copyright 2008 by Platypus, all rights reserved
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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Rolf Weingarten lived across the alley from Irving Sutker. He'd always lived in the same four-room flat. Their families had been friends for as long as Rolf could remember. It was April 1942, and Rolf was 13, for two months now, as Irving had achieved his 13th birthday just yesterday. The two boys had been best friends and nearly inseparable since 1935, not long after the Chancellor had first come to power. But the Gestapo had been coming to flats in their row searching for Jews. Rolf's parents, Frau Weingarten and his father Heinrich, had warned Rolf to shun their Jewish neighbors, as they had begun doing. "What will happen, will happen," Herr Weingarten had said, but his son thought the Sutker's predicament grossly unfair. "Why must we shun them?" Rolf had asked. Just two weeks before, Rolf had been helping Irving learn his Hebrew for his Bar Mitzvah, which was fast approaching and to which Rolf was invited. Irving was a slight brown-haired boy, with a prominent nose and sparkling eyes. "Do I look Jewish?" he would ask his friend. An anxiety had begun appearing on Irving's features like a frozen mist. Irving would burst into tears without warning if a loud knock was heard on their door. Even amid hundreds of flats in their section, it was only a matter of time, Rolf figured, before they were taken Irving and his sister Mischa, she was only six, and their parents Samuel and Helen, and Eli, Irving's beloved paternal grandfather.
It came to him in a dream. He would help them stay in a basement accessible by a hidden trap door below an empty flat used for storage about five hundred yards away from their alley. Herr Weingarten owned the storage place but Rolf did not share with him any details of the plan. Rolf knew his father seldom entered those premises at this time of year. The great deception began.
Jewish families in their row received dreaded knocks during the dead of night to be taken by the men in their brown shirts. Rolf shuddered to learn how the Fleischmanns, Shustaks, Perlmans, and Wolfowitzes had been taken, acquaintances all. To work camps, Herr Weingarten lied to his son, they will be treated well. The boy was weak, soft-hearted. At least he looked like an Aryan, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, exceedingly handsome, on puberty's cusp. Rolf would be coveted by this Third Reich, for better or worse. Herr Weingarten was ambivalent about the Nazi brutes, but had resigned himself to their will. Rolf was his only child and he loved his son dearly. Herr Weingarten asked his son where the Sutkers had gone. I don't know, maybe the Gestapo took them, Rolf lied less convincingly. The boy skulked through the rows of dwellings to visit his Jewish friends. He brought them food. Rolf's parents suspected and knew the brown shirts had compiled a list. The Sutkers are on their list, Herr Weingarten warned him too late. Neighborhood spies had already implicated him. He was a boy but been acting suspiciously.
The loud knock came. Rolf had been sound asleep. Seven brown shirts entered and beat Herr Weingarten to a bloody pulp. "We want the boy!" one of them shouted. His parents could not protect him. Allowed to put on his pants, his shoes and socks, his flannel shirt, a cowering Rolf was dragged toward a waiting car. But awakened, Rolf inexplicably broke loose. He was fast for a boy. A chase of several blocks ensued. Recaptured, Rolf was shoved into the car and heard the odd remark from one of the brutes. "This one likes to run."
He was taken to the Gestapo lair. Dropped into a cell until first light, but the interrogations began early the next day. He was taken from the cell to a barren interrogation room by two Gestapo soldiers. He waited for the interrogator for nearly an hour, sitting on a metal chair near a long table. He sometimes sobbed softly, not knowing what to expect. Perhaps they wouldn't mistreat him because he was German. He'd heard stories about the Nazi brutes.
Two assistants accompanied the interrogator, a Major Adolph Bremer. Bremer wore a monocle as he entered the tiny room. He was in his forties and balding, with a smartly-pressed Gestapo uniform. He was less Nordic in appearance than the boy, but it was the boy's allegiance and patriotism to be ruthlessly questioned.
"Heil Hitler!" The officer shouted, gazing directly at Rolf. "Stand up!"
The blonde 13-year-old knew he must. He rose to his feet shakily. The two brown-shirted assistants were armed with Lugers and smartly dressed. Both were younger than the officer, maybe in their twenties it looked to Rolf, but these men would assist in the boy's interrogation. All three would get the boy to divulge where the Sutker family was hidden. Coercion and torture could be used. Despite his age, the young teenager had committed a very serious offense against the Reich and would merit no special consideration.
Bremer was polite and gentle at first, although Rolf could immediately tell that his voice held a hint of menace. "I am Major Adolph Bremer. Do you know why you are here?"
Rolf knew, but remained mute. His posture was slouching as he was tired from interrupted sleep.
"Did you hear me boy? Stand up straight!"
The boy improved his posture and tried valiantly to stand at attention, only somewhat succeeding.
"Take off your clothes!"
Rolf didn't expect to be naked; he was very naïve. He knew better than to refuse. He removed his flannel shirt, a blue one with a pattern of diagonal black lines, and his pants, a gray solid. The pants were a struggle as he'd neglected to take off his shoes. He wore no underpants. The boy's budding pubescence was now visible to the ogling men. Rolf felt humiliated and ashamed. His four-inch penis seemingly with a will of its own suddenly became half erect. At the age of eleven, he'd insisted upon being circumcised like Irving, his Jewish friend. Eli, his friend's grandfather had performed a special "bris" and his parents had reluctantly consented. He'd been proud to be like his friend. Now he was ashamed.
