The man waves a hand, irritated.
“...They will not.”
“Fine,” Revik returns evenly in German. “But Churchill has been astute in cultivating a friendship with the American President. We would be fools to discount his charms entirely.” He smiles, shaking his glass towards the loudspeakers. “Especially when our Fuhrer does not.”
Blauvelt frowns in disbelief.
Revik gazes out over the room, his light eyes narrow.
“...The American taste for isolationism may run out. Or the ability of their arms manufacturers to quell the outcry over the distress in Europe. If they were to feel themselves threatened by any of our incursions on the sea, or if we were to let our gaze go too far East...”
He trails as the dark-haired woman tugs sharply on his hand. Her eyes hold a warning when they meet his. Shrugging, Revik leaves off, but I see the hardness that touches his mouth.
Blauvelt notices none of this.
He waves a gloved hand, having decided to dismiss the alternate view, rather than honor it with anger.
“You are saying I must tremble in fear over a fat old man on a tiny island because of his cripple friend? Bah! They warned us about France’s mighty armies as well! And the legion of seers supposedly commanded by the English...” Blauvelt smiles at the dark-haired woman, who glances to Revik with worried eyes.
“...Your husband would have us fear the gypsies next, Frau Schenck! What do you make of this poor display? Or are you merely wondering how he and I could be such tremendous bores in such enchanting company as yourself...and when you are wearing such a lovely gown?”
Frau Schenck smiles, still clutching Revik’s hand. There is a moment where husband and wife look at one another, and I cannot help but see the intensity that comes briefly to his light eyes, or how her expression softens.
Blauvelt, watching them look at one another, frowns.
...and I blink against a gust of cold wind.
I clutch my body, shivering as I look out over a bleak landscape of dark and torn earth, winding, muddy ruts cut through iced-over snow. The horizon seems to go on forever, broken only by heavy carts drawn by shaggy horses who stomp and paw at the icy ground, huddled with humans for warmth, their ribs sticking out even through their thick coats.
A man lies in the snow not far from me, features blurred by a thin layer of water frozen on his face. His ice-filled hair sticks up like fine grass. Dark, rust-colored streaks stand out on his chest and one upraised hand, soaking the wool coat wrapped around his emaciated frame. His eyes are stuck in an expression of agony.
I look to the endless plain of white and black, and see more bodies, a line that stretches to where land meets a heavy sky. Columns of smoke hang in that streak of gray. As if the sound comes back on, an explosion breaks the quiet some way in the distance.
A soldier approaches, stepping around bodies.
Behind him stand more wagons, and now I really see the men leaning against them to shield from the cold. Some are wrapped in heavy coats, rubbing hands together and blowing on fingers, faces wrapped in gray scarves...but most are not. One works over a body while I watch, trying to pry a wool coat off stiff arms, stomping and cracking ice and bone with his boot.
The approaching soldier speaks from within a few feet.
“Heil Hitler,” he says, raising his hand.
I look back, flinching when I see how close he stands to me.
Revik lowers his hand from the returning salute, wrapped in a winter coat, wearing a cap of the German Wehrmacht. Breath comes out of his lips in thick clouds. He has a beard, and his eyes reflect back the sky in darker tones. With one boot, he prods at a body frozen in the snow by where he stands.
“They have found more, then?” he says in German.
“What? Found what, sir?”
“Glow eyes.” Revik’s own shift up. “Jews. Communists. Are they bringing them back alive, or just shooting them?” He half-smiles, his voice bitter. “...Because we could use the bullets.”
I stare at him, more shocked by his eyes than his words.
“Sir.” The soldier takes a breath. “Sir...we cannot remain here. Russian infantry traveling south from Rostov, moving fast. The panzers are stuck in the mud a few miles up—”
“Pull them back,” Revik says. “Those in the town, too. I imagine their fun is spent...or their tolerance for the smell of burning flesh, at least.” The bitterness edges towards what lies under it now, something more raw, that edges into hatred.
“Do as I say, Lieutenant,” he says, when the other hesitates. When the soldier turns to go, however, Revik’s voice stops him.
“Any news on von Rundstedt?”
I cannot tear my eyes from Revik’s face, lost in the unhappiness I see there.