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skull_bearerChapter five, part three
Shomron isn’t in the car they get into, is probably staying in the following trucks with the patients. They’d helped carry the patients into the army vehicles -- so similar to the one that had brought them here -- and had been shooed into one of the jeeps. Charles hopes they won’t decide that they don’t need the extra help after all and just drop them off in the middle of German nowhere. He hopes one day he’ll stop thinking like this.
But then, there’s little enough to do, just sitting in the jeep watching the world go by. It’s not as hot as the car, but Erik’s already carsick and leaning back with his eyes closed. The driver is the same one who drove Shomron and themselves, with a man they don’t know in the passenger seat. Neither of them talks, although Charles can see the second man sneaking the odd look at them through the rear-view mirror.
Eyes staring out from behind a lace curtain Charles would have liked to stop and stare at. Such delicate work. His grandmother owned such lace; his mind coughed up the memory of tracing its patterns during the interminably long dinner hours. A young woman was staring at them; the curtain twitched up just far enough to watch them trudge past. The room behind her was dark, but Charles imagined it, a simple rustic room, a warm and cozy bedroom perhaps, or a pantry full of food. Relief from exhaustion and hunger no more than ten feet away, all in this woman’s power. She saw him looking, and tugged the curtain back into place.
Charles looks away, and goes back to looking out of the window, trying to ignore the cold, hard knot of fear in his stomach. Each passing moment takes them further from the hospital, from the only safe place they know. It would take them hours- maybe even days- to walk back by now, and soon it would be too late and they would be lost.
Carefully, checking that both men’s eyes are on the road, Charles slides his hand along the seat and touches Erik’s arm. The skin is warm and he can feel the thin muscles drawn tight. Not alone. No matter what happens, he will not be alone. His friend opens his eyes and squints blearily at him, Charles smiles, amazed how even that small touch is enough to dim the fear.
Erik closes his eyes again, and Charles pulls his hand away, he doesn’t want to be seen.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is soft, hoping the words will be lost under the grumble of the engine.
Erik leans a little closer, “I can feel the car.” He murmurs. “If I think about that, I don’t…” He puts a hand on his stomach, and grimaces. “…Feel so bad.”
Charles smiles, although Erik can’t see it. He wants to touch him again, even something as simple as holding hands. It might even be alright for brothers, but the memory of the man in the tents it still too raw.
And maybe Erik’s the one who can read minds, because he gropes over for his coat and drops it between them, sliding one hand under the fabric. It’s hot, and probably going to get uncomfortable, but Charles does the same, and feels Erik’s fingers mesh with his. It’s enough.
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They stop, thank goodness, and Erik fumbles with the door handle to open it. He knows it, has spent the last few hours absently tracing over the metal in his mind, dissecting the slightly different feel of it from the rest of the car door. But he isn’t so familiar with the feel of it in his hand, and it takes him a few moments to open the door.
His legs are stiff, and he wobbles over to the verge and collapses next Charles. The sun is dazzling after so long with his eyes closed, but it feels so much better to be on solid ground again.
The doctors are clustered around the nearest truck, discussing something among themselves.
“I wonder what happened.” Charles hugs his knees.
Erik shrugs; it doesn’t concern them. Charles is looking worried though, and Erik feels rather bad for spending the ride cataloguing jeep parts rather than talking to him. Judging by how tightly Charles had held his hand during the ride, his friend’s thoughts haven’t been at all pleasant.
But then, what would have been said? What could he have said while they were in danger of being overheard?
Charles gets up suddenly, swaying a little unsteadily. Erik follows suit, taking his arm to steady him. “Where are you-”
Charles has a closed, bitter expression that Erik’s never seen directed at him before. “I am going to find out what the problem is.” He looks more tired than anything, and Erik wonders what he’s done wrong now. “We do need to help these people, Erik. They are helping us, and it’s- it’s not the same.”
