WW2

Chapter 12: Anker

He leaned against the cold stone brick wall. A busted lip and a slightly bruised eye. He ran his fingers down the pattern of the wall. Every bump and scratch sent a sensation to his brain; it could not help but remind him of his scared and beaten face, most of which was rummaged. He breathed heavily. In a dark dungeon somewhere, presumably underground and in his home country. He mapped out his room and engraved it to memory, placing chipped pieces of stone in specific places just in case.

His cell door opened up with a loud metallic clash. A guard came, placed his food tray on the floor, and then shut the door. He stood up and swiftly moved around his bed and desk to the tray. It had a dull smell, a stale smell. One of powdery aftertaste. A week or two old stale bread, suspicious potatoes and some beans. To flush it all down was some liquid he couldn't tell the composition of. It had no taste nor smell, yet he knew it was not water.

The meal did little to satisfy his stomach, and the liquid barely quenched his thirst. Some time passed; he counted 10 minutes, but it was just an estimate. A small slit opened on his cell door, and he looked at the man behind it.

With a deep voice the man began talking, "Det ville være nemmere, hvis du bare talte."

Anker stayed silent.

The man nodded and shut the slit. A second later came a violent creek and the door opened. 5 soldiers came in, dragging him across the dried and bloody floor. He was placed in a damp room, with green mold covering the walls, and forced to sit down on a chair where he was tied up. He flexed and tensed his wrist and ankles as it was being done.

The man came in as the soldiers left, and he repeated his statement. Anker stayed silent.

The man muttered in German, "Ich könnte dich genauso gut töten," before beating his ribcage.

Anker finally spoke, "You're going to kill me that quickly? Where's the fun?"

This caused him to get beaten more. Blood dripped down his face, and his chest ached, yet he resisted giving the satisfaction of pain.

"Listen, tell me where your ally in Poland is, and maybe I won't pull your fingernails off."

"All of this for some Polish soldier? Seems a bit extreme."

The torturer grabbed a wrench and struck Anker's face with it; blood exploded from his cheek, his bone cracked slightly, and his gums stressed to hold onto his teeth.

"You and I both know that there is a coalition. Oth-"

"It's called the Commonwealth, you know, Britain and shi-"

The man struck him again before continuing, "Do you think the futile resistance would withstand the Reich? What do you think your pal in Poland is going to do? We took the country over!"

Anker smiled, it stung, yet he grinned, "Polska jeszcze nie jest stracona."

The man looked at him in awe, his eyebrows tensed. He clenched his hand and grinded his teeth. In rage he shouted, "What did you say, you untermenchlich!?"

"Ain't that ironic."

A piler was placed on his nail after the insult, "The name and plausible location of the Polish soldier."

"Say please," Anker smiled, "Did your mother teach you manners, or was she too busy sleeping around."

Slowly and with passionate anger, he removed Anker's fingernail. Blood squirted out of the wound; he was in immense pain, but decided to laugh thunderously instead of screaming.

"What's," He breathed heavily, "Your name," Anker panted.

"Otto, now te-"

"Please do it again, Otto," Anker laughed; Otto stepped back.