Major Bremer was amazed. "You're circumcised!" he said. "Who did this to you?"
Rolf dared not answer truthfully. "I was b-born this way," he stammered.
Another order was barked. "I said strip! Remove your footwear!"
The thirteen-year-old removed each boot-like shoe, and the white socks inside the shoes, one by one. When he stood barefoot on the hard floor, he was entirely naked. The boy felt much more vulnerable than he had a few seconds before when he'd been at least shod.
"You are a liar boy. We will soon break you of your habits." The other brown shirts nodded.
Tears streamed down Rolf's face. "Don't hurt me," he pleaded.
"It's too late to spare you, unless you have something to tell us, about the Sutkers?"
They knew. About the plot, about the deception, they knew. He would be courageous and never betray his friends. The resolve was just forming, but Rolf was not prepared for what they would do to him. He never suspected how much it would hurt.
"Lie down on the table, hands above your head, on your back." When the naked boy complied, he started shivering, even though the room was nicely heated. One of the assistants, a stern-faced man with powerful arms and strong hands, grabbed each of Rolf's wrists.
"Are you Rolf Weingarten?" It was the Gestapo major. Rolf was looking into a glaring light fixture on the ceiling and it had momentarily distracted him.
"Yes," about giving his name the thirteen-year-old was truthful. He felt his wrists being squeezed, firmly held.
"Will you tell us about the Sutkers?"
"No!" Rolf shouted, bravely.
"We'll begin with his feet," the major stated, matter-of-factly. The second assistant went away for a few seconds and returned with a black bag full of cruel instruments. The major began fondling Rolf's bare left foot, pressing gently on the boy's toes, inspecting between each toe. His fingers moved to lightly tickle his ball and arch, along the instep, moving downward, progressing on the sole toward the heel. The touching continued on the top of the 13-year-old's unprotected foot. Major Bremer moved slowly to explore the boy's right bare foot with his probing fingers in precisely the same fashion. "You like to run fast, don't you boy? You ran from my men?"
"Please don't hurt me!" the boy plaintively repeated.
Major Bremer's assistant in charge of the black bag handed the chief interrogator a cigarette lighter. He flicked it on and a yellowish-blue flame appeared which he showed to the boy to increase his fear. He brought the lighter up close to Rolf's now panic-stricken face, his eyes wide with terror. "Ever had your feet burned?" the-Gestapo-man casually asked.
"He won't be running very fast after we're finished with him," the man holding his wrists declared.
Rolf remembered one time when he'd been ten, he'd stepped barefoot on a patch of hot tar by accident and very briefly. He'd been hobbled for days. Still, he chose to lie again. "No," he heard himself say.
The question wasn't important, just the effect. Major Bremer was a practiced torturer. He could easily break grown men into bawling babies, and this was a mere boy. When the yellow-blue flame flickered closer to Rolf's tender flesh, with the thirteen-year-old's left foot grasped firmly by the ankle, the boy could feel the heat; it sought out his small toe and the sensitive underneath tissue leading to the sole. The flame began licking the skin under his little toe, the baby toe. As the heat turned to excruciating pain, the boy screamed, if only for the first time. "Yeowwwh!" The flame lingered there and went between the last toe and the fourth, into the webbing, until the skin reddened nicely and began to blister. The boy was sobbing and yelling and shaking his head from side-to-side. A respite, if only for about fifteen seconds, as the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Aryan lad who'd betrayed the Homeland fleetingly hoped it was over.
"Ready for the next toe?" the major asked nonchalantly. It was the identical routine on each toe, and then down the sole of that left foot, just enough to redden and begin to cause a few tiny blisters. Rolf had never felt such pain! He screamed himself hoarse, especially when the torment began anew on the thirteen-year-old's right bare foot, and when those toes and the attached sole became similarly reddened and blistered, made extremely tender.
"Are you ready to talk about the Sutkers?"
He was braver and more filled with resolve than he'd thought he could be, and although he screamed and cried himself hoarse again when the major repeatedly struck the boy's tortured soles mercilessly with a metal-tipped miniature truncheon, perhaps fifty well-directed blows, he refused to betray his friend and his family, whom Rolf realized he loved more than his own parents.
But when the boy was shown a long needle pulled from the black bag, he fainted, and when revived by smelling salts placed near his nostrils, Rolf experienced an even more diabolical torment, as the needle was now slowly and methodically allowed to pierce and scrape, pierce and scrape, pierce and scrape, making deep lacerations into each of the boy's abused soles from under all ten of his blood-streaked toes to the heel of first his left foot and finally his right, and when the Gestapo fiend started beneath each of the thirteen-year-old's toenails, Rolf broke under the torture.
Before he was released later that afternoon, the three men had taken turns with him, anally raping him, sodomizing the 13-year-old repeatedly, leaving their spent seed in the traitor boy's bowels.
He was dropped in a heap at the door outside the Weingarten's flat barely conscious but alive. Herr Weingarten and his frau rejoiced, but their son was never the same.
In Palermo, in 1965, Rolf was working an engineering project, when he spied a familiar face. "No, it can't be!" he exclaimed, and walked over to the man, revealing his slight limp, now sadly permanent. He started to hug the stranger.
The face, badly scarred itself, recognized him immediately. "We were sent to Auschwitz because of you," Irving said, walking away with a purposeful stride.