Not the same as working simply because you would be killed for not working. Avoiding as much of it as possible, hiding when you could, working only while watched, stopping the moment you were left alone.
Erik bites his lip, perhaps not, but he hasn’t forgotten the man the police took away. As much as Shomron and the other doctors are willing to help them now, would that still be the case if they knew they were the same as that man? Or if they knew what he could do with metal and what Charles could do with his mind? They have agreed to work in order to get out of the hospital, and Erik doesn’t want to draw attention to themselves unless directly called out.
They are called out anyway, Shomron turns around as Charles approaching, “Can you two- Oh good. We’ll need to stay in the truck with the patients; we can’t cope with just one staff member in each. If you could go in this one, and your friend in the one further down, the nurses will show you what to do.”
At least, that’s what Erik think he’s said, since Shomron’s talking fast, and his mind is unable to think past what he’s just heard.
He wants them to separate?
That deep-down kick of fear in his belly he got every time he turned and Charles wasn’t there, even if he saw him a heartbeat later. The slow, clenching grind of dread of time spent alone. The time Charles had hidden for a whole day. The rounds he’d been forced to make alone in the hospital barracks when Charles had first fallen ill with typhoid. The days he’d woken up, delirious and alone in Belsen, wanting to cry out for his friend, but terrified to do so in case someone overheard. Lying in silence, not knowing if Charles was hurt or dead or even here, just out of sight. Yes, that had been the worst.
Charles’ face in a mirror image of his own, but even ash-pale, his manages to speak. “Sir, I- we know what to do. We can work together. We… work better together”
And thank god, that’s about all he needs to say, Shomron barely looks at him but shrugs nonchalantly and turns back to the others, apparently discussing their route. Once again, Erik is beginning to have doubts if this man is really the best person to look after them. The man who’d been in the jeep with them does look at them, frowning slightly, although he looks more concerned than suspicious. Erik quickly turns away to head to the nearest of the trucks.
They are clearly army trucks, although made up to look like ambulances and in a twist of truly sick fate, they look almost identical to those in which Erik’s family had ridden to their deaths, and to those in which so many others had, those first few months in Auschwitz. Some had even been canvas, like this one, their red cross a disgusting mockery.
All the same, it’s almost a relief to climb in and out of sight. Erik’s hands are still shaking. There is a faint smell of vomit and an even stronger smell of disinfectant, obviously one of the patients has the same problem as he does.
There are four people in the truck, four of those they saw in the hospital ward. Not the girl, she must be further down, but the man who had been banging his head against the bedposts, and the woman who had chewed her fingers bloody.
Neither can do this anymore, all four are strapped down, flat on their backs and unable to move. Erik understands why, even with the tailboard up they could still stumble and fall out, but he feels a sharp sting of sympathy all the same. If he had been in their position - and he could so easily have been, he only had to look at his reaction at the mere suggestion that he and Charles be separated- he wouldn’t have liked to be tied down either.
Whatever arguments the doctors were having has obviously been resolved, because the truck trembles as the engine starts, and their driver comes around to put up the tailboard. He’s a young man with a long, but smiling face. “If you need anything, bang on the divider. Mind you, it’s pretty thin, so if you want to chat, feel free. It’s a bloody boring drive.”
Erik stares at him, and then nods stiffly; fine, whatever you like, just go away now please. The man‘s- boy, Erik corrects himself, he’s probably younger than they are- smile fades a little, and he closes the flaps. Erik can’t help but wonder what they look like to him. Frail, subterranean creatures, with pale skin and too wide eyes. He shakes the thought away and turns back to the people they’re meant to look after.
The trucks starts with a buck, and Erik almost falls over, only saving himself by grabbing onto one of several straps hanging from the ceiling- probably meant for this very purpose. The beds are fixed to the ground somehow, as well as a small chair Charles is hanging on to. The ground is far bumpier than it had felt in the jeep, but for some reason the nausea has left him.
