RISE UP

B. Snow

Dedicated to those who died during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, April–June, 1943, and to those who lived through it.

Warsaw

April 22, 1943

“Grenades. Where do you want them?” Stan hefted the crate, praying he wouldn’t drop it.

“Second doorway on the left.” The man he’d been told to ask walked past him without even a look.

“That’s gratitude,” Stan muttered.

“Hey, fuck you!”

Stan looked over his shoulder. His heartbeat sped up as the man marched back toward him, the thick, dark brows drawn low, mouth set in a snarl. “All I said was—”

“You think you’re doing us some kind of favor, bringing weapons into the ghetto?” The man walked right up to Stan, leaning in so they were face-to-face, so close that the smell of barley puffed in warm bursts across Stan’s chin with every angry word. “ We’re the ones doing you a favor! As long as the Nazis are focused on this place, you and your resistance buddies can do whatever you like.”

Stan set the crate down and let out a breath. “Yeah, us Poles are having a great time. It’s like one big party outside these walls. In fact, I won these grenades at the Gestapo Field Day. No one can beat me at the wheelbarrow race.” He glared at the man, who went still, staring at Stan with an unreadable expression for so long that Stan thought maybe he’d died standing upright.

“Are we finished here?” the man finally said.

“Yeah.”

“All right.” He turned and walked away.

Stan watched him for a few seconds, then let out a disgusted sound and picked up the crate again. As he turned into the second doorway, he heard a “Thank you,” from the far end of the alley. Or maybe it was just the sound of a door closing.

April 27, 1943

Stan stood in the same alley with another crate. “Bottles. You can use them for—”

“We know how to make Molotov cocktails,” the man said, taking the crate from Stan and walking away.

Stan fell into step beside him. “What’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know? Are you a German spy?”

“Yes,” Stan said, sarcasm clinging to the word. “I’m a German spy who brings you weapons because I like to keep things interesting.”

And there, the expression dropped right off the man’s face again. Then he scowled. “You look German. A perfect example of the Aryan superman.”

Stan ran a hand over his short blond hair. “It’s how I get through the city. I put on a German uniform. None of them even look twice at me in the street.”

“Shit! That’s dangerous!”

Finally, something other than scorn or boredom. “It’s all dangerous,” Stan countered. “You’re a bunch of Jews standing up to the army of the Third Reich in the middle of a country full of people who would just as soon hand you over.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Like you said, you’re distracting the Nazis for us.”

“Is that the only reason you’re helping us?” The man handed the crate off to a group of women and continued walking, Stan at his side.

Stan shrugged. “I’ve always rooted for the underdog.” He held out his hand. “Stanislav. My friends call me Stan. I’ve been with the Polish Resistance for almost a year.”

The man scowled again, but he took Stan’s hand and shook it. “Yakov. Thanks for the bottles, Stanislav.”

Well, it was a kind of progress.

May 2, 1943

“Here.” Stan held out a cloth-wrapped packet. “Bread and cheese. Eat it.”

Yakov took it and tossed it on the bed. “I’ll have it later.”

“Have it now.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You damn well are, and you’re going to eat it while I watch, not give it away to someone else.”

Yakov sneered, the hair on his unshaven upper lip bunching up into a dark line. “I don’t have to do a damn thing, you arrogant—”

“Tomasz took some to the kids, so you don’t have to give yours away to them. I know you do that.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“Then it’s a damn good guess.” Stan reached out and grabbed Yakov by the shirt collar. “Right there,” he said, pressing his hand against Yakov’s ribs. “No meat on those bones.”

Yakov shoved him away. “It’s none of your damned business.”

“How do you expect to protect these people if you’re dead from hunger?”

After a long silence, Yakov swore and picked up the package. “Fine,” he said, unwrapping it. “But you’ll share it with me.”

“I’ve already eaten.”

“But you could eat more.” Yakov stretched his hand out, slipped it inside Stan’s coat, pressed against Stan’s ribs. “Not much meat on those bones, either.”

Stan shivered, but kept his eyes locked on Yakov’s.

Yakov removed his hand, broke off a piece of bread and handed it to Stan.

