Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2005 by John Ellison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.
Aurora Tapestry
Chapter 30
Michael Chan was reading through the spreadsheets of financial information that Joel's new, and expensive, toy had produced. The Order had taken a hit, true, but the damage had been contained and in the long term, when the market rebounded, as it always did, the stocks and bonds would rise and money would be more plentiful.
The late afternoon sun felt warm on Michael's back as he bent over the printed sheets. He frowned slightly. The loss was just over one million. Compared to the damage done to Simpson's bank and Hunter's brokerage house however, the Order's losses were minimal. Both financial houses had seen their stock value plummet, and Michael, using a series of cut-outs and blind trusts, had every intention of keeping up the pressure. He made a note to ask Joel how he was progressing in accessing the actual cash accounts held by the traitors.
Setting aside the spreadsheets, Michael next read through a lengthy report, a fax sent from The Gunner's Toronto headquarters. The report was very detailed and Michael thought that whoever had written it should be commended. The report was concise and listed the names, addresses, occupations and, where known the financial institutions the men listed dealt with. The list would go to Joel to work whatever black magic he worked down in the depths of the mansion.
A second list revealed the extent of the Order's involvement in the paedophile ring. As he read the list of knights who had participated in the old Grand Master's Coquitlam orgies, or held boys, pubescent and pre-pubescent, Michael felt like weeping. Men he had know for years, and never suspected, were in this thing up to their necks. Men he had believed, had even trusted, had betrayed their oath, and made a mockery of eight hundred years of tradition and determination. Their actions had also made Michael more determined than ever to tear down, to the very cellars, the existing structure and rebuild. Lower Canada, essentially the province of Quebec, was lost. The priory of Upper Canada, Ontario, was battered, but could be repaired. The Gunner, Stephen Winslow, his Chancellor, would see to that.
Uttering a swart oath under his breath, Michael pushed the hidden buzzer under the desktop. Almost immediately Gabe Izard, who was now Joe's assistant, entered. He saw the scowling face of his employer, but remained silent.
"You have read these . . . these reports?" asked Michael, his face flushed.
Nodding, Gabe replied, "Yes." He did not need to add that the reports were, in fact, devastating.
Michael settled back in his chair and regarded Gabe. "I know that this is a difficult time for you, Gabriel," he began kindly. "I can only imagine what you are feeling."
"Sir, Michael, I'm, well, I'm not fine, in the truest sense of the word, but I am beginning to accept that Darren is gone." He smiled sadly. "I know that he's at peace, and happy. He's, well, he's not a little boy anymore."
Michael saw that Gabe was still grieving, although not as much as he had been before. "If you feel the need, we can make other arrangements. The Major and Patrick return this evening."
Gabe held up his hand. "No, and I thank you for your concern, but I am able to do . . . I have faith, now."
"You have been in the Gold and Silver Vault," whispered Michael.
Smiling, Gabe nodded. "I touched the box, Michael. I felt Darren's presence. I'm going to go on, and do what he asked me to do."
Michael's eyes opened slightly wider. "He asked you to do . . .?"
"Before he died, we talked about what had happened at the rehab centre. He asked me to make certain that the man, or men, who did such terrible things to his friends, be punished, and that they never do it again."
"That despicable Tsapopoulas creature," snarled Michael. "And those who protected him."
"Yes."
"Cousin Tommy will deal with him," promised Michael. "As for the others, I do not know."
"My father," began Gabe, referring to Louis Arundel, "and Uncle Bertie are contacting everyone they know, Uncle Bertie says that they are 'reaching out' to their contacts in the police department. When they are ready they will speak to you."
"And then we will do what we must do," replied Michael. He rose from behind his desk and gestured for Gabe to follow him as he opened the French door and walked onto the terrace.
Almost immediately two men, dressed in suits and ties, appeared from the shadows. They were white men, not Chinese, and while they could hardly be called burly, they looked extremely muscular and fit. Their body language, their clean-cut appearance, their haircuts - both wore their hair cut short on the sides and back, and trimmed on the top - screamed ex-military.
"What is this about?" demanded Michael, not angry, but impatient. He did not need protection that badly.
