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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 - 18. Chapter 18 - The Caress of the Deal
The French officer offers Arnfried a deal: provide evidence for his mission in exchange for a personal price. While Heissler finds nothing suspicious, Arnfried, caught between duty and manipulation, ends up following Lefeuvre into a cellar where their odd partnership deepens.
Back at the top of the stairs from the damp cellars, Arnfried, arms stretched under the weight of his crate, asked:
- What about Heissler?
- Heissler?
- Well… what’ll we tell him?
- Ah… good question, Lefeuvre replied, a glint of thought in his eyes. D’you reckon your pal’s reliable?
- Reliable? Er… I don’t know.
Lefeuvre set his crate down on the stone floor with a dull thud; Arnfried followed suit, glad to shed the load. Those crates, once used for ammo, were heavy even empty—stuffed with books, they felt like lead. The barrack loomed across the courtyard, and Heissler’s role needed deeper mulling.
- Who is he? Really your cousin?
Arnfried shook his head, wordlessly spilling the ruse. Lefeuvre, catching the game afoot, nodded, a faint “OK” slipping out. Not a cousin, then. A mate?
- Er… yeah… sort of.
- Sort of. Well, I never! OK.
Then an idea struck him, lighting his face like a bulb flicking on. Brilliant! Arnfried, clocking the shift, caught a sly smirk as Lefeuvre fixed him with a fresh, almost hungry stare.
- W… what?
- An idea.
- Idea? What idea?
- Truth be told, one that’ll hinge on you.
- ME?
- Aye, but for now, we press on, he said, nodding at a guard showing signs of restlessness.
They hefted their crates again, the weight of the moment matching the books. The guard’s eyes tracked them, a constant watch that thickened the air. Lefeuvre, oddly chipper despite the strain, let out a little whistle—a jaunty tune clashing with their grim spot. Arnfried, trailing behind, was hooked by the sudden switch, quick as it was queer.
Back in the library, they found Heissler hunched over his task at the desk. Morning light streamed through the small barred windows, catching Heissler, who didn’t look up, scribbling in the register with a focus worth admiring. The stack of books to log had shrunk, a neat pile of the done ones rising beside it. His pen scratched the paper steady as a metronome, unfazed by their return. Lefeuvre pointed Arnfried to a spot for his crate, setting his own within reach of the desk. With a quick wink at Arnfried, he signalled talk would wait. But Arnfried’s mind churned, that “hinge on you” echoing like a riddle, a piece of this odd, threat-laced morning.
10:00. Time for the first “readers” to show up. Lefeuvre manned the front, while Heissler had been shunted to a cramped nook—a jumbled storeroom of cartons and papers. He’d dragged a chair from the main reading room, the register perched on stacked boxes forming a wobbly, makeshift table. Every shift risked toppling this paper Babel, and he kept tweaking his stance to stay upright.
In that cramped hideaway, Arnfried stood by, eyes sharp, voice hushed to keep words from leaking through the cardboard walls.
- So, found anything?
Heissler, straightening a bit to stop the register sliding, grimaced with frustration:
- Nothing. I’ve rummaged through the papers—just book lists, loan requests… nothing to help us. You?
Arnfried, aware of the secret pact brewing with Lefeuvre, lied with a knack he didn’t know he had:
- Same. Checked the crates—only books. Nothing special. He’s a sly one.
Heissler sighed, disappointment plain on his face, his frame sagging on the rickety chair.
- Yeah. What now?
- Keep watching. Stay sharp for anything. If you spot something fishy, even the tiniest bit, tell me straight off. I’ll head back out there. Maybe if I earwig when he chats with others…
Heissler nodded, eyes scanning the papers as if a secret might pop out. His awkward perch mirrored their plight—teetering, ready to tip any second.
- OK, but I’m warning you, if we’re stuck here all day, this chair’ll do me in!
Arnfried cracked a faint smile, clocking the absurdity but also the need to keep up the front.
- We’ll find a chance to stretch. We’re not the prisoners. But for now, focus on the mission.
Their voices faded, leaving only the rustle of turned pages.
The morning dragged, and with it, the wait. Not a single visitor! Half an hour till the library shut for midday break, reopening at 2:00. Arnfried, sure his quiet snooping would likely turn up naught, kept a keen eye on the officer. Nothing stood out—Lefeuvre filled out forms, taking over the desk Heissler had left for his bolthole. No dodgy moves, nothing yet to back the camp brass’s suspicions.
