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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Operation Ganymede - 17. Chapter 17 - The Trap of Truth
Arnfried and Heissler, tasked by Captain Lefeuvre in the Oflag library, follow the French officer—the former into an underground reserve. Under pressure, Arnfried reveals his mission: to confirm suspicions of escapes orchestrated by Lefeuvre. The latter, furious yet cunning, probes his true intentions, as an ambiguous tension builds between manipulation and mistrust.
What a thrill! What a rush to feel what makes real boys tick again. Still buzzing from the search he’d just carried out, Lefeuvre eyed the lads as they finally turned round, mentally savouring the soft flesh he’d handled with little effort. Snapping back to the moment, he asked:
- You never told me your ages, by the way?
- Me, 13, Heissler piped up. Me, 14, Arnfried added.
14! That explains what I felt in those shorts. Quite a handful, that one. Right, what’s the time? 9:10. The ‘auxi’ should be along soon. OK. Noticing the puzzled look on the cracking lad opposite, he threw in, What?
- Well… now you’ve seen we’ve got nothing on us… d’you… d’you trust us?
- Trust? Hmm… trust’s earned, isn’t it?
- But you saw we’re clean?
- Yes, but what’s that prove? Truth is, I still don’t get why you’re here.
- To stand in for our uncle—he’s poorly.
- M’yes… not very convincing.
- Why not?
- Well, look where we are! A makeshift library stuck in the back end of an Oflag! You reckon that calls for two assistants?
- Well… yes.
- See, even you’re not sure. And this ‘uncle’ of yours didn’t hang about in my hair all day! What’s this game?
Keen to stay tight-lipped, Arnfried didn’t answer, glancing at Heissler, still by the shelves, ready to join him. But the French officer stopped him before he could budge:
- Right… since you’re here, you—pointing at Heissler—take those books there, the stack on the desk, and log ‘em one by one in the register, following the list on the first page. Got it?
Heissler nodded, shuffling to the desk as directed. Meanwhile, Arnfried waited, itching to know what the Frenchman had in store for him. It didn’t take long:
- You, come with me. We’re off to the reserve. Follow.
With the poise of an old schoolmaster, Lefeuvre led Arnfried to a separate building—the only one in brick, standing out against the barracks like the library’s. They descended into the basement, a cool, dim space where their footsteps rang off the concrete floor.
- The reserve’s down the corridor, Lefeuvre explained, as if giving a lesson. This building was the first put up here, a few years back, by the Nazis. Word is they meant it as an Academy for the Hitlerjugend. Ring any bells?
Arnfried, unable to spill his real identity, privately recognised the layout. The stark, imposing brickwork, the courtyard where the Reich flag once flew—it all eerily echoed his own Stamm Academy. Still, he kept his face blank, listening close.
- But with the war, and the endless flood of prisoners—Poles first, then Belgians, and us French—the plan got twisted. What was meant to train the Reich’s youth turned into a lock-up.
Arnfried nodded silently, his eyes tracing the stone walls, picturing what this place might’ve been in another life. There was a bitter twist in it—something meant to raise Nazi youth now caging its foes.
The lad trailed Lefeuvre through a string of cellars—three in all—surprisingly dry, perfect for keeping books. The air hung thick with the scent of old paper and dust, each step uncovering crates stuffed with stacked volumes.
- Your uncle dug these up for us!
Arnfried, thrown for a tick, forgot he was meant to be this shadowy Hofman’s nephew—the town librarian. He rallied in half a second:
- Oh, yes, my uncle…
The Frenchman, tickled by the act, caught the slip with a sly grin.
- By the way, whose brother is he? Your mum’s or your dad’s?
- Er… m… my dad’s.
- Oh, really? Quite an age gap! Given yours and old Hofman’s, I’d say… well… a good generation between your dad and that dear old chap!
- W… what d’you mean?
- Tss… drop it. Not with me. I don’t know what you and your mate are up to, but I’d bet my boots you’re no more refugees than I am, and your aunts are hundreds—maybe thousands—of miles from here. You’ve never worked a farm, let alone a field—just look at your hands!
- B… BUT—
- But what? No bother, we can play along. No trouble. But in return, tell me what you and your pal are really doing in this mess?
Arnfried, torn between fear and curiosity, stared at Lefeuvre, unsure how to react. The man seemed genuine—disarming, even, with that human streak. He clamped his lips shut, his Hitlerjugend training drumming in endurance and loyalty to the Party.
Sensing the boy’s stubborn hush, Lefeuvre gripped the door handle with slow purpose, easing it shut, plunging the cellar into an oppressive gloom that seemed to tighten the walls around them. Arnfried, caught off guard by the shift, froze, his eyes tracking the officer’s every move with uneasy fascination.
- Now it’s just us two, come on… what’re you hiding? the man murmured, his voice a velvet whisper, as his finger, light as a feather, brushed Arnfried’s cheek, leaving a warm trail on his skin.
That finger lingered on his neck, tracing invisible lines like a map of power and control, each touch a subtle nudge of the Frenchman’s sway in that moment.
- Here in this camp, far from your lot, you’re just a pawn, my lad… he breathed, his warm breath grazing Arnfried’s ear, conjuring a forced closeness.
The finger slid down, grazing his chest, each brush on the worn fabric a hint of something to come. The Captain tugged gently at the shirt’s fold, baring that same strip of skin from the pat-down.
- And when Schmidt comes for you later, I could always say you’ve already scarpered… then… hop… locked away… here… or deeper underground. There’s a maze of tunnels under us… pff… vanished, the boy!
Arnfried, still mute, showed the first cracks—his breathing quickened, betraying an inner tussle, his eyes flickering with fear and a dawning surrender. The strain notched up as the finger toyed with the lone button on his shorts, teasing not just the cloth but the lad’s resolve.
- OK OK… I… I’ll tell you everything.
- Hm?
The finger lifted, Arnfried seeming to snap back to life:
- I… I… they sent us here for a mission.
Lefeuvre nodded, a grin mixing pity and mischief.
- A mission? Well, well, fancy that!
- I… I’ve got to find out if… if it’s true you’re springing prisoners.
- The swine! Now they’re sending kids. What a pack of vultures! Turning back to Arnfried, half his face lost in the gloom, And?
- W… what? That’s all. I… I just had to find out, then tell that chap you mentioned—the one with the shirt.
- Schmidt! I knew it, the blighters are on my tail!
Lefeuvre, green with rage, started thinking fast. So the Krauts knew. But what exactly? The kid had mentioned escapes. OK. That meant they had suspicions but no proof, or solid info, if they’d sent these two lads. Eyeing the boy still rigid before him, his mind whirled, plotting how to turn this. OK, they know—or think they do—but they’re not sure, or they wouldn’t have sent kids. And why kids, anyway?
- U… us?
Arnfried shrugged, playing dumb (though he knew full well—tied to intel from France about the captain’s legal scrapes and his bent for young lads).
- Mm… queer business.
Arnfried, curious yet wary—never forgetting this was the enemy, painted since forever as the vilest sort, who’d just proved again how ruthless doctrine said they could be—listened hard, half-relieved (how to explain it!) that the Frenchman knew now.
- Right, we’re heading up! Grab that crate.
Lefeuvre pointed to a box of books and hefted one himself. They stepped back into the corridor’s light, Lefeuvre striding ahead, impatience showing—he knew lingering out of sight too long would only stir the guards’ nosiness, always on the lookout for any sly moves.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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