"Lieutenant Sheppard's orders, sir," replied the shorter of the two men. He had close-cropped, dark brown hair, shining, clear eyes, and a very determined look on his face. His accent immediately identified him as an American. Michael assumed, correctly, by the young man's slim, wiry build, that he was an ex-SEAL. "We go where you go," the young man continued.
"One assumes that precludes visits to the toilet!" returned Michael in typical Upper Class fashion. He never used polite euphemisms, and often sounded blunter than he intended.
"If we've checked it out first, no," offered the second bodyguard. He was taller, and stockier than the other guard, although just a dark skinned from the effects of the sun and a life spent outdoors. His accent was not quite as drawling as the first's, but he was immediately marked as an American. Michael knew this man. He was an ex-Green Beret, and very experienced.
Michael pretended to be annoyed. "Has the good Lieutenant assigned more of you, or shall I have the Staff make up pallets in my bedroom?"
"We change shifts every four hours," supplied the shorter guard. "There will always be someone in the corridor." He glanced at Gabriel, whom he had seen around the cantonment. "Just a precaution. After what happened, Lieutenant Sheppard is not taking any chances."
"The Chinese?" asked Gabriel, who had heard of the Taiwanese Captain's treachery.
"Confined to their quarters," supplied the taller guard. "They don't know what's going on." He looked pointedly at Michael. "They haven't been harmed."
"Good," replied Michael. "I doubt that Hsiang took any of them into his confidence." He looked at Gabe, explaining. "The Taiwanese loathe and distrust anyone from the mainland, or from Hong Kong. To K'ang Hsi the men he commanded were little better than animals, ignorant barbarians who could never be trusted."
Gabe, who had noticed that Cousin Tommy, and all of the Tsangs, who up until now seemed to be lurking in every corner, were conspicuous by their absence. He had a very good idea just what they were up to and had no doubt at all that the unfortunate Captain Hsiang would very shortly be, or now was, as the saying went, "Sleeping with the fishes."
Michael decided to end his conversation with the guards, although he was secretly pleased that Sheppard, who was turning out to be a very intelligent and foresighted young man, had taken the precautions he had. He examined the rose bushes that grew along the edge of the terrace and frowned. Their growing season was coming to an end and the beauty they lent to the house would wither.
Leaving his roses, Michael walked down the steps and strolled along the gravel paths that separated the beds of flowers and the greensward. He glanced down the driveway at the Gate House and the closed, iron gates. At least there were no naked men wandering about, he thought with a silent chuckle. Laurence was certainly making a point with the Outside Security Force.
As he walked, stooping from time to time to examine the flowering beds, his thoughts returned to the devastated priories, and the gaps that would appear in the Order's Roster of Knights. So many, he thought angrily. All too soon he would have to deal with them. The Chancellor had called a Bar of Justice, and Michael had agreed to it. Simpson, Hunter, Willoughby would surely pay dearly for their part in this horrible trade. As for the others, Michael did not know. His instinct told him to lash out, to cut and burn, to punish, punish, punish!
While he could not completely ignore his instinct, Michael had to consider the implications of what a Bar of Justice meant. He could not arbitrarily order the punishment the Bar called for. There were too many knights involved, too many bodies to even think of allowing Cousin Tommy, or the Tsangs, or Steve Winslow for that matter, free rein. He would deal with the disappointments of the past when the time came. At the moment he was more concerned with the hopes of the future.
"Gabriel," Michael said bluntly, "What was your relationship with Darren?" He glanced back at his minders, who were keeping a discreet, but watchful distance behind. "And you are aware that Joe Hobbes is in love with you." This was a statement, not a question. "I ask for no confidences, but I would have you become a member of the Order, and I wish to be certain that you understand all of the implications my offer entails."
His mind racing, Gabe paused, and then blushed furiously. He knew better than to lie, to prevaricate, to Michael Chan. "I, um, Darren and I were lovers," he blurted out. There, it was done, in the open. "I did not plan for it to happen, in some ways I did not want it to happen, but it did. Darren wanted it, and I am not sorry, not sorry at all."
