Is my story bothering you, Reinhard? I hope it isn't, because there's much more to it. It would be so sad if I said that you just laid me on that bed, closed the doors, and left me alone forever, wouldn't it? That hardly does the story justice.
So I shall continue.
Later on after the war, I heard—and read—that you were called the "nightclub king" of pre-war Berlin, and rightfully so, perhaps. Even as a married man, your penchant for womanizing, the same bad habit that got you kicked out of the navy, continued to ride your coattails, which you happily obliged. You would take your subordinates out in turns to go party with you in high-end bars, nightclubs, and brothels throughout Berlin's upper class districts. You never had time to do that after the war broke out; didn't you. You were so busy building up your RSHA and contemplating the Final Solution that you didn't have time for women, much less your wife. Apparently, your frequent absences nearly culminated in divorce. But after your move to Prague, the two of you were able to see each other much more and as a result had a girl, Silke Heydrich, and another girl was to be born posthumously, named Marte Heydrich.
You're probably getting so conceited down there, Reinhard, that I would even bother to crack a book about you after the war. Blame yourself. Blame yourself, as you are the reason for everything that's going on in my life.
I smoke. I drink. I even shoot heroin sometimes, when my mind is black and red and alcohol and smoke aren't enough to drown my sorrows. All because of you.
All of your use and abuse of my body has taken its toll on me. My reproductive organs are so damaged I can't have any children or I'll die. Sex is abhorrent to me. I can never look at a man the same way again, let alone tall, blond, German men. Meanwhile, my friends are happily married and raise their children idyllically.
I have no one; I will have no one. No one but you, Reinhard, whether I like it or not. For the rest of my life, all I will have is you.I woke up the next afternoon feeling surprisingly refreshed. My head didn't hurt, and my limbs no longer felt like heavy weights I had to drag around all the time.
I threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. To my horror, I realized I was wearing a terry cloth bathrobe similar to the ones you wore to bed, and under the robe I was completely naked.
My first thought was, who could have done such a thing? The second, why?
My high heeled shoes were gone, replaced by a pair of pristine white slippers. I jammed my feet into them and began to pace the room, confused and disoriented.
Should I go outside? Should I stay inside? And where were you?
That last thought disgusted me. Why was I looking for you? I ought to be looking for my mother, for my brother Josef, for Libena and Maria.
Josef would be beside himself with fury if he got wind of what happened. He was in Britain at the time, as part of the Czech resistance forces in London training for the task of one day freeing their country. My mother and I had cried bitterly when he left, me especially, because he was literally the last good thing left in my life.
I later learned, after you had me arrested, that being able to claim that your body belonged to you alone was a good thing I had taken for granted.
I imagined Josef pouncing on you, curse words erupting from his mouth like an active volcano. I imagined his fists slamming into your smug face, the slap as flesh met flesh, the crunch as fragile bone snapped and gave way. Your delightful screams of pain, your pleas for mercy that would fall on deaf ears.
I would be there, I fantasized, watching my brother vent his rage on you. And then, I would have him sodomize you with your own Totenkopfring, preferably on the balcony of Hradcany Castle, where your seat of power was, where your RSHA was, in front of all of Prague.
That scenario would be the one to distract me from your ministrations from that day on. Whenever you raped me, I would imagine my brother jumping on you, smashing you all around the gardens of Jungfern-Brenschan, and I would be able to bear the torment a bit better. I would envision your screams, your pleas for mercy, and I would feel the savage satisfaction that comes with the tormented becoming the tormentor.
I was pacing back and forth, contemplating all of this, when all of a sudden the door swung open, revealing you in your black SS uniform, your cap and gloves in your hand. You put on a theatrically surprised expression upon seeing me standing there.
"If it isn't Sleeping Beauty. How have you been, dear one?"
I gave you a blank stare in return. You sauntered in and shut the door behind you.
"I could really use you right now," you said, your fingertips skimming the tie of my robe. "I've had a long day."
I braced myself for you to forcefully commence to do what you usually did. Instead, you dropped your hand and offered me your arm in an exaggerated show of gallantry.
"Come. There's something I want to show you."
I didn't expect anything good. My first instinct was to balk, but one look at your face told me that as polite as the gesture was, it didn't denote a request.
I tentatively threaded my arm through yours and you led us down the hall. To anyone who might have come out of any of the rooms in the chateau, it would have been a comical sight to behold—Reinhard Heydrich , tall, blond, and strapping, arm in arm with a scrawny blonde haired girl that was half his size and looked like she had just rolled out of bed.
You stopped at a door opposite yours on the other side of the hallway.
"You've been so good to me, Sophie," you said almost sentimentally. "I thought I might reward you for your services."
I licked my lips, holding my tongue as you swung the door open, revealing a luxurious bedroom fit for a king.
"Behold, I give you what I wouldn't give my own adjutant." You pulled condescendingly on a lock of my hair. "And all you have to do is follow orders and do as you're told. Easy enough?"
I nodded vehemently, praying you would leave now. I was suddenly overcome by whatever was left of the little girl in me to explore my new room without being hounded or harassed, to jump on the bed and dance in the mirror.
You walked in, waved me inside and shut the door behind you. I watched with growing foreboding as you eased yourself into the loveseat a few feet away from the bed and poured yourself a glass of red wine. You painstakingly lit a cigar, holding it tastefully between your forefinger and your middle finger. Smoke curled off of the tip almost teasingly, whereupon it vanished into thin air.
You regarded me contemptuously over your glass as you took a sip.
"Come stand here," you barked.
I did as I said, coming to stand between your legs, which were now spread as far apart as they could go—a show of masculinity, of confidence. Of power.
"Get on your knees."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It all made sense now: the way you were sitting, the room! You obviously couldn't have me whenever, wherever, and however you wanted in your bedroom, the one you slept in, so you freed up space to keep me so that you could indulge in your twisted pleasures without fear of repercussions.
"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" You demanded, irritably swirling your wine in its goblet. When I stayed frozen stiff, you leaned forward, looking up at me with those expressionless blue eyes of yours.
"You want the room, don't you? Or would you prefer the place you used to stay in? That cold, dark, empty storage room?"
You paused to take a languid sip of wine. "Which would you prefer...here or there?"
"Here." The word came out a rasp.
"Smart girl, Sophie Gabcik. Very well then. You know what to do; we've done this many times before. Get on your knees."
There was no dancing in the mirror for me that night. There was no jumping on the bed. There was no excited, childish exploration. Just degradation, depravity, and utter desperation.
I ask you again, Reinhard. Why did you do that to me? Why?Sorry i didn't include the definition before! The Totenkopfring was a special ring given to high ranking SS men by Heinrich Himmler, usually when they distinguished themselves in some notable enough way. The ring was made of silver and had a skull in the center (Totenkopf is skull in German) and it was to be worn on the right hand of the wearer until his death, whereupon it would have to be returned to Himmler.)
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Beauty and the Beast
Ficción históricaWhat do you do when the one who stole your future is the only one who can give it back? Eighteen year old Sophie Gabcikova led a completely normal life in the quiet village of Panenske Brezany--until the day her beauty caught the eye of Deputy Reic...