t been electrified, and Kurt’s cutters had been making a slow but steady progression through the strands. Cain and Charles had been supposed to keep watch, his mother helping Kurt. He hadn’t been keeping watch though, and neither had Cain, both of them had been watching Kurt and it probably wasn’t surprise that by the time they realised something had gone wrong, the guards were on top of them.

Erik nods, and he’s the one who squeezes Charles’ hand. He looks pensive. “Do you miss them?” His voice is soft.

Charles isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t ask about Erik’s family, it’s obvious how much he misses them, and in contrast it sounds heartless to say no.

It’s the only answer he has. “Not really.” He can’t quite meet Erik’s eyes and focuses on the bare packed earth underfoot.

--

They walk in silence. Erik twists the links of his chain between his fingers, the pendants knocking against them. It didn’t tire him as much this time. It took a lot of concentration, and there’s a faint, stabbing pain behind his eyes, but in comparison to the wave of exhaustion he’d felt from tipping over the pail, it’s nothing.

Charles can’t meet his eyes, and is staring at the ground. Erik releases the chain and takes his hand again.

“Do you think I’m a monster?” Charles looks at him, not accusing, or upset, but curious, probing. “For not missing them?”

His immediate reaction is no, Charles, of course not, his answer every time Charles has asked such a question.

Sometimes he thinks Charles thinks too much. His friend is constantly wondering of what others think- which isn’t surprising, when he considered it- and more particularly, that they think of him.

They hadn’t spoken of that night in the barracks until after they had left the Sonderkommando. Erik hadn’t had the strength to consider it, and God only knew what Charles had been thinking.

It was only after they had been sent away to the comparative safety of the hospital that they’d spoken of it. It had been the first night, in the barrack, that Erik had rolled closer and kissed Charles again. Partly as thanks, and partly as exploration.

Charles had stiffened and hadn’t responded. It was dark and no one could have seen them, Erik pulled away hesitantly, wondering if he’d misunderstood Charles’ hug those nights ago, although what else that could have meant he didn’t know. “Charles?” He whispered.

Charles had touched his face, scabbed fingers impossibly light against his skin. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

He’d remembered the kapo rapist, and shook his head. “Not like that.” His English was stilted and awful, but the familiar words relaxed Charles a little.

“I love you.” Charles sounded a little helpless. Erik smiled and pressed his face against Charles’ shoulder, feeling truly happy for the first time in what seemed like forever. Charles’ hand clenched on his arm, desperately, tightly, not letting go.

Erik just says “I know what monsters look like,” and moves his hand to Charles’ shoulder. Charles knows he isn’t a monster, just as he had known he wasn’t like that foul kapo. He just wants to know Erik knows that too.

“You miss your family so much…” Charles pushes, to make sure.

“You don’t.” He doesn’t understand, and yes, perhaps if it was anyone else he would wonder, but this is Charles, and Charles is anything but a monster. If the last three years hasn’t proved that, nothing will.

It’s the clearest image he has of the last few weeks in Belsen, other than the terrible dreams. He held on to it as the only reality in a world of nightmares. Charles bending over him, filthy and starving, holding out a few pieces of cracked, stale bread and begging Erik to eat them, eyes shining with desperation. To be that hungry, but still be refusing to eat until Erik had taken his share.

“Were they so bad Charles?” He’s hesitant. He’s heard of the things some families could do to their children, and he doesn’t want to imagine Charles like that, particularly with all he’s suffered since.

Charles shrugs, “Not bad, but…” He looks at Erik, asking him to understand.

Erik shakes his head, no, he doesn’t understand.

“I don’t remember what it feels like to miss them.” Charles murmurs. “I wouldn’t miss Kurt or Cain anyway, and my mother…” He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have wanted to meet them anyway.”

“I wish you could have met mine.” It’s a sharp, familiar pain, that loneliness. To have been part of so much and to now be alone.

Charles nods, and looks at him with that same penetrating expression. “Even-” He waves a hand between them, “With us?”

Erik nods slowly. “They would understand.” Perhaps it’s nostalgia, or a blessing that he never knew that betrayal, but he can’t believe it. His family had loved him, and they would have understood that he loved Charles. Remembering them brings up a lump of unshed tears in his throat, he can’t cry, but oh, he wishes he could. They would have loved Charles, he’s certain of this, if only because Erik loved him.