Stan took it. It smelled a bit like the gun oil smudged on the tips of Yakov’s long, slim fingers, but he ate it anyway. He watched Yakov bite, chew, swallow. After a minute or so, a boy of about thirteen stepped into the room. “Yakov, I—” He started, gasping, his eyes going wide when he saw Stan. He stumbled back a step, bumping into an older woman who had been following close behind.

“Oh! You’ve got company,” the woman said, steadying the boy.

A girl stepped out from behind her. “Hi, Yaki. Who’s your friend?”

“None of your business, Ruthie. Channah.” Yakov nodded at the woman. “What do you need?”

“Sollie forgot his tallis.” She nudged the boy forward. He eyed Stan nervously, then snatched a cloth pouch off a shelf.

“Wait.” Yakov broke off some of the bread and cheese, handing it to the boy. “Now get lost.”

The boy shot out of the room, clutching the food.

“You, too,” he said to Channah, holding out more bread and cheese as he spoke.

“Thank you,” she said, passing it to Ruthie. When Yakov broke off another piece of bread, she waved it away. “I just ate. We’ll leave you men alone to discuss strategy.” She left, pulling the door closed behind her.

“What’s a tallis?” Stan asked.

“Prayer shawl. He’s no good with a gun, so I told him to pray for us.”

“I didn’t figure you for a religious man.”

“I’m not. And it gives him something to do. Can’t have some useless brat getting underfoot.”

“That’s cold.”

Yakov laughed. “It’s the truth. He’s a pain in the ass. Like Ruthie and Channa and everyone else in this damned place.”

When they finished eating, Yakov shook the crumbs from the cloth into his mouth, then handed the cloth back to Stan. “Where’d you get the food?”

“A farm in the country where I used to work. I’m still in contact with the owner.”

“A farm boy. I should have known. But you’ve lost that country innocence, haven’t you?”

Stan’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

Yakov stood up, grabbing Stan’s chin. His fingers dug in as he turned Stan’s head left and right. “So pure, and yet not. Did you think I’d be grateful for the food, for the supplies you’ve been bringing? You think I’d give you something in return?”

“No, I’m just—” Stan’s words cut off as Yakov groped his cock through his trousers.

“Is this what you wanted?” His hand tightened as Stan’s prick grew harder, thicker. “Did you think I couldn’t tell? You’re not as subtle as you think.”

“That’s not why I—”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Hell, no.” Stan leaned in, trying to catch Yakov’s mouth with his own, just to feel the stubble on his cheeks, to taste him…

“No.” Yakov turned his face away. He tugged Stan’s trousers open and shoved his hand inside, his eyes never leaving Stan’s face, which grew hot under that stare.

Stan reached down, too, but Yakov turned his body away, pinning Stan’s right arm up against the wall. Stan closed his eyes, listening to Yakov’s breathing, which grew almost as unsteady as his own.

Yakov kept moving his hand, sliding it up and down the length of Stan’s cock, pulling the foreskin almost over the head on each upstroke. “I’ll give you what you want,” Yakov muttered to the wall, his breath warm on Stan’s arm. “Filthy, uncircumcised pig.”

“Shut up,” Stan said. He tried to pull his hand free from the wall and give Yakov a shove with his body, but Yakov tightened his grip on his wrist. With his free hand, Yakov rubbed over the tip of Stan’s cock, smearing the fluid leaking from it, then used it to coat the shaft. He stroked again and again, until Stan’s cock was slippery and his heart was about to fly out of his chest.

“Please,” Stan croaked, his hips bucking and his legs shaking.

Yakov rubbed his thumb slowly over the head of Stan’s cock, as if considering the request, then he began stroking again, long, hard movements, going faster and faster until Stan climaxed, jets of hot semen soaking his trousers. He clung to Yakov, who let go of his wrist in order to cover his mouth, to muffle his rumbling moans.

Yakov kept moving his hand on Stan’s cock until the last drop was out, holding him against the wall with his body weight. Then he wiped his hand on Stan’s shirt. “Well?”

Stan laughed weakly. “Did something happen? I think my brains left along with that load.”

This time Yakov’s face didn’t go blank, expressionless; he looked almost angry. “Get out.” He stepped back, leaving Stan to support his own weight against the wall.

“No.”

“Yes. You need to leave.”