"And Joe?"
"I . . . I just don't know," replied Gabe. "I have feelings for him, I won't deny that, but . . ." He shrugged expressively. "I just don't know."
"You could do worse," returned Michael, not bothering to disguise his bluntness. "Still, the main thing is that you are aware of his feelings. I would not presume to tell you what to do."
Gabe knew this last statement to be true. Michael could order the Tsangs to be set loose and never lose a moment's sleep or discuss in great detail with those in whom he trusted the Order's business, but let sex somehow be brought into a conversation and Michael became a Sphinx. He was notoriously strait-laced, and never in Gabe's memory had his employer referred to a bodily function, a sex organ, or that he knew what two men did together in the night. The Major, who had been Michael's teacher, and was still his confidant, was as bad. Neither man would question another's relationship, and both felt that there were certain things a gentleman did not discuss, openly or in private.
Gabe was certain that Michael knew a physical relationship had sprung up between Cousin Tommy and Joel, a relationship that was hot and heavy according to Joe. Michael knew everything. If Michael disapproved, which was not impossible, seeing as Cousin Tommy was not only married to a strikingly beautiful woman - a shrew, and greedy and grasping, sadly, but beautiful nonetheless - and the father of three young boys, all of whom favoured their mother and were preciously handsome as many Chinese males seemed to be at that tender age. Gabe decided that Michael might know, but he would say nothing. What went on between Cousin Tommy and Joel was their business, and so long as nothing they did endangered the Order, or interfered in Michael's business interests, he would remain silent.
Michael knelt down and gently picked up some rhododendron blossoms, dying flowers, once beautiful, now curling and discoloured. "I merely wish to ask you to consider that life goes on, Gabe," said Michael as he waved away his minders who, when he dropped to his knee, had started forward. "Winter is coming, and the flowers die. Their cycle of life is over and they will give way to new life. The buds will reappear and the gardeners will work their magic."
"Are you my gardener?" asked Gabe with a smile?
Returning Gabe's smile, Michael said, "I once had a very philosophical discussion with the Chancellor, comparing my flowers with his cadets. My point was that by using his skill a small bud, his cadets, could be nurtured and groomed into flowers of great beauty. He is their gardener and I would be yours."
"I'm honoured, Michael," said Gabe truthfully.
"You are a very intelligent, knowledgeable man, Gabe," replied Michael. "You have suffered a great loss, and I understand your grief. But there comes a time when you must put aside your grief. You will never truly get over Darren's passing, but you will accept it."
"And life goes on."
"Yes. It must." Michael brushed the loam from his hands and motioned for Gabe to walk with him. "You are obsessed with the destruction of the ring of paedophiles that you and Joe discovered. That is your passion, I understand, and I do and will continue to, support you." A pained expression crossed Michael's face. "I have been struggling, Gabe, inwardly unsure of what I am to do. The Order must be rebuilt. That is my passion."
Gabe returned Michael's analogy of the flowers. "Joe tells me that tomorrow the first harvest is being gathered in." He chuckled.
"Some humour?" asked Michael, pleased that Gabe could laugh.
"Joe's little brother, Calvin, is one of the candidates. To hear Joe tell it, the boy is a rose amongst thorns."
"Good. We need thorns," said Michael, laughing. He glanced at his watch. "It has started. The first ceremony is completed."
Nethanyu Schoenmann groaned softly. After the introductions, and making sure that all the cadets and officers had donned their caps, his grandfather had smiled, and announced that he would tell a story. Why every Jewish ceremony needed to be accompanied by a parable escaped Nate. That there was usually a point also eluded Nate who was, sadly, a most inadequate Jew.
Mr. Schoenmann scowled at his grandson. The boy could be such a schmuck at times! The euphoria of their meeting earlier with Chef and young Phantom had obviously long dissipated. Here was a perfect opportunity to build a bridge between the Christian and Jewish communities, to establish a rapport that that could lead to better understandings, and Nate was looking like his circumcision had failed!