It’s just as well, since Erik doesn’t think Charles would like five patients instead of four. The man, his head still bandaged, is moaning again. Even in the low light he can see he’s very pale.
Charles glances at him but he’s already moving, looking around for where the nurses keep the basins. He finds several bedpans and two covered buckets with fixed lids. He picks up the bedpan and makes his way over to Charles’ side.
It’s not all that different to their work in the hospital barracks, with the benefit of far better equipment and the penalty of having the floor constantly moving. Once the man’s finished being sick and Erik empties the bedpan into the bucket, there’s not much more to do than keep them as comfortable as possible. One of them, a man who probably hasn’t realized the ceiling he’s staring at has changed, has been strapped down so tightly the straps are biting into his skin where the blanket has slipped. Erik loosens them, pulls the blanket into place, and ties him down again.
It’s not hard. He and Charles had spent the best part of a year working more or less alone, with dozens of patients. Four isn’t hard. There is a roster of when each person should be fed, and a column next to each, titled ‘name’. Each one had been marked ’unknown’, but then must have been filled in by the nurses’ own whimsical ideas. The woman with the chewed fingers is ‘Hephzibah’, the staring man is ‘Brutus’, the small, thin boy no older than Charles is ‘Epinet’ and the man with the bandaged head is ‘Valentino’.
“I suppose it’s to make them seem more like real people.” Charles murmurs, reading over Erik’s shoulder.
Erik looks at ‘Epinet’ then away. That could very easily be him there, or Charles. If he had died in the hospital, or if Charles had- as had so many others from the train- he couldn’t say either of them would have ended up any better. Would they have been the survivor there then? Curled in on himself with a stupid, made up name tacked on to make him ‘more human’. Even imagined, the loneliness bites at his heart. Left alone in a world this horrible. He wonders who these people have lost.
Muselmann.
No, they are not.
For once, Erik admits Charles may have been right. He hadn’t understood. They did need to help these people. Not because they would be killed if they didn’t or even because it was getting them somewhere better, but because it was the right thing to do. It’s a strange feeling.
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There’s no sense of time in the makeshift ambulance. There are scheduled stops to empty the buckets and dispense food and drink, but between them time might as well not exist. There’s plenty of water, they save some part of the food they’re given to last during the journey, and relive themselves in the buckets. The world outside might not be there, and Charles can’t help but like it that way. It reminds him of the days spent in the tent.
In the camps, and even some days since, there were days when he felt everyone except for Erik could vanish tomorrow, and he would be perfectly happy. Their tiny kingdom of two expanded to cover the entire world. Not that the rest of the human race would be dead, just… not there. Unable to see or hear or hurt them. On the bad days, it sounded like heaven, and even on the good days it remained tempting.
It’s a lot better than the car anyway. It’s not as hot, and no one’s likely to notice the small touches and caresses passed between them. It’s a pleasant way of working, as they slowly fall into a rhythm, cleaning and feeding and giving water when they think it’s needed. Then another thread of memory from his old life resurfaces, and Charles remembers that immobile patients need to be turned regularly to prevent bedsores. That takes them at least until early evening, judging by the quality of light through the canvas.
After that, Charles is beginning to feel very tired. Even with a nap, today has been exhausting. There’s only one chair, and Charles waves for Erik to take it. His friend looks as if he might argue, but oddly, doesn’t. Instead he smiles and sits, and as Charles is wondering how tired he must be to give in without objection, Erik wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in to sit on his lap.
It can’t be very comfortable. Although he’s not very heavy, he has put on weight since they arrived, and the bumps in the road are jarring. Charles braces himself against the wall to try and lessen it, but Erik doesn’t seem to mind. One arm goes around Charles’ neck, and he pulls him in closer, nuzzling his neck. Charles can feel him smiling, and can’t help but return it, resting his cheek on Erik’s head. It is nice, and becomes even nicer when Erik kisses him.