“Not yet.” He reached out and caught Yakov by a coat lapel, then tugged at him. Yakov stayed where he was, but after another yank, he allowed Stan to move him to the wall. Stan then dropped to his knees. He half-expected a punch or a kick, but Yakov didn’t move as Stan slowly, carefully unzipped Yakov’s trousers and pulled out his cock, which was already hard and leaking. Yakov glared down at him, fists clenched, but his mouth was open and his chest was rapidly rising and falling.

Stan leaned forward and sniffed his way into Yakov’s crotch. A hiss of breath from above urged him on. He moved his lips up Yakov’s cock, and then took it into his mouth. Holding on to Yakov’s thighs, he sucked on the thick prick, sliding his mouth down, down, until the tip hit the back of his throat. In the country, he’d practiced on other farmhands who had been willing to close their eyes and pretend it was a girl’s mouth bringing them off. In the city, he found men who were more appreciative of his skills. None of them had been Jews, though, and the lack of foreskin was odd, but not unpleasant.

He continued to do his best, but elicited no reaction from Yakov; no hips surging forward, no hands gripping his hair. Stan decided to risk it. He opened his eyes and looked up. Yakov had his head back against the wall, his teeth bared and clenched, his eyes squeezed shut.

Stan pulled away. “Sorry, did I—” was as far as he got before Yakov grabbed his cock, jerked it a few times, then shot his load right across Stan’s face. “Yes,” Stan murmured, stroking Yakov’s stomach and thighs as Yakov shuddered and then sagged against the wall. When Yakov looked down at Stan, Stan wiped the come off his face and then licked his hand. He then stood up and pulled out the cloth the food had been wrapped in, wiped both of them off and put the cloth back in his pocket.

Yakov was catching his breath, still looking angry, but his eyes were now hooded. Stan waited until Yakov had zipped up his trousers, then nudged him onto the bed. “Get some rest. You look like hell,” he lied, making himself leave the room before he did anything stupid—well, even more stupid.

May 10, 1943

“Shoot them!” Stan shouted, scrabbling in his coat pocket for one more bullet.

“No.”

“Shoot!”

“Shut up!” Yakov aimed the rifle down at the German troops. “Do you think we have an unlimited supply of ammo? We have to make every shot count!” He went still, staring down the barrel of the gun.

Stan finally found the bullet and loaded it into his pistol. He jumped when Yakov fired.

“Got him! Look at them scatter!” he shouted.

Stan shoved up next to Yakov to peer out the window, to see where the screaming was coming from. Both men ducked at the boom of a grenade going off, then Yakov reloaded to the sound of more screams.

“They’re retreating.” Stan watched in awe as the German soldiers fled to safety, leaving their wounded in the street. “A couple of shots and one grenade.”

“They can’t believe Jewish vermin would stick up for themselves, let alone draw German blood while doing it.” Yakov spat onto the floor. “That first day, when we saw they could be wounded, killed…that first German body in the street was the dawn after night for every person here.”

“Soldiers in apartment windows and alleyways.” Stan shook his head. “I always thought wars were fought on battlefields with masses of troops. But I suppose humans love war so much that we’re capable of improvising.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Stan turned around to see Yakov staring at him.

“Don’t make jokes.”

Frowning, Stan looked down at the street again. “Will they come back?”

“Not if we keep shooting and tossing the occasional Molotov cocktail over the wall.”

That’s what the fighters did. Every time the Germans approached that day, they were beaten back. After night fell, the fighters went over the wall and stripped the fallen Germans of their weapons, then returned.

Late that night, Stan stood in the doorway to Yakov’s room as Yakov sat on the bed, cleaning a rifle. “Why aren’t you in a bunker with everyone else?”

“Closer to the action here.”

“Closer to the Germans if they manage to get in.”

Yakov looked up. “Closer to stopping them if they do. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Actually, I can’t. The sewer entrance we’ve been using has a tank parked on it. I’m stuck here overnight at least.” He leaned against the doorway, trying to look casual. “I was hoping you could find me a place to sleep.”

Yakov looked over at Stan, who could practically feel Yakov’s eyes traveling down every inch of his body. “Does anyone know about you?” Yakov asked. “That you like to suck cock?”

“There were men before the war, but no one who knows me now.”

“How did you know about me?”

Stan stepped into the room, shoving the cleaning kit over so he could sit on the bed. “I wasn’t sure. I thought I saw you looking at my ass once. Mostly, I hoped, because you’re too damned good-looking to waste on women.” He leaned over and kissed Yakov, holding onto his head.

