SS-Colonel (Standartenfuhrer) Luther Waldemar glared at his subordinate. “You mean to tell me, that yesterday there were ten Jews in that apartment building, and this morning, at four in the morning, there are none?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel.”
He got up slowly. “They’re in the fucking Vatican.”
“Sir?”
Luther looked out the window, looking toward St. Peter’s. “They’re in there. All we need to do is get them out.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel.”
He waved his hand at the man. “Go. Heil Hitler.”
The man saluted; Luther ignored it. The man closed the door, and Luther still stared out the window.
Hundreds of Jews under the dome of St. Peter. Would there be any gods there? He hoped not. Whenever he would kill a god who rode inside of a Jew – or a god in anyone that he had to kill – a part of him died inside and made him feel sick. But was it the god’s demise that made him sick, or the destruction of his own humanity?
He had gotten to the point that hunting for Jews was now a habit, not something he liked doing anymore. Those above and those below him demanded that he continue this cleansing, and he was born to follow orders. The Fuhrer knew best, knew he was one of the best hunters. He wasn’t called Der Jagermeister for fun.
He walked out of the office, and his secretary turned to him. He had learned in the few months they were there, that Der Jagermeister wasn’t a stickler on formality if it was just them. “Get me the pope.”
The secretary sat there, stunned. “Colonel?”
“You heard me. I don’t expect to actually talk to His Eminence, but a lackey will do fine. I want to see him within the hour. I’m getting some coffee.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel.”
He went downstairs, two doors down to the bakery. There was a crowd there already, and he shouldered his way to the front of the line. The woman poured him an espresso – which wasn’t really coffee, probably someone’s dead old seeds – and wordlessly handed it to him. He didn’t care about the dirty looks the other dagos gave him. He went to a table, and merely loomed over the couple sitting there. They moved.
A week ago, he had taken his life in his hands here. Some smartassed little dago spit into his espresso. Luther vaulted over the counter and slammed the kid’s face into the coffee machine, turning on the steam, burning his face. Nobody messed with him after that, and begrudingly gave him a wide berth.
He sipped the espresso, deciding that he hated this Italian coffee more than the ersatz shit they gave him in the office. But appearances were everything, and he needed to show his presence to these people, to show that he wasn’t afraid of them.
Another SS private peered in the window, and waved to get his attention. He drank the rest of the mud down, got up and went out. “What is it, Private?”
“Monsignor Rizzo will be here in fifteen minutes.”
Luther looked frustrated. “I hate that little man. He’s from Apulia and his accent’s horrible.” Then he said, in pure Tuscan Italian, “They’re in the mountains and don’t know how to do anything but fuck goats.” The private looked at him, confused, and he translated.
Luther got to the office as the car carrying the Monsignor arrived. Luther stood at ease, hat cocked slightly, looking for all the world like he had been waiting there for hours for him. The Monsignor got out, looking entirely nonplussed. “Colonello Waldemar,” he said with a smile. Luther’s eyes went cold. He had dealt with the little shit when they first occupied the country, and had nothing to do with the gold demanded by the SS-General that first stepped into the country. He thought that was a bad idea; it would make the Nazis look no better than the Jews in getting the money. But then he fucked them all over, taking the gold and still deporting Jews, and Luther had to be impressed with that.
But the bastard had left him with the cleanup. If it was the battlefield, Luther would have invoked his Reichsfuhrerschlacht powers, and be the Battlefield Overlord, and tell the SS monkey to take a long walk off a short bridge, carrying the fucking gold with him.
“Monsignor,” Luther said, shaking his hand, very, very firmly.
The man stepped out of the sidewalk and let himself in. Luther watched with a cocked eyebrow, thinking that if there was a bomb there, he’d meet his maker first.
The secretary stood at their entrance. Luther walked past the Monsignor, into his office, and bade him have a seat. He had a couple of other priests with him, one was a secretary who would take everything down.
As soon as the door closed and the Monsignor sat down, Luther said in his Tuscan Italian, “You have Jews in Vatican City. I want them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know God abhors liars.” Luther walked around and leaned on the front of the desk, taking off his hat and setting it on his desk. He rustled his hair and prayed to whatever gods were in the room that he would stop himself from ripping this man’s tongue out by the roots. He stood directly across from the Monsignor, in an obvious position and display of power. “I know they’re there.”
“Vatican City is its own domain, and you know – and even the Fuhrer knows – that you are not allowed there.”
“You know, and I know, that there are Jews hiding there, and that ransom you paid us is null and void, as you will not give up all the Jews on this Italian soil!”
“The Holy See is not on Italian soil.”
“Where is it, heaven? No, it’s right here, within flak distance of a gun if I so designed to put one in here! I could blow a hole in St. Peter’s Bascilica right now.”
The two men stared at each other. Luther said, slowly, and in the same horrid accent as the Monsignor, “Give up the Jews now.”
“I still do not understand what you are talking about.”
Luther clenched a hand into a fist.
“You wish to hit a Monsignor, a priest of the Lord Jesus Christ?”
“I’ve done more than that to priests, Monsignor.”
“Now you threaten me.”
Luther leaned back and laughed. “You really do have steel balls, Monsignor, you know that?” Then he leaned in close. “You tell those fucking Jews I’m coming for them, and they will not escape me.”
The Monsignor, to his credit, with a perfectly calm demeanor, merely met Luther’s eyes. The man was at peace.
Luther leaned back. He could do nothing to a man like that. He himself hadn’t had that kind of demeanor for years, and a part of him was jealous. “Get out,” he snapped. “But carry my warning, Monsignor. Their days are numbered.”
Words: 1165
Comment: Part one. If Donavon’s player would like to contribute, I’ve given him room and the possibility. If not, I do know what the next part holds.
Note, today, I also wrote 3337 words of erotica. Link will be updated here when it’s passed the submission committee at literotica.com.