Shaking his head, Mr. Schoenmann regarded the company assembled for the saying of Kaddish. The Minyan consisted of himself, two of his three sons, his grandson, two nephews, and four elderly Jews, all of whom, as had Mr. Schoenmann, had survived the camps.
Assembled in a loose circle were the young gentlemen of Aurora, all of them neatly uniformed in blue, their boots shining and their hair barbered and combed. Mr. Schoenmann saw that almost all of the assembly had chosen to wear their white, round sailor hats. Two, Chef, and the young man everyone called The Phantom, had placed kippa, black side out, on the backs of their heads, a mark of respect that Mr. Schoenmann had not expected. He smiled his approval and looked with sad eyes at the boys.
"How do I begin?" Mr. Schoenmann asked. He gestured at the small group of Jewish men. "Here are my people, men who have endured the unendurable." He waved at the assembled cadets. "There stands the future, young men of a different religion who are no doubt wondering what they are going to do here, and I think, asking themselves, some of them, why they are here in the first place."
A soft titter waved through the cadets. "A snicker, a laugh, a giggle," said Mr. Schoenmann, "Good! I say that because death is a serious affair, but at the same time Yahweh, God, does not want us to weep too much. Death, for the Christian, for the Jew, for the Muslim, for all save those poor individuals who claim that there is no God, silly creatures, death is but a step on the highway of life!
"A poet, John Donne, once wrote that no man is an island, entire of itself, that every man's death diminished him. This is true, for each man is a part of his fellows. Sylvain, whom we mourn, was by his very presence here, a part of you. He has died, yes, but then so has a small part of you. We therefore mourn his passing, and we mourn our loss.
"Each religion teaches, be it Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever, a belief in God, and a life after death. To a Muslim death is but a gateway to a wonderful, celestial garden when a True Believer will dine on pomegranates and be attended by 24 virgins for all eternity!"
Mr. Schoenmann waited for the expected wide-eyed looks and gaping mouths to subside, although he did notice that Nate, who normally thought with the head of his keckel, was appropriately subdued.
"Christianity teaches that Jesus Christ, whom we Jews call Jeshuwa, died on the Cross for the sins of mankind and that man would, if he lived a good life, and obeyed the Commandments, enter the Kingdom of Heaven." Mr. Schoenmann shrugged, and continued. "Of course, with 270-odd different Christian 'religions', it is sometimes difficult to know exactly how to attain entry!"
The Phantom smiled to himself. In this small chamber there were Roman Catholics, Anglicans, Baptists, Lutherans, United Church, and all of the Fancy Religions, including, he was sure, Calathumpians, Anabaptists, and non-swimmers!
Mr. Schoenmann smiled kindly. "The point is, each religion teaches a life after death, a meeting of those who have gone before. And yes, before the fish-eyes start staring, we Jews believe in a life after death, which we call Olam Ha-Ba. The Torah speaks of 'Being gathered to our People'." He raised a finger. "Of course, like all good Jews, we argue about who will, or will not, enter the world to come, or when we will get there! Some men spend their lives in the study of Scripture. Others spend their lives arguing about Scripture! One rabbi sees this, two rabbis see that which means, my friends, that you may rest content in the knowledge that the Jews are just as argumentative and confused as everybody else!"
This sally brought forth a gale of laughter. When it subsided, Mr. Schoenmann continued. "So, here we are, standing at the gates to Gan Eden. Christianity teaches that the Saint Peter, the Gatekeeper, waits to pass the good from the evil into the Judgement of God. Did Sylvain arrive and be, as the Bible says, 'Weighed in the balances and found wanting?' I don't believe this! A young Jew wishes to honour his memory, and by your very presence, you echo that young Jew's sentiments. Sylvain was not perfect. He was merely human, and he has seen the Judgement of God."
"The Talmud tells us that humanity is capable of righteousness in God's eyes. Humanity! Not just Jews, not just Christians, but humanity. This, all men, all those who are righteous of all nations, share in Olam Ha-Ba. Therefore, it follows, if God has no objections, why should the rabbis? So, we say Kaddish."
Turning, Mr. Schoenmann reached out and received a small package from his oldest son. Almost tenderly he unwrapped the purple velvet shroud, to reveal a tattered, blue and white tasselled shawl, a Tallit.
