Warsaw (32 page)

"I wouldn't want to spoil anyone's fun. If I'm sober
then I might be able to acquit myself ably - and if I'm drunk then the shame
will not cut so deep."

Chairs and tables scraped along the wooden floor as a
make-shift piste was created in the room. Lieutenant Schiller commenced his
various stretching exercises that appeared impressive to some and comical to
others.

Thomas remembered the last time that he had picked up a
sword. It had been over six months ago. His opponent had been his five year old
son. Wishing to impart some fatherly wisdom Thomas had oiled his old epée and
practiced his strokes as Wilhelm watched on with wonder in his eyes and a birch
wood gladius in his hand. The afternoon in the garden had been one of the last
times that Thomas had seen his son. When would he see him again? Would he see
him again? An expression of pleasure had mutated itself into wistfulness - and
then into dejection - all in the space of thirty seconds.

Relishing a sense of schadenfreude the formerly
despondent-looking adjutant brightened up upon witnessing the distress in the
Corporal's expression. Dietmar was also cheered by the fact that the fencing
contest now explained - and excused - the Second Lieutenant’s presence at the
party. The youth was also relieved to see a wedding band upon the attractive
epeeist’s finger.

Herbert Klum, hawkish (even when he was asleep one felt that
the policeman was watching you), reclined upon the leather chair behind the
ring of people that had started to congregate around the combatants. The
Gestapo officer was pleased to note that Kleist had ceded to his suggestion
that the competitors should not be furnished with protective face guards. Face
guards would ruin the aesthetic of the match - and also any opportunity of
Schiller leaving Abendroth with a permanent reminder of the encounter.
Receiving word that the competition was about to commence Herbert stood to
attention. The congregation parted to allow the Gestapo officer a better view
of the modern day gladiatorial combat.

Schiller settled into his (modified) classical stance and
impersonally nodded to his opponent to convey his readiness - albeit his
manners barely disguised a supercilious and combative air. As to form both
competitors saluted before taking up the On Guard position.

Thomas could not quite decide whether the weapon felt
familiar or alien in his left hand. The feeling conjured up various memories
and additional sensations, most of which he needed now to sift and disregard.

Both his sword and body, as if the two had been welded into
one, shoved themselves towards Thomas in an aggressive but smooth
"Balestra" attack. As prepared as Thomas was he was still surprised
by the speed and ferocity of the lunge. A couple of spectators gasped in
admiration at the young Lieutenant's skill. Nevertheless Thomas brought his
left arm down and parried the mercurial attack.

Should Schiller have followed up his immediate offensive he
could have no doubt finished the bout quickly. But he refrained from grasping a
swift, proficient victory. Yet the youth raised a corner of his mouth in
prospective triumph - and also to taunt the older man. The celebrated fencer
had been instructed by his host to toy somewhat with his opponent, humiliate
him even. Feints were employed and attacks only half-executed.

- En Marchant. Froissement. Lunge. Parry. Remise. Backward
Spring. Sentiment Du Fer. False Attack. Trompement. -

Blades glinted, winking in the glaring light. Feet darted
across the varnished floor in an almost balletic manner.

A couple of dexterous strokes, allied to a dancer's
footwork, tested out the Wehrmacht Corporal's defences even more.

- Sentiment Du Fer. Lunge. Parry. Redoublement. Parry. -

Perspiration soaked Thomas' face and palm already. His
inferiority was as pronounced as his lack of finesse. Although his host had
informed the officer not to underestimate his former college champion, Luke
Schiller was decidedly unimpressed with his opponent's ability, even taking
into account how out of practice Abendroth must have been. His stance was
loose, his footwork and technique were functional at best and his attitude too
defensive. The Second Lieutenant could sense victory at will - and he proved
himself right in this opening bout by feigning to attack low but then he jabbed
the buttoned point of the epée into Thomas' breast, or rather nipple area -
full knowing how painful the hit would be.

Kleist could not suppress an impartial shout of acclaim upon
recording the hit and awarding the bout to his fellow SS officer.

"A hit! Or rather I should say touché!" Christian
brightly posited, revelling in his role of master of ceremonies.

