“I’ll be back in an hour,” he said as he raced past Martin’s desk.
“Wai..”
He rushed out without waiting for Martin’s reply. An hour in the gym. It was worth a try. He was ignoring the fact that he had been drinking, and that his leg had not healed enough for exercise. He had no choice. He needed to move. It was that, or lose his mind; a luxury he did not have.
23
Frederich gripped the spoon handle tight and rubbed it against the wall behind his bed until he had engraved a permanent scratch into the concrete. Beside the newly minted marking were one-hundred and twenty-one others, each representing a day. It was now over four months since training had begun, not counting his time in the hole.
It had taken Frederich weeks to desensitise to the snoring in the dorm room, which had twelve single beds arranged in groups of six against either wall. Twelve men, driven to exhaustion every day, packed into a windowless cave with little ventilation. A shipment of new bedsheets had been delivered once during those four months, and each recruit was given two sets of black slacks and black t-shirts, one pullover jumper and one insulated military jacket, which were meant to last for the entire training. The result was a nauseating stench and a symphony of snarls and growls which filled the room throughout the night.
Regardless of how tired Frederich was, his internal alarm clock always had him up before 5 am; a stubborn habit he got from Kraas. It was a few minutes before wake-up and he lay ready in his bed in anticipation of Otto’s appearance to turn on the lights and rouse the recruits. Ralph was two beds down from Frederich and was the only one still snoring. The blow Ralph had taken to the nose from Scheffler had caused a break and left a permanent mark on his breathing. If it bothered him, he never showed it. The day after the beating he went straight back to training without a word. Frederich had tapped him on the shoulder and asked how he was doing. The swelling on his jaw and around his eye looked severe. Ralph only shrugged and lifted his t-shirt, revealing scarring on his back from what looked like dozens of lashes. “Scheffler’s nothing. You haven’t met my old man,” was his reply. Ralph was ‘AFC’, he claimed with his chest puffed out, short for ‘Anti-Fascist Crew.’
There was shuffling in the hall, then the light in the next room came on.
“Let’s go, men!” yelled Otto.
Frederich’s room was next to light up.
“Up, up, up!” he yelled.
Ralph’s snoring stopped suddenly. Frederich sat up and looked around. Piotr gazed at Frederich from his bed with morning eyes and dishevelled hair and signalled good morning with a nod. Frederich gave him a tired smile and nodded back.
The day began like the other one-hundred and twenty-one. They made their beds, got dressed, brushed their teeth and washed up in the communal bathroom down the hall. Then it was time to move, or stumble, in some cases, into the mess hall for a breakfast consisting of porridge, boiled eggs and coffee and tea. Some forty minutes later they were ordered into the training hall, where they ran laps to warm up. Then they began drills. Today Otto was reciting The League’s code, which he did ritually every Monday.
“One: Disclosure means death! You do not discuss The League with anyone. Journalists, friends, family, your therapist, not even at confession with your priest!” yelled Otto while pacing among the recruits doing pushups with perfect form.
“Two: No excuses. The League expects one-hundred percent loyalty and dedication, otherwise you are out. Nobody is forcing you to be here.”
Otto’s boots stomped past Frederich’s face as he pressed up and down.
“Three: No prejudice. Race, religion, sexual orientation and skin colour mean nothing here. You will be judged only on your ability to serve.”
“Four: No mercy. You kill when told to kill. No human life gets in the way of your duty.”
As Otto completed the fourth law, Scheffler appeared from his office and walked up to Otto. He nudged his number two’s shoulder and spoke something to him. Otto immediately stepped back and Scheffler took his place.
“Right, sparing time! Move it, boys!” yelled out Scheffler.
Nobody argued with the abrupt end to drills. The recruits scrambled and arranged themselves in rows across the mattresses while pairing up with a random recruit. Frederich’s first opponent was Piotr, which was no coincidence. Piotr’s weight had fluctuated over the four-month period. At one stage he looked gaunt and his strength was failing him. Frederich was not managing much better at the time. Once their partnership developed, however, it all turned around. The harsher Scheffler became, the more Frederich and Piotr looked to each other. Throughout the day they exchanged grins, stern looks, playful insults, shoulder bumps and slaps on the back of the neck. Those small gestures acted as injections of willpower which helped the two of them persevere through the aches, bruises and muscle strains which they sustained during training. There seemed to be no limit to the power of their alliance.
Piotr was still thin but his body was now muscular and tightly packed. His posture had straightened and his face appeared chiselled and hardened. The same for Frederich. The training had brought him back to his previous shape under Kraas. He felt stronger than ever. His reflexes had quickened, his movements felt almost effortless, and his focus stayed mostly sharp and steady throughout the gruelling activities of the day. Far from breaking Frederich and Piotr, Scheffler had been the catalyst of their transformation into warriors.
“Don’t forget to tap out this time,” said Piotr, referring to the sparing incident from weeks earlier.
Frederich had not forgotten. He had refused to give in and blacked out after Piotr had outmanoeuvred him and put him