"It is customary to wear the symbols of our faith," Mr. Schoenmann said, gesturing for Sandro to come forward. "When a Jewish boy is Bar-Mitzvah, one of the gifts he receives to mark his passage from boyhood, to manhood, is a Tallit, a prayer-shawl. Alexandr, Sandro, has not yet stood before his people and declared, 'Today I am a man!' No matter. He has reached manhood in the eyes of his friends and brothers, and it is enough."
As Mr. Schoenmann draped the Tallit around Sandro's shoulders, Nate's eyes widened. It could not be, for the Tallit had not been used, ever, outside of . . . Zeyda was passing on to this stranger, a great gift, and suddenly a most inadequate Jew felt shame, and sorrow, and pride. Shame and sorrow that he had not paid more attention to the rabbis, and his grandfather, and pride that he was participating in something that could not be described, a special, wonderful happening! Something that he could not understand, but which filled him with warmth. The words involuntarily escaped Nate's lips, "Nes Gadol Hayah Sham!" A great miracle was happening here.
"In the camps," began Mr. Schoenmann, his eyes filling with tears, "the Germans, and their Ukrainian and Polish henchmen, attempted to destroy the faith and souls of their prisoners. Men, women, children, were taken from the trains and stripped naked. Most went to the left, to the gas chambers and the ovens. Some, not many, went to the right. They became slave labour, to clean the chambers, to operate the crematoria, to bury the ashes, oh, so many things they were forced to do. The SS, may God forgive me for uttering the name, also thought to make a little money and not waste this source of free labour. I will not relate or recall the horrors. I only say that factories were established. Jews were culled from the masses that flooded the railway platforms and soon began turning out articles of clothing, uniforms, to clothe the very men who abused them!
"Being Germans, boom, boom, boom, the guards convinced themselves that they had eliminated all thought of Judaism in the prisoners. What they forgot was that they were, with the possible exception of sailors, dealing with the most stubborn people on earth!" Several of the cadets stifled their chuckles, and both Cory and Todd turned their heads to grin at The Phantom as the old man continued, "The prisoners kept the faith and they observed the Commandments.
"Now, in the Christian religion a cross is essential to any service, and easily made from two pieces of wood, or scrap metal, even bones. A chalice can be an old tin cup. To an observant Jew, the essentials of his religion are his phylacteries, his kippa, and his Tallit! In the camps, such things were taken away, burned, destroyed! Still, being Jews, they found a way!"
Smiling, Mr. Schoenmann ran his hand over the cloth shawl draping Sandro's broad shoulders. "The Germans, being upright and moral people," he said, the sarcasm all but dripping from his lips, "could not have thousands of people walking around naked - remember, everything was taken when the people arrived - so they gave their slaves a uniform of sorts, caps, trousers, coats, all made out mattress ticking, shoddy cloth used to cover mattresses!" Mr. Schoenmann smiled, and held up his finger. "Blue and white striped mattress ticking," he said almost conspiratorially.
None of the cadets understood the significance of the colours. Mr. Schoenmann explained. "The colours of Eretz Yisrael!" he shrugged, "Which leads all of you to think, so what!"
Once again the boys could not help tittering. Mr. Schoenmann was not offended. Humour had its place in everything, even religion. "Now, remember I told you how the Germans used Jews in their factories. Who makes uniforms? Tailors! And what is Judaism if not a guild of tailors? Give a tailor some cloth, and he will make a suit!" Once again Mr. Schoenmann fingered the Tallit. "A thing of beauty, no. A thing of wonder, yes, for this Tallit is made from strips of cloth taken from the very uniforms the Germans clothed their prisoners with! A piece here, a strip there, and now . . . The Tallit of Maidenek!"
Sandro began to weep. On his shoulders rested the souls and memories of 200,000 human beings. Yet he did not feel a weight. He felt . . . a peace that he had never known. The oppressions he had endured in Russia, the sneering and bigotry he had suffered in Canada, were as nothing, now. With him were young men who faced their fears, confronted their secret horrors and, in their own way stitched a Tallit, a robe of love edged with hope. The cloth that covered his shoulders was made of ticking, blue and white. Another cloth covered him, and every man in the Gunroom, a tapestry, woven of red, and blue, and green, and white, the sepia figures bold and brave, and through it all ran a thread of gold.
