Stalingrad

"Verdammt nochmal! (German cussing)." Martin muttered and threw his arm out in a wild gesture of exasperation. "Ich bin ein verdammter Idiot! Zur Hölle mit der Hoffnung—zur Hölle mit den Nationalsozialisten! Zur Hölle mit Stalingrad! (I'm a stupid idiot. To hell with hope—to hell with the Nazis. To hell with Stalingrad!)"

He slumped into the chair and buried his face in his hands. Had he paid even the littlest bit of attention in the lab back in Strassburg, he might have picked up on the tension—he might have registered that all the German professors, including Hirt, had a little less spring in their steps. "But no, I kept talking about all the fucking things in the world except for Stalingrad."

It was completely and utterly unheard of. A veteran and SS-Hauptsturmführer not speaking even a word of one of the biggest blows the Wehrmacht had taken since the war started. Not only would it arouse suspicion about his loyalty—someone who cared about the Reich would have been devastated or at least phased, but it would also raise questions about his mental state. Only a crazy fucking bastard would ignore or forget the topic.

"It's my fault. It's my fucking fault." He murmured and stood back up.

"What's your fault this time, Franz?" Her voice startled him. Martin turned to stare at the door where Marlene stood, her arms crossed. She looked tired like she'd personally watched the Wehrmacht admit defeat in Stalingrad. Maybe she hadn't slept in days; Martin couldn't tell.

If I hadn't been so suspicious in the concentration camp. If Franz—I had been more careful about the people in my cellar. If I'd said something—anything about Stalingrad to any one of the assistants or students or to Professor Hirt himself! Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to report Reißer.

But he couldn't state any of his thoughts aloud. Not to Marlene. "A friend of mine put me in an ugly position, Marlene." He said softly. "And whatever I do next will change their life forever."

"So do the right thing."

"No, Marlene." He said with a shake of his head. "I'm going to do the wrong thing." He let out a heavy sigh and sank back down onto his chair.

"I'm going to do the wrong thing."

"Well, then, at least tuck the children in tonight, will you? They've missed their father."

Martin looked up. Marlene's expression was unforgiving which took him by surprise.

His great-grandmother's expression was usually so soft and full of love and admiration, or at least pity. Now, it was cold and empty. That's why she looked so tired. She's not just tired of the war; she's also tired of me.

He'd messed it up. His sexual and emotional detachment had finally played out to the point of her losing feelings toward him.

That was all his fault, too. He could blame it on coincidence, things getting between them that he hadn't planned or asked for, and the fact that he wasn't Franz but Martin Weiher.

But Martin still felt like a failure. He could have remained abstinent and at least satisfied her emotional needs. Written to her more often. Told her more about what he was going through. Maybe even told her the whole bizarre truth.

But he hadn't. And he was never going to.

He got up from his chair and kissed Marlene on the cheek, then headed down the stairs to the children's room.

The least he could do was try to be a good father.