Lily of the Lamplight

Chapter 1

Summer, 1943
The Russian Front

Roderich tried to focus on the bowl of food before him. Well, it was alleged to be food. It was actually some sort of grey sludge, like a revolting mixture of three month old caviar and the icy mud that collected in Vienna's street gutters in winter. It was making him sick to look at, so he chanced a furtive glance around the long, battered, crowded town hall instead. The windows were smashed, the furniture broken and overturned, the walls imprinted with bullet holes. A sweating, shouting mass of soldiers filled the temporary mess hall. Most of them had finished eating and were talking amongst themselves, but when a nearby soldier looked over at Roderich and laughed, the rest of his small group quickly did the same. Roderich immediately looked down again, his cheeks burning, the cold, nauseous churning in his stomach refusing to subside. He focused again on the hideous sludge in his bowl.

It was only Roderich's second day here. His second day in this dirty makeshift encampment in this dirty abandoned village. His second day surrounded by unfamiliar tanks and trucks and weapons, by loud, dirty German soldiers who had been fighting on this front for years and who couldn't seem to stop staring and laughing at the new recruit. Of course people were often discarded to the Russian front — it was a convenient punishment to keep the jails empty. No questions were asked, no training given, no briefing or reason or explanation. Roderich had simply been given a uniform, given a gun, and then thrown to the lions. He shifted uncomfortably at the unfamiliar, scratchy feel of his dreadfully ugly grey uniform. The men around him were dressed practically identically, although Roderich was slowly starting to learn the subtle signifiers of things like different ranks and marks of bravery. No one seemed likely to explain these things to him, after all.

Roderich's skin crawled uneasily when he realised that the nearby group of soldiers were still staring at him, talking about him, not even bothering to keep their voices down. "Have you seen the new recruit? It's a joke. This unit's getting desperate, I tell ya. Next thing we'll be letting the Jews in."

The hair stood up on Roderich's neck and he swallowed a brief wave of fear. If it ever got out... if anyone here found out... He took a few deep breaths and tried to tell himself that he had a chance here. As hopeless as this seemed, he still had a chance to survive. Not a very big one, true. But even the Russian Front was better than the dreaded, unmentionable train.

"The Austrian didn't volunteer. They say his music was a favourite of the Wolf, but then he pissed off the wrong people somehow. Punishment — the Front."

"Musician, huh? That pretty boy won't last a week."

Roderich's face burned angrily. How was this happening? How was he here? Only two days, and yet this was a world away from his life only a week ago. From his successful career as a composer, his beautiful house in Vienna, his music and piano and concerts and dinners... how had it all gone to hell? For what? A tiny voice answered him. For your stupid principles. Roderich's spectacles started to fog and suddenly he was furious. He had done nothing wrong. He did not deserve this. His hands started to shake. He wanted to scream, he wanted to fight, he wanted to throw this repulsive bowl of grey slush against the wall... Roderich startled when someone suddenly sat heavily against the wall beside him.

"Well, hello there."

Roderich turned to glare at the soldier. His grin was too cheerful for this place, his hair so pale it was white, but it was the eyes that made Roderich pause. Such incredibly unusual eyes — startling, even — bright and intense and such a deep bronze they were almost red. By the time Roderich thought to respond, he realised he had stared too long, so he simply looked away. He had no idea how to act around these men. Roderich could usually hide behind his haughty, aristocratic demeanour to avoid speaking with people. When it was absolutely necessary, he usually only had to answer questions about his music, which he could do. But here there was no orchestra on the stage or string quartet in the corner; no talk of Mozart interpretations or the latest opera performances to fall back on. So he just stayed silent.