Weeping, Sandro held out his hands to The Phantom. "Help me with the prayer, my brother."
The Phantom reached out and took Sandro's hand in his. Nodding, Mr. Schoenmann opened a small prayer book. A slip of paper fell from the onionskin pages to flutter onto the deck. The Phantom picked it up and saw written, in a firm, bold hand, a phonetic transliteration of the Hebrew prayer, and a translation. A tear rolled down his cheeks as Sandro began the ancient prayer in a low whisper,
"Baruch ata Adonoi elohaynu melech ha'olam asher . . ."
The Phantom's firm, tenor voice rose to the overhead rafters,
"Blessed are you, Lord our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who has made us holy . . ."
Paul Greene had a headache. Sleeping with Stennes was not only an exercise in perversions that Paul had only suspected existed, but a bloody Party rally! Not content to slobbering and buggering the tow-headed Paul, Stennes had insisted on dragging in the two Chinese peasant boys, broad in the beam like bulls, but as under hung as stud mice.
The two youths, each with an unpronounceable Chinese name, Paul called Shem and Shoo. Shem enjoyed rough sex, the rougher the better and for a time Paul feared that Stennes would drag out a stock whip. Shoo, as broadly built as his friend, or cousin, or lover, or whatever - Paul did not know which - delighted in anal sex which, considering the length and girth of Stennes' hugeness, caused him to howl and scream with uncontrollable fervour while he bounced, happily impaled, on Stennes' lap.
Shem, when he wasn't having his buttocks slapped, or nipples pinched, and neck bitten by Stennes, snuffled at Paul's crotch, mooning and cooing over his smallness. The goofy fuck had fallen in love with Paul's penis!
Paul was disgusted.
Paul had no objection to uninhibited sex with the two Chinese. They were, after all, Untermensch, and born to please their betters. Stennes' perversions, and there were many, were merely indicative of the creature he was. What disgusted Paul was that Stennes had retreated into a world so perverted that Paul could not believe what he had seen. The man delighted in inflicting every degrading act he could think of on the two Chinese, from ejaculating on their faces and bodies, to watching Shoo and Shem laughingly giving each other a 'golden shower', fortunately in the adjoining bathroom shower stall.
The bedroom stank of sex, and Paul had hoped as the sun sank slowly in the west and the room darkened with approaching night, that Stennes would exhaust himself.
Not so. Sated, with Shem and Shoo giggling inanely, the German had hauled out a 16mm projector. First had come films of the more well known customers who frequented the upstairs rooms. Sex, Paul decided, unless one were actually engaging in it, was boring as hell if you had so sit, or in his case, lie on a bed with Stennes rubbing his bum and Shem licking his dick, and watch it!
Shem and Shoo, dreaming of celluloid riches, devoured every frame, and gazed hungrily at the flickering images on the screen, watching as Nhan and an unknown client copulated like manic rabbits. When Shem and Shoo glanced hungrily at Paul, and then back at the screen, Paul shuddered and decided that under no circumstances would his film debut see the light of day.
Not content with porno, Stennes then decided to relive the days of his childhood and hauled out grainy, black and white films long hidden.
To set the mood, Stennes first screened Hitlerjugend Quex, which was supposed to show the sacrificial spirit of German youth. Shem and Shoo wept crocodile tears as the young actor, played by a boy who conformed in all things to the Party's racial policies, died a heroic death at the hands of vicious Communists thugs, muttering as he expired (over acted, Paul thought) the opening lines of the "Fahenlied", the "Banner Song of the Jungen". Paul was much more interested in the firm round butts and sturdy, bare legs of the young actors who portrayed the members of the local Truppe.
Next came Jud Seuss, which was little more than an anti-Semitic diatribe, unfortunately with English subtitles. Shem and Shoo, who barely spoke their native Cantonese coherently, soon became bored and pleasured each other throughout the screening, much to Stennes' disgust. Paul pretended to be interested.