He hadn’t had many friends as a child, only his sister Else, with whom he’d shared a room and so many secrets. The rebel, kissing the boys from the village, playing with her brother by the stream and in the woods. His friend, who he always defended when their family took her to task, and who always defended him in turn. Sharing secrets, dreams. Else’s tales of who she wanted to marry, Erik’s dreams of becoming an engineer. Leaving the farm for the city together, and damn the parents. If he’d had a choice… if he could…

Erik looks at his hands, hands that can stop bullets. Charles hand rubs the back of his neck. The pain’s sharper now, more piercing, and once again Erik wishes he could cry. Maybe that’s why Charles isn’t hurt by those memories, because he’s been able to let them out. But then, he’s cried before, and it hasn’t helped.

He’d cried when they died. All of them. He cried when his little sister died, aged barely a year. He’d cried when his little brother didn’t come home and the twin girls died of typhus in their last year in the ghetto. He’d cried when his grandparents were killed. It had felt better afterwards, but when it had been their turn, and they had lined up in front of the grave, Erik had known he was crying, but couldn’t feel it. He hasn’t felt it since.

It occurs to Erik, probably because his mind it scrambling to find another topic to think about, that they have no idea where they are. They aren’t lost, because the hospital is that way and they’ve walking parallel to it. The ground is starting to slope down, and bits of earth and loose stones skip and roll down. They slow down, trying not to slip.

“That must be the road.” Charles looks down, trying to see through the trees, it looks like a wall of green, but Erik thinks there might be some grey, and it would be in the right place.

Charles smiles, “Do you want to go back afterwards?”

Erik nods, he’s getting tired and the headache’s getting worse, a jabbing pain behind his eyes. The ground is unsteady and it would be nice to get back on a level surface.

He rubs his face, which only seems to make the ache worse. He is tired, more than he’d thought.

“Erik? Are you alright?”

He nods, which is a bad idea because it feels as though his brain’s rattling loose.

“It’s okay, we’re going back.”

He’s feeling dizzy, he stumbles and his foot slips. Charles shoved the book under one arm and grabs his arms to steady him. Erik almost falls against him.

“Erik? Are you alright?”

Erik nods against his chest. He’s just tired, the walk and the metal. He thought he was past this. He thought he was stronger than this.

--

Oh god. He’s been in this position before because Erik insists on driving himself to breaking point before he’d consider mentioning anything might be wrong, but it feels worse now somehow, if only in contrast.

Erik doubling over in pain, he would have staggered straight into the Kapo had Charles not caught him in time. His teeth gritted against the pain in his shoulders, not allowing a cry to slip through, the wounds aggravated from the day’s backbreaking work.

Hands bleeding freely, bitten through to keep Charles from screaming, staining his shirt, scraped raw on the bramble stems from having to do both their work on his own.

Stumbling, almost falling face-first into the filthy packed snow on the death march. Charles catching him and dragging him back to lean against him. Whispering him to rest, they might not be able to sleep but he should rest, lean against him and rest. The feel of that thin body against his, almost child-like in vulnerability, trembling from cold and exhaustion.

Watching Erik reel back half-blind from the sunlight, trying to blink through the glare and hide what was happening for one more day. Not wanting Charles to know, not wanting to know himself and hoping if they denied it enough, it would go away.

Erik shakes his head a few times, and Charles tightens his grip, letting Erik lean on him as he eases them both down the slope. The added weight makes it harder to navigate, and there’s a sheer drop of a good four-five feet where the trees meet the road. For once Erik doesn’t complain when Charles encourages him to sit down on the sun-warmed ground and let him get down first.

It’s not hard, starvation weakens the bones so he doesn’t risk jumping, but someone had long ago built a wall to stop the earth crumbling onto the road, and the unmortared stone offers plenty of footholds. He leaves the book with Erik and once down he holds up his arms to his friend. Erik takes the book and slides his long legs over the side, takes Charles’ arms and slips off.

It’s a good idea, but like many ideas it relies on health and strength Charles doesn’t have. Erik’s full weight hits him and he staggers sideways and they both fall into the grass on the verge. It’s a strange, slow collapse, leaving them both breathless but unhurt, the smell of dew-wet grass in their noses.

Erik rolls over and sits up, he rubs his face and draws his knees against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Charles shakes his head, also sitting up. Erik’s shirt has grass-stains on it. If anything this is an improvement on the graying fabric. Charles brushes bits of half-dried mud and twigs from his trousers. “How are you feeling?”

Erik rubs his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck, and shakes his head. He looks groggy and confused.