Yakov didn’t turn away this time. He let the kiss go on for a few seconds, then broke it off. “Get up.”

Stan stood up. At least Yakov hadn’t told him to get out.

Yakov stood as well. He put the rifle and cleaning kit under the bed, then pulled Stan’s coat off and threw it in the corner. He unbuttoned Stan’s shirt, raking his fingernails through blond chest hair, making Stan shiver. When he bent his head to suck on a nipple, one arm tightening around Stan’s waist, Stan audibly exhaled.

The shirt hit the floor, then the belt and trousers, until Stan stood naked in the middle of the small, age-beaten room. Yakov walked around him, looking, not speaking. Stan bit his lip to keep from making a smart comment that would get him kicked out.

On his second time around, Yakov came up behind Stan and just stood there, breathing against the back of his neck. Stan shivered again. When Yakov licked him, Stan pushed his bare ass back against the rough cloth of Yakov’s trousers, reaching backward for Yakov’s hands. But Yakov pulled his hands free, moving up Stan’s chest, scraping his fingernails through the hair again before rubbing over hard nipples.

Stan moaned and writhed, trying to turn into Yakov’s arms to face him, but Yakov held onto him even more tightly.

“No.” And then he let go and stepped away.

“No, wait!” Stan turned around, ready to beg.

Yakov was unbuttoning his shirt. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” He threw his shirt on the bed and unzipped his trousers. “Unless you’re not interested.”

Stan slapped his hands onto the wall so hard his palms stung. There was a soft thump as trousers landed on the bed, then Yakov’s arms were back around him again, his chest warm against Stan’s back, his cock hot and rigid, rubbing between Stan’s asscheeks. “Oh god,” Stan moaned. He shifted his hips back, but didn’t spread his legs. Did Yakov have anything: lotion, oil, petroleum jelly?

Yakov turned away and Stan heard him spit. Damn, this was going to hurt—but Yakov didn’t try to penetrate him. Instead, he slipped his cock between Stan’s legs, then nudged Stan’s feet closer together.

Yakov’s cock slid back and forth across that sensitive patch of skin, nudging Stan’s balls with every forward thrust. Stan’s hands curled into fists against the wall and he tilted his hips for a better angle. When he grabbed his own cock and started stroking, Yakov pulled his hand away. “Keep them on the wall,” he muttered.

Stan whined a little, but did as he was told. Yakov would take care of him. He hoped.

Every few thrusts, Yakov stopped to wipe the leaking head of his cock over the area he was probing. Then he started all over again. Soon the spot was slick enough that he didn’t need to stop. He held on to Stan’s hips and rocked against him.

Stan pushed back against the heat of Yakov’s crotch, grinding against the wiry hair there. He could wait for Yakov to take pity on his state and jerk him off; he wasn’t going to beg this time—okay, yes, he was. “Yakov,” he said, but before he could say “please,” Yakov shoved two fingers into Stan’s mouth. There was that gun oil smell again, and taste, too. Stan’s hips jerked as his cock got even harder. He moaned around the fingers as he sucked on them, then whined when Yakov finally—thank god!—moved his other hand from Stan’s hip to his cock.

Yakov didn’t move that hand; he let Stan push into it, then pull back, his thighs still tight around Yakov’s prick, pushing forward again and again, until Stan was dizzy with sensation. When Stan fell against the wall, panting, so close to the end, Yakov took over. The fingers in Stan’s mouth and the hand on his cock moved together, the prick still rubbing beneath his balls, going faster and faster until he heard the grunt, an explosion of breath on his shoulder, then warm wetness spreading between his thighs. He barely kept from biting the fingers in his mouth when he climaxed, finally sagging against the wall. He reached back until he got a hand on Yakov’s waist, pulling him tight against his body.

They stood like that for a few minutes until Yakov pulled away—always pulling away. But then he was back with a cold, wet cloth that he tossed to Stan. Stan shivered as he wiped off his stomach and cock, thighs and ass. Yakov rinsed out the cloth in a bowl of water and did his own quick cleanup before getting dressed. “It’s late.” He put the rifle back together as Stan found his shirt and trousers and also got dressed.

“I thought…” Stan looked at the bed. “But it’s really too small. For two, I mean.”