There followed several shorts of the Fuehrer ranting on the dais of the Reichstag. Paul had seen them, and as there were no subtitles, understood not a word. He was further annoyed when Stennes, lost in adoration, fondled him throughout the two films and growled in disappointment when Paul failed to respond.
Next came two clips from the 1936 Olympics, which Paul found interesting, filled as they were with scantily clad male athletes. The piece de resistance, not unexpected, was the so-called classic, Triumph des Willens, Lili Reifenstahl's Triumph of the Will, which glorified all things Nazi. Paul's ears ached with the loud, Germanic music that seemed to punctuate every other scene, the "Horst Wessel Lied" predominating. Paul knew the words, of course, and rather enjoyed the music, even if a Berlin pimp had cribbed it from a music hall cabaret.
As he watched the films, it struck Paul that for an organization that pretended to abhor homosexuality in all its forms (and harboured more than a few gay men in its ranks), sending gays to concentration camps and killing thousands of them, the Nazi film makers saw nothing wrong in glorifying the male body, the young male body. Every film had at least once scene with the young boys of the Hitler Youth, all short trousers, bums, drums and oversized bugles hung with banners, parading about, blowing, banging and tooting for the glory of the Fuehrer. And scenes not filled with boys parading, camping in their underwear, or showering in their shorts, were filled with athletes, always it seemed, male, and all wearing the skimpiest of sports gear.
Throughout the afternoon Stennes chattered away, offering a running commentary of the Third Reich, and how wonderful it had been to be a German boy in those days. He also fondled Paul, tweaked Shem's foreskin, allowed Shoo to fellate him and ended the cinematic extravaganza by masturbating Shem and Shoo simultaneously.
Paul endured it all because the more Stennes' let down his guard and showed his true character, the more Paul could use for, or against him. Paul had a feeling that Stennes, for all his faults, was a man to be reckoned with, and a man who would take him where he wanted to go. Paul reasoned that the more Stennes trusted him, the more he could get out of the German.
"Ach, Liebchen," cooed Stennes as he pushed Shem aside and reached out to fondle Paul. "The days of glory. What supermen we were!"
Paul regarded Stennes sourly, noting the new appellation. So, he was no longer "youngster", but "sweetheart", and wondered if it was worth the effort.
Stennes crawled from the bed, groping the three naked boys as he did so, and wobbled a bit as he searched in the pile of vinyl records piled haphazardly around the phonograph that stood on the side table. Smiling he found what he was looking for, turned on the machine and presently, preceded by a blaring trumpet fanfare, the music of the "Horst Wessel Song" blasted the quiet.
Stennes began marching and bellowing the words to the forbidden anthem,
"Die Fahne hoch, die Reihen fest geschlossen
S.A. marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt . . ."
""Nightfall In Camp"". The slow, hauntingly inspirational music drifted into the Gunroom. As the notes soared, Sandro his eyes clouded with tears, faced the assembled officers and cadets.
"Yis'ga'dal v'yis'kadash sh'may ra'bbo, b'olmo dee'vro chir'usay v'yamlich malchu'say . . ."
His hand shaking, The Phantom wiped away the tears and spoke softly, reading from the sheet of paper.
"May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world . . ."
""Nightfall In Camp"". Outside the Staff Barracks, Peter Race would barely hear the music his lips made on his muted horn. He did not have to hear the music, or the words that were being spoken inside. Another voice, quavering, filled with sorrow, echoed . . .
". . . b'chayaychon uv'yomay'chon uv'chayay d'chol bais Yisreol, ba'agolo u'viz'man koriv; v'imru Omein."
Behind him, The Phantom could hear Chef weeping openly. He raised his eyes and said,
" . . . which he has created according to His Will. May his Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future; and say, Amen."
"Nightfall In Camp". Eion Reilly's tears obscured his vision. His fingers fumbled to press the valves of his trumpet. "Oh Lord, let me be a part of this," he wailed inwardly. "Please, oh Lord . . ."