“It’s alright.” Charles reassures him, and it is. Even the immediate panic at being in an unfamiliar place is slowly fading, it has no basis to rely on. Erik’s tired, this is a quiet, comfortable place and they’re alone in it. Erik can rest until he feels well enough to walk back. No one is expecting them, there’s no roll-call here. The panic fades with each breath. Erik yawns.

Charles rests his back against the wall, it’s rough, but the sun’s been beating on it all morning and it’s like leaning against a radiator. Erik leans against him, head on his shoulder, yawns again, and Charles can feel his eyes flutter closed through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Sitting with their backs against the wall of a barrack, the few precious days of spring when the warmth was a blessing rather than a thirst-driven torment. Feeling the sunlight beat on the old wood and warm them through their thin winter clothes.

It’s a warm day, but Charles pulls the discarded coat over Erik’s shoulders anyway and tries not to shiver.

--

He must have dozed off, because he can definitely remember waking up. It’s Charles’ hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Erik’s eyes snap open and the hospital’s hard-won assurance drains away in an instant. His heart’s hammering in his throat and he grabs hold of Charles’ arm out of reflex, no matter what might happen, they stay together.

The sunlight is almost blinding, he hasn’t been sleeping long, and the sun is still blazing down. He squints through the mass of green and gold, trying to pick out the threat.

“There.” Charles points to the right. Erik rubs his eyes and looks.

It could have been a beetle, he has to rub his eyes again to focus on it and when he does, his heart once again lodges in his throat.

It’s a car.

It’s not the open-backed canvas truck that brought them the clothes, nor the black police van of Charles’ nightmares.

Nor is it one of the sleek cars that were all that he knew of German vehicle design. He’d seen them before, in Warsaw, when they stayed with his mother’s sister before the ghetto. He’d admired them from a distance, and would have been angry his parents had forbidden him to take a closer look if he hadn’t already known what would happen if you did. One of his old schoolmates had, and Erik was glad his mother had pulled him away before he’d seen what had happened.

Instead it’s very plain, a rectangle on wheels, drab, matte black where the sun glances off it. And it’s definitely coming this way. There’s only one road, and it leads to them. They can see it quite clearly from where they are, and when it gets closer, whoever’s in the car will be able to see them too.

Erik clambers to his feet, his legs aching and unsteady after sitting for so long. There’s no shelter her unless they climb back over the wall, the verge is empty of anything but long grass, and on the far side is a steep drop. He collapses back down. The car is getting close, they have no time to hide. Those in the car would see them either way. He and Charles huddle down in the long grass, hoping that if the driver does see them, he won’t pay them any attention.

Shoulder to shoulder. Eyes on the ground. Roll call. Not daring to look up, the jeers, laughter and shouts of the guards ringing in their ears. Gritting their teeth when one from their barrack attracted the Kapo’s attention. Closing their eyes at a shot. Hoping, desperately, blindly, that they wouldn’t be next. Their hearts banging against their ribs because there was no way of being sure, there was no reason. It was sheer chance. It was always sheer chance. They owed their survival only to luck.

And please, please let it not have run out yet. He tries to think like Charles, reasoning away the fear. The Germans have lost. This is the middle of nowhere. They are almost in sight of the hospital. They shot all the SS. Who would be so desperate to kill them that they would take the risk to drive all the way out here? How would they know?

But again. The Germans have lost, the allied soldiers would be too hard a target. They are in the middle of nowhere, and no one would know. They are almost in sight of the hospital, but not quite. They shot all the SS, because of them, they would think. It was all their fault. They would know the hospital was helping the camp survivors, and would be hoping that some would be trusting or foolish enough to wander a little too far away. Sheep and wolves. He thinks of the dogs Charles is so terrified of, and shivers.

Charles cranes to see over Erik’s head. Erik looks at him and Charles’ eye are narrowed. “I think that’s an English car.” He murmurs. “The driver’s on the wrong side.”

The car turns a corner towards them, he doesn’t recognise it, and although that doesn’t mean much Charles is right, and hopes the driver came with the car. More than that though, he hopes they will be lucky and the car will drive past.

The car’s engine growls and clanks in protests as the car slows beside them and Erik forgets how to breathe. Maybe it’s because of earlier, but he can almost feel the car, as he could the pendant, or the pail. He wishes desperately he knew how to do something with it. He can knock over buckets and twist a chain, but what can he do against a car? Beside him, Charles is stiff as a board, Erik can feel his hand clench against his thigh. Like Erik, he’s been trying to convince himself, and like Erik, it hasn’t worked.