“We’ll fit. You’d better not snore.” Yakov loaded the rifle and a pistol he took from his coat pocket and set them on the floor within easy reach. “You’ll have to sleep next to the wall.”

“I can do that,” Stan told him.

The next morning, Stan yawned and stretched, then looked over at Yakov. “What will you do after the war?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Are you wealthy, with no need to work?”

“No.”

“Then you must have some plans. You’re only, what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”

Yakov looked up. “I’m twenty.”

“Oh. Sorry, I thought you were older. Than me, I mean.” Yakov scoffed.

“But that just means that you have even more years after this is over.”

“It’s not going to be over. Not for me.”

“But you’re holding them off. You can keep doing that—”

“For another few weeks, maybe a month. At some point, we’ll run out of ammo or food, then they’ll drive us out and put us on the trains. The best I can hope for is a bullet in my head.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” He rested his chin in the space between Yakov’s shoulder and neck. “Some people have gotten out.”

“They got out of the ghetto. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

“But it’s possible.”

“I suppose.”

“So then, what will you do when this is all over?”

Yakov just shook his head. “You tell me. What will you do? Go back to your cows?”

Stan smiled. “It was a good life. Up with the sun, take care of chores, then a huge breakfast. And in the afternoon, a roll in the hay with the stable hand.”

Yakov turned his head to look at him. “Have you ever had any shame?”

“None at all.”

“God, I hate it when you make jokes.”

“Why? What’s wrong with a little humor to bring some light into the darkness? Channa told me that’s what you Jews do.”

“You’re not a Jew. And when did you start chatting with Channa?”

“When she and Ruthie were repairing my uniform. That granddaughter of hers is a whiz with a needle and thread. They enjoy my little jokes. But every time I do it, you look like I just read out an obituary.”

“Maybe I don’t find your little jokes funny.”

Stan just looked at him, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. “I’ll figure you out one of these days.”

May 14, 1943

“You’re good for him,” Channa said. “He’s not as bitter as he was.”

“Good god,” Stan said, sputtering and blinking for effect, making Ruthie laugh. “What on earth was he like before?”

Channa laughed and shook her head. “Ruthie, go fetch some more water.”

Ruthie hopped off the stool and left the room. Channa’s expression sobered. “I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I know you’re not spending all your time discussing battle plans.”

Stan forced himself to look at her, even though his face was burning up.

She went on. “I don’t understand it. I didn’t know men could court each other. But I’m glad you are. You make him happy, and I hope he makes you happy, too.”

“He does.”

“Then I know you have God’s blessing. I pray he keeps you both safe.”

May 16, 1943

“You come in and out through the sewers.”

“Yes.”

Yakov tapped his fingers on the windowsill as he looked down into a courtyard, where Ruthie was playing hopscotch with some of the other children.

Stan sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. But if I tried to take the children out, we wouldn’t get twenty feet past the walls. There are no children left in this part of the city, just the ones in this ghetto. The Germans would know where they came from and they’d take them. The only reason I can get to and from the entrance is the uniform and the forged papers.” He moved in front of Yakov, forcing his way into Yakov’s line of sight. “If I could get them out, I would. You know that.”

“I know.” Yakov looked at him. “I know. But I want to see for myself.”

“All right.”

But before they got halfway down the alleyway, Yakov stopped. “Do you smell that?”

Stan sniffed at the air, then looked up. “Oh no.”

A plume of smoke billowed up, curling into the sky over the ghetto.

They turned and ran back toward the shouting, toward the smoke, but Channa stopped them at the entrance to Yakov’s building.

“Oh, thank God you’re here. I came to find you to tell you not to come back. They’re burning everything, driving the people out. It’s over.”

Yakov swore. “Then I’ll take out as many as I can—”

“They’ll shoot you on sight. If they see a man like you— young, angry—they’ll know you’re one of the fighters and they’ll kill you on the spot. So you have to get out. Stan, take him with you to the Polish resistance.”

“But you and Ruthie, Sollie…”

“They have Ruthie already, and Sollie’s dead. He took a grenade. The soldiers surrounded him when he wouldn’t raise his hands, then he—” She shook her head and wiped her eyes. Stan swore softly and crossed himself. “He took three Germans with him.”

