A cube of light from the window. A scratch on the cell door.
Müller had spent the night curled in the corner opposite Margot’s bed.
‘Hauptmann Müller, you dirty dog,’ said a young guard, laughing, as he yanked open the door. He spat on the ground. ‘Time for breakfast,’ he said as he grabbed the buckle of his belt. He tossed down Margot’s metal bowl of porridge, and it clanged and spattered all over the concrete.
Mortified, she swallowed as she hurried to give Müller back the coat he had thrown her from his corner to protect her from the cold. He buttoned the coat and straightened his uniform.
Margot remained in her bed, pressing deeper into the corner as the young guard stepped right in front of her, blocking her view of Müller. He had pulled his flaccid penis out of his trousers and was tugging at it between his thumb and forefinger.
She looked away. Her slow heart started to pound.
‘You can eat this,’ he said to Margot as he tugged again at his penis and winked over his shoulder at Müller. ‘You can go, sir. My turn.’ He leered at Margot.
Müller had finished tying up his boots, and he jumped to his feet. ‘How dare you, soldier. Nothing untoward has happened in this cell. You’ll be punished for your insolence.’
Cheeks burning, Margot pulled the blanket up under her chin.
‘Oh, no need to pretend, sir. She’s ready to go again!’ The guard chuckled as he reached for the corner of her blanket.
‘Stop!’ Müller shoved the guard to the floor.
The shocked young man shouted, then pulled out his gun.
‘Put the gun down,’ ordered Müller.
‘We’ll see. What’s the problem with sharing the slut? Everyone does it in the factory. Haven’t had a Frenchie. Last week I dined on Russian, and Flemish.’ He studied Margot. ‘Though this one looks a bit bony. I prefer the fresher meat.’
‘Leave!’ ordered Müller, his face blank, eyes cold.
The guard looked confused. He held the gun steady.
‘Give me the gun, Fischer.’
‘Why should I? You either let me have a piece, or I tell Jäger. You choose.’
‘The gun.’
‘Either way, she’s dead.’ Fischer’s voice grew bolder, while his face reddened.
‘Calm down. Give me the gun.’
Fischer shook his head. His pants sat below quivering buttocks that looked like a plucked chicken. His penis was hard now, protruding from an angry scribble of hair.
Margot flinched, and the temperature—already icy—seemed to drop.
Yanking at his pants, Fischer flew towards Müller with the butt of the weapon raised, ready to strike him on the head. He was a little taller than Müller, and just as broad. When Müller shoved the young guard, he grew visibly angrier and more confused as he tried to throw a punch. Müller stopped the fist with his hand and wrestled Fischer to the ground. The gun dropped beside them as they tussled, then Fischer flipped Müller onto his back, holding a knee to his throat. ‘Now who’s in charge?’ he said with a chilling smile. He raised an eyebrow at Margot as he continued to mock Müller. ‘I won’t break your neck, weakling. I’ll let you up on the count of three. Then, if you promise to play nice, I’ll let you stay and watch me fuck your whore.’
Margot pounced on the gun and held it to Fischer’s head.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Müller’s kind face—his shock.
The crack of a gunshot. The smell of singed flesh. The sweet metallic scent of fresh warm blood as it seeped into the dirt.