The door doesn’t open, instead the dust-stained window is wound down and the man on the passenger side leans out. He’s heavily tanned beneath a broad-brimmed hat, and his spade-shaped beard sticks out from the car like a violin. He squints at them. “You from the hospital?” His German is horrific, but Erik presses harder against the wall, as though trying to blend into the stonework.

The man sighs, and pushes his hat back, his brown hair is thinning, but almost made up for by his thick eyebrows. His eyes crinkle as he squints at them. “You from the hospital?” He repeats, this time in far better English.

Erik relaxes about two inches, but Charles nods guardedly. He’s still tense, but no longer so ready to run. The man nods, “Ah.” He’s tall and heavy-set. His face is lined beneath his beard, he must be almost fifty. He looks at them, and Erik knows that look, that pity. There’s no disgust, though. “You’re from the hospital.” There’s an odd weight to his words, his English is excellent, but slightly accented, it’s not German though, and that’s enough right now.

--

Charles wonders what the man must think, looking at them. The two of them, dirty from their walk, their third hand clothes, their thin bodies showing every relic of the last few years. He’s surprised the man needs to ask.

It wasn’t a question, but Charles nods again.

The man nods in turn. “This is the road to the hospital, isn’t it?” Charles can’t quite place his accent, it’s odd, almost a little like Erik’s.

He risks his voice, “Yes.”

The man frowns at him, taking note of his own accent, but doesn’t mention it. “I’m the doctor. I’m here for the young woman.” He sounds almost apologetic.

“Where are you taking her?” Charles doesn’t know why he cares, only that he feels as though he should. Erik might be comfortable caring only for the two of them, but it just doesn’t feel right. He should feel for someone, and it might as well be her.

The doctor looks at them thoughtfully. “Are you… friends of hers? Relatives?”

Erik shakes his head, but doesn’t speak. “Not… really.” Charles finishes.

The man sighs. “How far is it?”

Charles has no idea, and shakes his head. A mile? Three? It feels like they’ve been walking all afternoon.

The man shrugs, “Would you like a lift?”

Charles hesitates, and looks at Erik. This man isn’t English, or American, but he isn’t German either, and Erik’s tired. Erik looks back at him, he’s paler than usual, and probably more tired that Charles has realised, since he doesn’t immediately shake his head.

It’s a risk, but it’s not much of one and Charles slowly gets to his feet. The man smiles encouragingly, and Erik sends him a warning look, then gets up himself.

The car is hot and stuffy, the smell of warm leather and petrol almost overpowering, he collapses on the far side, and Erik slumps almost against him. Charles can feel the tension in his frame. The man reaches out of the window and slams the door closed. He tenses involuntarily, and feels Erik do the same.

The door isn’t locked. There’s the handle. He can feel it with his hand, he could open it any time he wanted to, and even if it is locked, there’s the handle for the window, he can wind it down and climb out. They’re not trapped, they’re not. They’re not.

If the man sees their reaction, he doesn’t show it, and the man in the chauffeur’s seat switches on the engine. Charles feels Erik relax a little as the car starts up.

“Where are you from?” The doctor looks around at them as they start to move.

Charles hesitates, but he’s lived this lie so long it would be pointless and downright dangerous to give it up. Hoping the man won’t ask the obvious questions, he answers “Poland.” It’s true enough, in a way. He certainly doesn’t feel like an American anymore. He doesn’t feel like anything anymore.

The man nods grimly. “I’ve heard about that.” He doesn’t push, for which Charles is grateful. “Which one did you end up in? Dachau?”

“The train.” Erik grinds the words out, Charles looks at him in surprise.

“Ah, I heard about that too. The one from Belsen?”

The name, just dropped like that, as though it was nothing. It probably is nothing to this man, he doesn’t look like a camp survivor. To him, Belsen’s just a place.

Belsen isn’t just a place. It’s a key. It’s a key to the locked box of all the memories Charles is trying so hard to bury. It’s not working, because even mentioning that place is enough to break it open again and for the memories to crawl out.

They hadn’t arrived by train, the station was too far away for that. They’d been packed into a truck and driven the last few miles to the gates. It was freezing cold, and although they’d long since lost track of the days Charles thought it might have been February. They’d huddled down on the floor of the truck, shoulder to shoulder with as many people as possible, trying to stay out of the freezing wind cutting through them.

He’d managed to find better shoes, taken from one of the men who had been on the train with them- coal wagons open to the sky. The man had been delirious even before he’d been thrown in, and after two nights open to the night’s snow, he’d died. Charles had watched the two other prisoners in the wagon trying to help him, while he and Erik watched with a sort of dull apathy. Later, one of them had given Charles the shoes. He’d taken them numbly, wondering why the men didn’t just take them for themselves, and what they’d want in return.