“God almighty.” Yakov’s voice cracked. “That kid was worth something after all.”

“There’s nothing more you can do here except die, so go. Now.”

“Channa…”

“Go on.”

“No! No, no, no, I’ve got guns, I can distract them while you take the kids out through the sewers or over the wall.” He looked up and down the alley, back and forth, his eyes wide, like he was seeing Germans coming around every corner. “I can buy you time. They’ll run, they always run, and then it’ll—”

She slapped him across the face hard enough to snap his head to the side. “Wake up, Yakov! It’s the end. We all know it. You need to go with Stan now. Leave this place.” She caught his face, stopping him from shaking his head no. “God has given both of you a multitude of gifts. Don’t waste them.”

“Come with us,” Stan said to Channa.

She shook her head. “I need to stay with Ruthie.” She put a hand on each of their heads, closed her eyes and said a few quiet, ancient words. Then she turned and walked toward the dingy hallway.

“Yakov.” Stan grasped Yakov’s arm. “Come on, we have to go.”

“Your memory will be for a blessing,” Yakov called after her. She turned and smiled at him, blew him a kiss, and then Stan was dragging him away.

Stan and Yakov climbed out of the sewer and ran. They ran away from the rumble of trucks and jeeps, from the shouts in German and from the sound of hundreds of pairs of worn shoes walking across rubble. Away from the sound of a train grating and shrieking its way into the rail yard.

They ran until they got to parts of the city where people still lived, peering out from behind their curtains. There they walked as if they had every right to be there. Then they ran again, or hid, waiting for danger to pass, until it was dark.

“Let’s rest here,” Stan said, when they found a house well back from the road. The walls were crumbling, but the roof still covered part of one room. “Tomorrow, I’ll go find Tomasz and the others. They’ll be glad to have your skills, but I should tell them about you first, before you risk going back into town. I’ll see if I can get you some other clothes, because—” He spun around when he heard a high-pitched keening wail, then dropped to his knees next to its source.

Yakov squatted in the rubble of the house, slamming his fists against his head, all the time letting out that ungodly noise. Stan tried to catch his wrists, but Yakov continued to hit himself, pulling at his hair, his mouth open, his face twisted. Every sound out of Yakov’s mouth cut into Stan’s heart, but he gave up on stopping Yakov from hitting himself and just wrapped his arms around him instead, holding on as tightly as he could. If there were patrols along that road, they would be found in minutes, but he didn’t try to quiet Yakov.

Yakov’s wails became sobs, shaking his entire body, making his shoulders jerk and his chest heave. He gasped for breath between each sob, his hands gripping Stan’s back. “They’re dead, they’re all dead. I didn’t do anything, didn’t stop it…”

“You did everything you could.”

“It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.”

Stan waited until the sobs became less frequent, until Yakov’s breathing became more even. Then he cleared a spot amidst the rubble, lowered Yakov to the floor and lay down behind him, wrapping his arms around him again. After Yakov fell asleep, so did Stan.

“So you have a heart after all.” Stan ran the pad of his finger over one thick, dark eyebrow, now just visible in the light of dawn.

Yakov sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I could tear it out.”

“I’m glad you can’t.” He sat up as well and touched Yakov’s chest, fingertips brushing over the strong heartbeat. Then he stood up. “I’m going to find Tomasz. If everything goes well, I should be back in a few hours, so wait here.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No!” Yakov scrambled to his feet. “I’ll go with you. Or”— he silenced Stan’s objection with a look—”I’ll go off on my own if you think I’ll slow you down. Either way, I’m not going to rot in this ruin waiting for you to come back, when you might not.”

Stan gaped at him. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Ah.” Stan nodded. “You have no faith in my ability to survive.”

“No one is lucky all the time.”

“No, but I do better than most.” He smiled and put a hand on Yakov’s cheek. Yakov didn’t pull away. “And now that you’re with me, you’ll have the same luck.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. We’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I feel it.” Stan leaned in, resting his forehead against Yakov’s. “I can’t believe the fates would let us meet only to separate us.”

“Don’t.” Yakov took a step back, out of Stan’s reach.

“But—”

“I shouldn’t have started up with you at all. It’s…you’re…” He made a disgusted sound. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, gesturing between the two of them.

Stan raised his eyebrows. “Where did this moral objection suddenly come from?”