Then, sharp as a shot, Lefeuvre stood, waving Arnfried over. Pointing to a carton bursting with books:
- Back to the cellars.
He tossed the storeroom keys to Heissler, who looked chuffed to ditch his shaky perch.
- Wait for us, even if we run a bit late.
Heissler nodded, relief clear at escaping his wobbly throne.
Arnfried, wordless, grabbed the carton Lefeuvre handed him, and they set off, retracing their steps to the basement. This time, the lighter crates eased the slog, but the heft of secrets and unanswered questions still bore down on Arnfried. He followed in silence, that “hinge on you” nagging like a puzzle yet to crack. Maybe, he hoped, alone in the cellars, he’d finally twig what it meant?
They crossed the courtyard under a cracking sky, noon light hoisting the sun to its peak. Their boots crunched on gravel—the only sound till they hit the cellar stairs. Each step down drew them closer not just to the basement but to a reckoning.
In the cellar, Lefeuvre dropped his crate and turned to Arnfried, his stare piercing, almost probing.
- So, lad, time to chew over what I said earlier, eh? Remember? ‘It’ll hinge on you.
Arnfried, crate still in hand, felt tension coil. He nodded, braced for what’d likely shape their queer partnership next.
The cellar air hung heavy, thick with waiting and dread. Lefeuvre, after setting his crate down, watched Arnfried intently.
- After some thought, I’ve cooked up a little deal to suit us both.
Arnfried’s face flashed surprise laced with worry. Deal? Why that word? What sort of deal?
Lefeuvre, relishing the reaction, motioned him to drop his crate. Stacking one box on another, he sat, patting the spot beside him. The crate barely wide enough for two, Arnfried had to squeeze close to the man, ramping up his unease as much as the strain.
And Lefeuvre, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, began:
- This afternoon, I’ll slip you two or three bits to make it look like you’ve nailed your mission.
The Hitlerjugend lad, breath catching, swung his head to the officer, eyes hunting for proof. True?
Lefeuvre nodded, a small smirk playing on his lips. Relief flooded Arnfried, picturing a triumphant return to the manor.
- But… you’ll guess it comes at a price?
Lefeuvre’s question, soft as a dark promise, jerked Arnfried’s head up, his face etched with query and creeping fear. The officer’s deep, piercing gaze seemed to snag the boy’s very soul, a warm-up to what was brewing.
- You!
- Me? ‘Me’ what?—confusion thick, tinged with rising dread.
Lefeuvre, satisfaction glinting in his eyes, laid a hand on Arnfried’s bare thigh, fingers brushing the skin like a first tease.
- Reckon you know distractions are thin on the ground here.
The hand was warm, near possessive, drying Arnfried’s mouth. Before he could think straight, those fingers pressed gently into his thigh, an idle nail tracing the short’s seam like mapping a claim. The penny dropped clear as day, but to his shock, instead of pulling back, Arnfried heard himself ask, voice quivering with nerves:
- W… what d’you want?
The air crackled with fresh tension—a brew of power, want, and bargaining, like a shadowy dance with every step measured.
- Fancy a bit of fun… don’t you?
Seeing little fight, Lefeuvre’s fingers climbed, sliding over the shorts to the half-open fly, short on buttons. A nail, then another, slipped through the fabric—a test graze. Arnfried, spellbound, swallowed hard, the Oberleutnant’s words from yesterday ringing like a doom bell: Your body’s not really yours anymore.
Those nails found soft flesh under the cotton, pressing with near-artful care, probing to lift, to outline what the cloth hid—an exploration both tender and bold. Arnfried, eyes locked, felt a storm of clashing urges—revulsion tangling with a queer surrender, his body a bargaining chip where all was up for grabs.
His cheeks blazed red, breath short, each touch striking a forbidden chord on his jangled nerves.
- Y… you… he tried, voice a strangled whisper in the strain.
- Tss… just a bit. And this afternoon…
- AFTERNOON?
- You show me everything. OK?
- EVERYTHING?”
Lefeuvre nodded, his hand easing off slow, leaving a hollow heat behind. Arnfried, throat tight, stared at the gaping fly—tangible proof of a daring, dizzying probe.
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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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