He doesn’t ask why Erik’s doing this. If he wants to, that’s good enough for him. Whether he wanted reassurance that Charles is there, or comfort in this admittedly very strange situation, or simply because it feels good, Charles isn’t going to question it. He keeps an eye on their charges though, because one of them has to, and Erik is obviously preoccupied.
After a while, Erik stops kissing him, and just rests his head on Charles’ shoulder, joining him in watching.
“How do you feel?” Charles feels the bones of his jaw press into his shoulder as he speaks.
“Just tired.” He yawns.
It’s infectious; Erik yawns too. “Yes. I wonder where they want us to sleep.”
Charles hesitates, “Perhaps they have a spare bed.” Unlikely, considering how eager Shomron was to bring as many people along. Charles wouldn’t be surprised, if he took as many people as he could fit in the trucks. They may have to sleep outside.
They’d sometimes slept outside in those first few weeks in Belsen. The camp was utterly overcrowded, and sometimes they’d found it impossible to find anywhere to sleep and ended up huddling in the freezing air outside, trying to find somewhere out of the wind. It’s the clearest memory Charles has of those horrible nights; circling the huts in the hopes of finding somewhere a least a little less cold. Freezing and shivering when they finally ran out of strength to search and clung together, unable to sleep until finally the sun rose and they crept inside to steal a bed from those who left.
Enough. It’s probably June by now; the last few nights have been stifling to the point when Charles might have suggesting sleeping out of doors just to cool down. Besides, they could probably stretch out on the floor here if necessary.
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They sleep on the floor of the truck that night, and the next, and in retrospect Erik is glad. Had there been a spare bed, or even one of the sleeping bags the others use, no doubt their willingness to share would have drawn questions. And sleeping alone is still and probably will always be impossible.
He did wonder when that had happened, when Charles’ presence at night had stopped being merely comforting and become impossible to sleep or even relax without. Partially it was fear, as long as Charles was here, he wasn’t anywhere else and at least for the time being, Erik knew he was safe. But even afterwards, in the hospital tents, when the fear had died down as much as it was ever going to, even when he knew perfectly well where Charles was, he would always wake up almost as soon as he was alone, and not be able to sleep until his friend came back.
At least in the truck they can draw the flaps closed without comment and sleep together. The spare blankets kicked into a sort of nest, and even if it might not be as comfortable as the tent or the hospital, it hasn’t been so long that they’ve forgotten what it was like sleeping in the barracks. After the long, uncomfortable day of tending to their four patients, sleep shouldn’t be hard to find.
Erik’s shoulders are killing him. It had been a relief to finally stretch out on the floor, the constant bending over; lifting the patients and hanging on to the straps had pulled his muscles to screaming point. He vaguely remembers that sleeping on bare boards is supposed to be good for a bad back. On the other hand, he’s slept on bare boards for three years, and it hasn’t made much difference.
It doesn’t do much good now, the sharp pain ends and a deeper, duller pain sets it, as always, and no amount of turning over will shift it. After the third attempt, Charles sighs. “Roll over.” He grumbles, sitting up.
Erik is about to argue, but even in the low light he can see Charles’ expression. He isn’t going to get any sleep like this, and if he isn’t, then Charles won’t be able to either. He takes his shirt off and rolls over.
Charles fingers automatically seek out the top of his spine, just below his neck and just above his shoulder blades, and dig in. The sharp pain flares back, but that’s easier to deal with. For a while, he stays there, working his fingers into the knots along Erik’s shoulders. Erik can hear the muscles crack, the pain dying away to a warm numbness, he mumbles something inaudible into the blankets, smiling.
“This is bad.” Charles’ voice is soft. “You should have told me it was getting this bad, why didn’t you?”
“Couldn’t have done much. While moving.”
Charles doesn’t answer, but Erik can feel him shake his head in exasperation, and smiles again.