Ray left the group and walked to stand beside his friend. His hand rested on Sandro's shoulder, unable to stop the tears. The Phantom, seeing Ray's tears, handed the young cook the piece of paper and pointed to the next line.
"Y'hay shmay rabbo m'vorach l'olam ul'omay olmayo."
Ray swallowed, quickly wiped his eyes, and said,
"May His great Name be blessed, forever and ever."
"Nightfall In Camp". Another voice, louder, filled with profanity, replaced the softness that had quieted Peter's spirit. "My kid ain't no fuckin' Jew! The answer is no!"
Sandro's eyes cleared and he looked to his God.
"Yisborach v'yishtabach viyispoar viyisroman v'yishmasay, v'yishador v'yisaleh v'yisalal, shmay d'kudsho, brich hu, l'aylo min kl birchoso v'sheeroso, tush'bechoso v'nechemoso, da'ameeran b'olmo; vimru Omein."
The bond reached out to touch the two youngest members of the Band of Brothers. Joey and Randy, unable to stop crying, reached out to express their love for their brothers in the only way they could. Each boy wrapped his arms tightly around the waists of Sandro and Ray, who held out the piece of paper for them to read aloud, their high-pitched voices rising in awe and praise,
"Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honoured, elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he - above and beyond any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations, which are uttered in the world; and say Amen."
"Nightfall In Camp". Peter Race lowered his trumpet, unable to continue. He knew now, he knew the secret his mother had always refused to tell. He knew as the words rolled onward through the open window. He knew and he laid his head against the worn wood.
"Y'hay schlomo rabbo min sh'mayo, v'chayim alaynu v'al kol Yisreol; vimru Omein."
Cory, holding his brother's hand, led Todd forward. Cory's vow to keep his emotions in check, no matter what happened, forgotten, kissed Sandro's cheek and took the piece of paper from Ray. He looked at Todd, smiled, and nodded.
"May there be abundant peace from Heaven . . ." Cory read.
" . . . and life, upon us and upon all Israel; and say, Amen" finished Todd.
"Nightfall In Camp". Peter Race picked up his trumpet again and his streaming eyes found barely discernable notes. The quiet voice had returned.
Holding Randy and Joey close, Sandro's smile made the room bright as he finished his prayer.
"Oseh sholom bimromov, hu ya'aseh scholom olaynu, v'al kol Yisroel; vimru Omein."
The Phantom retrieved the piece of paper. "He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; and say Amen."
"Nightfall In Camp". The mournful notes faded and the impromptu musicians lowered their instruments. Andrew, Mikey and Nicholas stared into space, for some reason overcome with emotion. They did not know how or why they felt the way they did, but deep inside each cadet was the thought that they had been a part of, and witnessed, something wonderful. Only Mike Knox seemed unmoved. He carefully cased his instrument, folded the sheet music into a fan and alternately scratched at his crotch and fanned his sweating face.
Eion regarded Mike sourly, stifled a retort comparing Mike to Madame Butterfly, and looked at Peter, who nodded slowly, his eyes brimming with tears. Eion returned the nod and lowered his head. Peter had been terribly upset and moved by the music, and the words, and Eion knew that both he and Peter would seek out The Phantom.
Sandro, his grief-stricken face flushed with pride, turned to face his brothers. "I am sad, but I am happy," he began quietly. "Today, at this hour, we have said goodbye to our brother. Many of us thought bad things about him, but he was our brother, and we have said goodbye to him. That is my sadness." He smiled and gently stroked Randy's smooth cheek. "But I am filled with happiness, for today I also found my brothers, who will be with me forever. You are my brothers, and from this day you are my brothers in the spirit, and in the flesh."
Sandro did not hear Peter and Eion come into the Gunroom. He had no knowledge of the effect the service had had on each boy, nor did he know that soon one would seek to join his brothers, and the other to rejoin his people.
As the low voices drifted from the open windows of the Gunroom, and while the young gentlemen, the Boys of Aurora, did not know it yet, the tapestry grew ever larger, with new threads, threads of different faith, different age and different calibre. The tapestry grew larger, the threads bound together ever more strongly by the marvellous thread of brilliant gold.