“It’s not a moral objection.” Yakov shook his head. “This… business is a distraction we can’t afford.”

“It’s not a distraction.” Stan took his hand. “It’s a bit of happiness in the middle of a goddamned war. We should be grabbing on to it with both hands.”

“Even if it’s going to end badly, sooner rather than later?”

“Especially if. But it won’t. I told you, we’ll be okay.” He laughed at Yakov’s sour, disbelieving expression. “We will. With my brains and your good looks, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

Yakov rolled his eyes and shook his head again, but he followed Stan out of the house, toward the rising sun.

Upstate New York

June 14, 1962

“Wake up, Yakov, wake up!” Stan shook Yakov gently, then harder, until Yakov woke up with a start.

“What—”

“You were having a nightmare.”

Yakov sat up and let out a breath. “Dammit.”

Stan rubbed Yakov’s back until he felt his heart rate slow down. “Go back to sleep. We’ve got cows to milk in four hours.”

“And a trip into the city after that. Why did you agree to the party?”

“Because Ruthie asked. She threw one for my fortieth birthday; you can’t escape the same fate.”

“My birthday was six months ago.”

“And that’s when she would have had it if she hadn’t just had Channi. Why did you offer to take the boys for the whole summer?”

“Because I had a moment of temporary insanity.”

Stan curled around Yakov’s back, pressing his face into Yakov’s hip. “No, because you wanted to give Ruthie and Alan a break. And because you like having those kids around. So do I.”

“It’s going to be all yelling and feet pounding, dirt and messes and fighting—”

“And you’ll love every minute of it.” He tugged down the waistband of Yakov’s pajama bottoms and sucked on his hip. “You know, this is the last night we won’t have to be quiet for the next couple of months.”

Yakov pushed his fingers into Stan’s hair, rubbing his scalp. “I won’t be able to get back to sleep now anyway.” He pulled off his pajamas and threw them onto the nightstand, while Stan did the same. Then Yakov pressed Stan down on the bed and lay on top of him, Stan’s few extra pounds providing the padding for Yakov’s still-lean frame. They shared a long kiss, their tongues mapping mouths they’d known for twenty years. No more furtive groping when they had a few minutes away from their fellow resistance fighters, no more of the necessary celibacy of the refugee centers after the war. In their own home, their own bed, they could take their time: a slow, smooth slide of skin against skin, tongue against tongue, hands clasping, releasing, holding tight; Stan’s gasp when Yakov took him in his mouth; his cry when Yakov drained him.

When Stan started to move down Yakov’s body, Yakov stopped him. He lay down next to Stan and kissed him again, then began a slow rocking against his hip, stroking a hand across Stan’s furry chest and stomach. Stan did the same to him, returning the kiss until Yakov shifted to make his way down Stan’s jaw to his neck. He bit down gently, then scraped his teeth across the skin there. Stan growled in pleasure, and that was enough to make Yakov lose himself, shaking as he came. “I love you so much,” he panted into Stan’s hair.

Stan touched his cheek, gave him a brief, hard kiss on the mouth. “Say that to me when you haven’t just come,” he murmured, smiling against Yakov’s mouth.

Yakov got out of bed and brought back a damp washcloth to clean them both up. He then climbed back into bed, spooning up behind Stan and throwing an arm over his waist. “I love you so much.”

Stan wriggled back against him. “Hard to believe you’re the same man who wouldn’t laugh at my jokes.”

“I had to force myself not to. I didn’t want to start liking you. It would have made me too sad when you got killed.”

“But I didn’t get killed, did I?”

“So you want me to retroactively laugh at every joke you ever told?”

“That would be a good start.”

Yakov pinched Stan’s ass, making him snicker. “How did you know, though? That we’d be all right? That we’d survive?”

Stan put his arm over Yakov’s and pulled it in tight to his stomach. “I didn’t. I just hoped. Even when I got shot, when you got caught in that building that collapsed, I didn’t know. But I hoped. Because I loved you too much for either of us to die just when you were starting to tolerate me.”

“Tolerate you. Sure.” Yakov snorted. “You were irresistible and you knew it. Middle of a damned war, and I was taking my clothes off for you.”

“You still do that.”

“You’re still irresistible.” Yakov pressed his lips to the back of Stan’s neck. After a few seconds, they were both asleep again.