The shoulders finished with, Charles starts working his way down, digging his thumbs on either side of Erik’s shoulder blades, first pushing in, then sliding up and down, easing the knots. With the ease of long practice, he pays special attention to the base of the shoulder blades, and Erik lets out another long sigh and relaxes again the floor, he’s still sore from the rough massage, but the pain is gone and exhaustion is settling in. He yawns.
“Almost finished.” Charles’ hands trail to his hips, press down in the small of his back. “Perhaps when we reach the hospital, I could look for a book on how to do this properly.”
“Won’t be better.” The words are slurred into the blanket.
Charles hears them anyway. “I want to help you, not hurt you. I could be doing this wrong.”
“You’re not.”
Charles is smiling, he’s sure of it. It’s very comfortable just to lie there, with Charles’ hand rubbing up and down his back, soothing any residual soreness, but it is starting to get cold, and as unlikely as it is, someone might come in.
He starts to sit up, but Charles presses a hand against his back, holding him down. He turns his head to look at his friend.
There’s not much light in the dim truck. Only from the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and that’s turned down very low. Charles is bent down low over him, and he can just make out his features, one side of his face and scalp painted gold from the flickering flame. It’s a beautiful sight, the hollows and details of one side of his face throwing shadows on the other side. Then Charles does smile and the patterns become even more intricate. Sharp cheekbones, deep eyes reflecting the flame, every feature so very defined and delicate. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it’s impossible to compare him with the wreck of a boy he had been only three months ago.
He doesn’t remember much of Charles in the last few months, the memories of before he was ill seems vague and indistinct, as thought he’d been sickening even then. What he does remember he wishes he didn’t. Charles had been bad before. Heartsick and terrified. Bones and skin and hollowed inside out with hunger and fear. But what he remembered after, surely it had been the fever that had made Charles look like that. Because he didn’t want to consider that the effort of looking after him through the typhus had cost Charles so much. That Charles had given so much that he’d started looking more like a corpse than many of the dead they had seen.
He reaches out and touches Charles’ face, and the memories dissolve like ice in a fire. His heart feels as though it has skipped a beat, then makes up for it by beating twice as fast. He can feel it resonating through the floor. Charles turns his face into the touch, eyes slipping closed. He needs a shave; Erik thinks vaguely, the bristles scrape against his palm. Then they slip away and are replaced by warm lips as Charles kisses him.
It’s just as well it’s so late, and Erik so tired. He wants him, never mind that it’s the worst place possible right now, short of doing this in plain sight, he wants him. And if his body had the energy to obey, it would be very hard to resist.
It’s a strange thing, that desire. He’s loved Charles for so long, been in love with him for so long, that he’s really not sure what to do with this desire. Love was easy. Whatever happened to Charles, it didn’t change the fundamentals. His bravery, his kindness, his intelligence and his utter, unbreakable loyalty that no amount of hunger or fear or pain could break.
Comfort was easy too. The strange intimacy erasing fear.
He hadn’t wanted him like this before, even if his body had been up to doing- whatever it was- and it had been safe, they were so filthy and starved and exhausted it would have been hard to dredge up any feeling other than disgust towards each other’s bodies beyond the comfort of touch.
And clearly, Charles too has recovered more than he’d thought, because for once his friend is the one having difficulty controlling himself. He takes hold of Erik’s hand and squeezes it, fingers tracing across the inside like a palm reader, then out along his fingers as he leans down and kissed his way down Erik’s spine. Definitely a new kind of massage.
“Hmm. Charles.” It’s at once an encouragement and a warning.
“I know.” Charles’s lips move against his hips, his chin pressing against the top of his buttocks, then, reluctantly and to Erik’s dismay, he moves away and lies down next to him.
Erik turns on his side, and for a while they just look at each other. Lying down, the light sends black bars across Charles’ face, shadows from the bed they are lying next to. Erik hopes none of the occupants have chosen this moment to wake up.
Charles doesn’t ask him to put his shirt on. Instead he pulls the blankets over themselves and rolls them up in it, practically tying them up together.
Erik doesn’t mind at all.