The two men had been in the truck with them. They arrived and when Charles slipped and fallen on the snow covered ground, his new shoes providing scant purchase, and his cramped legs no support, Erik had caught him and one of the men had turned to him and shaken his head. “Muselmann. You’re wasting your time.”

Charles presses against the leather of the car, the cold of that night following him even into the sweltering heat of the car. Erik nods stiffly in answer to the man’s question.

Erik had snarled at those men, not a word, at least not one Charles could understand, just a snarl. The man had shrugged and left them, hurrying along in the disorganized column following in the wake of the SS.

Muselmann. Erik hauled him upright and pushed him, trying to get him walking. It was one word that was shared throughout the camps. It was a sight shared throughout the camps. Someone so drawn and exhausted by suffering that they had just given up, died inside. No point wasting your time for them, they were already dead. Their bodies just hadn’t caught up yet. That man had taken him for one of them.

“I’ve a colleague working there.” The man continues. “You’re lucky, little hospital like this. It’s a madhouse over there. Half the survivors have typhus and the other half are dead.” His face twitches, belying his words. “They don’t have the manpower to deal with this.”

Erik’s face, hollow, staring, lost in fever dreams.

Typhus had been everywhere in Belsen, with so many to care for, would there have been enough of the vaccination for Erik? And so regularly? Their hands are trapped between them, out of sight and Charles holds Erik’s tightly, and receives as squeeze in return.

“You’ve been there?” Charles’ voice comes out a little hoarser than he’d have liked, but talking, even talking about this, is better than thinking.

The man shakes his head, “As I said, a colleague. I’ve been working in Dachau, they’re setting up a DP camp there.” At their blank looks, he explains. “Displaced Persons camp. Like this one.”

Is that what they call it? It makes them sound like refugees. Charles supposes they are, but it’s hardly their fault. Where else are they supposed to go?

--

It’s strange to be in a car, like this. Erik’s never really been in a car, only trucks, and it’s very different. Not only because of the comfort, he could almost feel the car before, and he’s sure he can feel it not, a faint humming, like a distant hive of bees, not heard for much as sensed. It’s a comforting sensation, and it reminds Erik of the truck that had first taken them to the hospital. He relaxes a little more, this is safe, they’re now within sight of the hospital, they’ll be there soon. He strokes his thumb over Charles’ hand, his friend is still tense.

“Interesting book.” The man has spotted the book on Charles’ lap. “Is that from the hospital by any chance?” His tone is slightly patronizing, like an indulgent parent finding his child at some small mischief.

Charles nods. “We borrowed it.” He sounds defensive.

“You’re not a doctor by any chance?” He’s smiling, Erik can see his beard twitch. “We could use some good doctors.”

“In Dachau?” There’s a touch of irony in Charles’ voice.

The man snorts. “I did in Dachau what I’m doing here; finding people who need medical attention that cannot be provided and moving them to somewhere that can provide it. Like that girl of yours. Not like you but…” He trails off pointedly, and Erik suspects that if they were to claim medical training, he would not be asking for proof. “As I said, we could do with some help.”

Charles doesn’t look at him, Erik doesn’t look at Charles. The car pulls up to the makeshift gate at the front of the hospital. The structure that had seemed so imposing in a typhus delirium now revealed to be nothing more than a few fences stacked together. One of the aids is already hurrying to push it open.

“We do have… some training.” Charles says at last. It’s an awkward moment, anything he says will sound like a lie, but Charles pulls it off quite well. But then, it isn’t a lie, not for him.

He told Erik about it a few days after they had first met, in the unending first days, standing on roll call for hours on end. They’d stood together, and whispered when the guards and kapo were out of earshot. Between the bad German and bad English, they’d managed to talk fairly well. He couldn’t believe Charles was American, and that he’d managed to get himself into this situation through a run of bad luck. He could believe he was a medical student though, and after the first day of standing bolt upright, and feeling his shoulders slowly stop screaming as Charles gave him a backrub, he was deeply grateful.

It seems almost absurd, they’d dreamed of something like this. Perhaps it’s not so strange, in this world, to be able to want something and just reach out and take it. Perhaps before, it used to be like that, but Erik’s not used to it.

Neither is Charles, he’s talking carefully, like a man treading dangerous ground and waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Where is this place?”

The man smiles again. “Not in Germany.”

Erik speaks up, “Where?” If he says America, it would be just too strange and Erik plans to refuse outright.

“Palestine.”

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