A wave of applause reverberated in the room.

Thomas screwed up his face, both in pain and from the
ignominy of defeat. He then duly acknowledged the quality of the strike. The
Second Lieutenant accepted the praise in the same efficient manner of his
display and turned his back on his opponent.

Walter Fest attempted to offer his new friend an encouraging
expression, but the gesture was as convincing as Thomas' own lacklustre
performance.

"He's good," Walter finally remarked.

"Or I'm terrible. Maybe it's a bit of both,"
Thomas riposted.

Walter Fest was cheered to see that the Wehrmacht Corporal
had not lost his sense of humour, but before he could reply he was cut short by
Herbert Klum's slithering voice.

"Do you want to pay me now Walter, or would you be
daring enough to consider double or quits?" the Gestapo officer remarked,
his eyes sparkling with childish glee behind his thick glasses, his pointed
chin jutting out like the prow of a ship. Goading. Gloating.

"I have absolutely no qualms at all about patronising
you Herbert. Double or quits it is."

Thomas took in another mouthful of water, hoping to dilute
the alcohol he had previously imbibed. He requested for one of the waitresses
to bring him a champagne bucket filled with ice-cold water. Before its arrival
though Christian prompted the Corporal to rise and commence the second bout.

- Salute. On Guard. Backward Spring. -

The Second Lieutenant, after showing off his attacking
prowess in his initial display, decided to showcase his defensive technique,
encouraging the Wehrmacht Corporal to attack him.

- Sentiment Du Fer. Invitation. Coule. Circular parry.
Return to Guard. Sentiment Du Fer. Derobment. Invitation. Lunge. Parry. Fleche.
Parry. -

It was like an exhibition match now for the accomplished
swordsman. Wittmann's teeth began to itch as steel scraped upon steel. He
sipped his wine to distil the unpalatable sensation. A few spectators even
began to applaud during the bout as Schiller casually, or even contemptuously,
deflected the predictable attacks of his opponent. One might have even considered
the action akin to a bull fight in places, with the young flourishing officer
playing the part of a toreador. Or one spectator alluded to Schiller wielding
his epée like a conductor would a baton. The well-bred officer was polished
graceful whilst the Werhmacht Corporal sweated and misjudged as though he was
chasing shadows. At one point Thomas, in either desperation or exhaustion,
lunged at his opponent - and slid and lost his footing on a small piece of ice
which had found itself upon the floor. Cannonades of laughter succeeded the
gasps however this time. The SS elite were thoroughly enjoying the humiliation
of their Wehrmacht comrade.

Luke Schiller eventually became bored by his own exhibition
though - and he affected a yawn to express as much. Once resolved to do so he
swiftly ended the bout by obtaining a hit upon the Wehrmacht Corporal's
shoulder (albeit it had been the officer's intention to strike his opponent in
the sensitive area of his armpit). The clamour of clapping increased, with the
SS cronies now cawing and flapping like a flock of crows. Drinks were swilled.
Luke Schiller took little notice of his audience however - and didn't even bat
an eyelid at the fluttering eyelashes of a group of waitresses who cooed and
grew weak at the knees in front of the brooding SS officer, who looked and
moved like a film star.

"Touché! La Belle!" Christian triumphantly
announced, as if he himself had personally fought and won the contest, whilst
applauding.

Blotches of sweat stained his back, armpits and collars as
Thomas trundled back to where his new acquaintance had placed a chair out for
him. Thomas slumped down, taking the weight off his wooden legs. Walter
consoled his friend with a pat upon the shoulder. The scene was similar to that
of a boxer's corner, with Thomas of course playing the part of the defeated
contender. He cursed himself underneath his breath however, not for losing the
bout but for exhausting himself unduly before the last exchange. Thomas had
lost the war but he still had a chance of winning the final battle.

"I almost feel sorry for you - for both of you,"
Herbert Klum expressed, with an absence of sympathy, cigarette smoke purring
out from his askance mouth.

"Thank you Herbert. And people say that you're
incapable of pity," Walter Fest dryly replied.

