Tadek didn’t argue. Wirths was right about everything.
On one of the benches, Gerlinde always sat, as they played – she still wasn’t permitted to be out of Tadek’s sight. She hardly ever looked up from her biology book no matter how loudly the players shouted but somehow always knew the score and even commented on Tadek’s mistakes, which amused him immensely. No matter how hard he tried, Tadek never could catch her steal a single glance in the field’s direction.
That day, the goalkeeper was missing in action (apparently, he was suffering from angina) and the Squad unanimously decided to appoint Tadek as a temporary one. The first half went swell in that new role; during the second one, Tadek turned his head in his attempt to catch Gerlinde watching him, saw a stranger shielding her from his sight with his body instead and got hit square in the forehead with the football. His teammates’ cries were drowned out by the blood that was suddenly thrumming in his ears. The game instantly forgotten, his gaze zeroing in on the tall, blond stranger in front of her, Tadek charged across the field with his nerves strained to the utmost.
Gerlinde was standing now, backing away from the man, shaking her head in a resolute manner. His hand reached for her arm but she pulled it away and took another step back. Tadek could see his face clearly now. It wasn’t Otto Neumann; of course not. It was silly of him to even consider this. Some youngster who perhaps had nothing better to do than pester a pretty girl with his attention. But there was something in Gerlinde’s tense face that poked at Tadek’s instincts, which were honed far too well by the years of the constant battle for survival.
“Everything all right?” He wedged himself between them, boring his gaze into the stranger.
“It was before you showed up.” The young fellow regarded him a trifle mockingly, in that superior way that Tadek had seen countless times in the SS men’s eyes. He even looked like one – stereotypically tall, strong, with dark-blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and a square chin. Clean-shaven, groomed, hands in pockets; nonchalant and arrogant in that master-of-the-world’s way. The fellow shifted his gaze to Tadek’s arm, the faded tattoo, then back to Gerlinde. “Since when did you start liking kosher goods?”
“Since the Aryan ones like you turned rotten.”
“Still mad at me?”
“Go hang yourself, Alf.”
Gerlinde made a motion to leave but he seized her wrist. “You’re still my fiancée.”
Something exploded in Tadek’s chest. Blood pulsing violently in his veins, he shoved the youngster roughly before he comprehended what he was doing. “Don’t touch her!”
The fellow shoved him right back. The movement came out effortless, even somewhat languid, like that of a powerful, magnificent predator swiping his great paw at someone not worth his attention. “You, Jew, stay out of it.”
His finger was pointing at Gerlinde once again. “You should be grateful I’m ready to take you back despite knowing that the entire Ivans’ army group went through you and your fellow nurses. Not every man would be so forgiving.”
“The Ivans never touched any of us, you pig!” Gerlinde’s chest was heaving. Tadek realized that he’d never before seen her in such terrible upset. She stepped forward and gave the fellow another shove, in addition to Tadek’s. The fellow barely moved and chuckled instead, clearly amused by the attack. “You pig!” The tears rolled down her cheeks and collected under her chin. She wiped them angrily with the back of her hand. “Stay away from me! If I see you once again on the school’s property, I’ll report you to the school administration! To the War Department!”
Behind Tadek’s back, approaching steps and voices out of breath. The Squad stood behind him, their eyes trained on the stranger with menace in them.
The latter calculated the odds, raised both hands in mock surrender and made a show of backing away.
“Who’s the sod?” No ceremonies from Wirths. He was all business as usual, ready for a fight.
“Kameradschaftsführer von Rombach.” The fellow’s arm flew up in a mocking salute as he slammed his heels together in a military fashion. “Heil Hitler!”
Wirths had just made a move to go after the insolent youth but his comrades caught his wrist in time. “Don’t waste your breath. The Ivans will see him pull this stunt soon enough and sort him out before he knows what hit him. I heard their Gulags are famous for adjusting such attitudes.”
“Who even let him out with such a sharp tongue?”
“You heard his rank – Kameradschaftsführer. He’s former Hitlerjugend; wasn’t even old enough to graduate to any sort of a military rank, if he saw any fighting at all. They don’t detain those. A kick in the backside and the case is dismissed. Us, they made stew in those camps for a few months…”
Tadek didn’t catch the end of the discussion. He was already running after Gerlinde, the book that she’d forgotten on the bench pressed firmly under