"I will of course accept a cheque Walter. After all the
generosity the Party has shown your firm over the years I warrant that you're
good for it. You will excuse me for a moment however whilst I congratulate our
winner. I more than most have something to thank him for after his
display."

During the interim whilst the Gestapo officer offering some
words to SS officer the Wehrmacht Corporal whispered something into the ear of
the Farben Director. Herbert Klum returned however, oozing rapaciousness and
overt triumphalism.

"I can either offer you a cheque Herbert, or give you
the chance to quadruple your winnings. Thomas here believes that he is slowly
getting the measure of Lieutenant Schiller. I'm already at a substantial loss.
I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as
tedious as to go o'er - one, or Macbeth, might perhaps say. If nothing else a
wager will make this consolation bout interesting. I will of course understand
if you're lacking the funds, or daring, though Herbert. But would you be
willing to wager that much admired car of yours?" Walter Fest innocently
proposed, temptingly.

"You seem to be losing your mind, as well as your
money, this evening Walter. I accept. I would normally wish you luck Corporal
but you will excuse me if I desist from doing so in this instance."

Thomas barely caught the odious Nazi's words though as he
plunged his hands into the champagne bucket of cold water and doused his face,
to refresh his sensations and consciousness. His skin was electrified by the
ice-cold water. Lieutenant Schiller watched his opponent repeat the act several
times, tickled with curiosity and amusement. As disappointed as he was with the
standard of competition - after coming so far and having Kleist build the
Wehrmacht Corporal up - the young officer took solace from the sum he was being
paid for his services. The Lieutenant idly thought how he should approach his
final bout, whether to end it quickly or to continue to mock his opponent? For
a brief moment or two the young epeeist even began to feel sorry for the
disadvantaged Corporal, who had been all but tricked into facing such superior
opposition. Perhaps he would go easy on the out of practice fellow swordsman.
Had he not suffered enough for the amusement of the party guests?

Although it would be an apparent mismatch the circle of
spectators nevertheless tightened around the competitors again, enthralled by
the old-fashioned pastime. Thomas wiped his palms upon a towel that Walter had
handed him and, with a slight groan, he raised himself up from his chair to
face his opponent one final time. There was the hint of a smile upon Luke
Schiller's lips as he took in the fatigue and defeatism upon the visage of his
opponent.

The two swordsmen met again in the centre of the room.
Realising how easy the contest had been - and how comfortable this final bout
would be - the officer decided to be gracious in victory and offered the
Corporal a bow. Thomas acknowledged and returned the gesture.

- Salute. On Guard. -

Luke Schiller was half-way into debating whether to try to
gain his hit through an In Quartata or Coule (hoping to at some point display
his Passata Sotto) - when his opponent suddenly changed sword arms.

The epée felt neither alien, nor unwieldy, in Thomas' right
hand - indeed the weapon quickly became again a natural extension of his right
arm, fluid, familiar and powerful.

Wonder and shock appeared to smack the haughty officer in
the face. The SS officer had little time to adjust, let alone recover. The
switching of Thomas' sword arm had happened in an instant, but in that instant
Luke Schiller recoiled into a defensive, diffident position.

Should his experience have been the equal of his natural
abilities then Luke Schiller might have recovered quickly enough. To his credit
the gifted fencer was able to parry a couple of his Thomas' darting thrusts,
which unleashed themselves from a totally new angle and with redoubled force.
The older man was conscious however of the fact that his opponent was the superior
fencer - and to win the bout he would have to do so swiftly, before Schiller
could adapt to and annul the Wehrmacht Corporal's ambidextrous ruse de guerre.
Swotting away the SS officer's epée with unexpected vigour Thomas created the
space and deftly stepped in, hitting his mark.

- En Marchant. In Quartata. Lunge. Hit. -

The entire bout lasted no longer than ten seconds. As if to
reinforce the validity of the strike upon Lieutenant Schiller's forearm a clang
and thump was heard, like a death knell, as the epée clattered to the ground.
Its coquille gleamed - new but forlorn - in the fulsome moonlight. A stunned
silence swirled around in the room like tumbleweed.