Work Text:
You’re looking out of the narrow, murky windows of the washing room, standing on your tiptoes on an old wooden stool, clinging to the edge of the dusty windowpane. It’s almost instinctual whenever you hear the roar of the engine in the distance. This is usually how the afternoon routine starts, and the urge to confine yourself down here wakes in you. You swear when Dieter arrives back home, his presence can be felt in every single corner; the house breathes, laughs and screams with him, the corridors are filled with cigarette smoke and something unknown that makes your skin crawl. His return involves him asking for coffee and a light dinner, he tries avoiding his study for the rest of his day unless he receives a call.
The brake of the Mercedes screeches, the door closes with a loud thud, even the window’s glass shakes a little. These are the signs that he’s in a foul mood. And it’s relatively easy to get him into a foul mood. You get off the stool and land on the tile covered floor, your stomach in a tight knot even though you’ve had plenty of time to get used to his whims.
Why him out of all people? Well, you didn’t have the privilege to choose who’s going to employ you. Especially since you made that stupid newspaper advertisement, you have no right to complain as everybody has already told you. These are desperate times, and you were desperate to find work. Sometimes it’s safe to nestle in the wolf’s den. The money is good, there’s plenty of leftovers for you and the others to eat, the bomb shelter here is definitely safer than the one back at home, and it’ll probably look good in your resume after the war ends.
But despite the superficial charm and all, Dieter is a living nightmare. Not because of the ridiculous requests, the weirdly specific ways he likes things or his irritability. You’ve heard plenty of stories from your relatives who worked at prestigious people’s homes. You’ve heard how they prey on their own employees, how they take advantage of those they deem lesser, how they can ruin their lives without any remorse. And the likes of Dieter are very much drunk on their own superiority, they quickly become hypocrites behind closed doors. Anything can be a product of that said hypocrisy, from open secrets and outrageous rumors of extramarital affairs to bruised, crippled, teary eyed things left to rot.
Why you out of all of them? You’re just a nobody who collects and cleans his laundry, there’s nothing remotely special about you for a man like him. Well… why in fact not you?
When did it start exactly? Maybe that night when he invited Colonel Landa over for dinner. It was a one of a kind experience and not in a positive sense. You knew what you had to do, maybe it wasn’t the best decision to search the whole house to find a good tablecloth reserved for special occasions unsupervised, but you thought you were doing a favor for Dieter. Turns out, you did. It was a fine cloth, heavy, from excellent material with beautiful embroidery, the kind that demands special treatment. You spent a whole night getting rid of the frowzy smell and the dust. The others needed some guidance to organize the different chores, and you were willing to help them, since you had more experience. Gently, you must add since everyone was agitated, their hands were shaking, they were covered in sweat, they barely dared to take a breath. You could literally smell their fear. You didn’t know much about Landa except for a few rumors but it looks like even those are filled with dread who have no apparent reason to feel that way.
When everything was settled, all of you gathered inside the kitchen, nobody made a sound, and the leftovers remained untouched. Even though Landa left a good amount of the dessert on his plate deliberately, for the simple reason that you all deserve some sweetness in your lives. But this joke wasn’t nearly as funny to you.
You wanted to deliver the cloth to the laundry room after cleaning the table… Yes, you remember it as clear as day. You folded the embroidered one and put a new one on the table, you noted how he was a little bit too occupied with you smoothing out the creases. After saying good night, just before exiting the dining hall, he grabbed your wrist. He pulled it towards his face, you could feel his breath tickling your skin. You didn’t look back at him to try and guess the reason why he wanted to take a look at your hand so badly. At first glance maybe frail but washers and cleaners are notorious for their hidden strength. And how different it looked compared to his. All the dry, broken skin, the red and swollen knuckles and bloodied cuticles, the callouses and old scars of blisters on your palm, the stains of the laundry blue that makes all the white materials look brand new, the corn starch left on the cuffs of your shirt. Standing so close to you, he noticed you smell of soap and whiteners and for some unknown reason: cotton. Pleasant, clean and like something that gives the illusion of comfort.
You were certain what kickstarted it was when he specifically asked for you to clean the floor of cigarette ashes. You were baffled, that’s not your job to do. You exchanged a few glances with the others, and you were met with horror, confusion and relief. But now you know he did it for the sake of it, just to watch you as you were sweeping the ashes, kneeling on the floor... Maybe there was something playing on the radio that night, you’re not sure, the memories are a bit blurry. He even had the audacity to smoke while having his fun observing you, missed the ashtray on purpose so you would crawl closer to him, his spread knee almost touching your shoulder.
His gaze was already burning holes into you, and by the time the floor was spotless you felt like you were turning into a fuming, charred mess. You just couldn’t take it anymore.
You recall the first instant you ever laid eyes on his face - like pleading to a rabid dog not to bite.
“Am I doing something wrong, Herr Hellstrom?”
To your surprise, he giggled. The cigarette was put out and he rose from his seat. He walked towards a nearby cabinet, and you instantly pulled yourself closer to the armrest of the sofa.
“You’ll take your off day tomorrow.” he said, or rather stated. You didn’t oppose him, but you didn’t show any gratitude. There was no reason to do so, it was Saturday night, there’s not much work to do before washing day. It was nothing more than a false gesture of generosity.
He motioned with his head for you to get off the floor and come closer to him. You were slow and silent, he moreso felt you in his proximity than heard your approach. There was something placed in your palm, and he closed your fingers around it. Careful and quick, like you should know that you must keep it a secret.
You reluctantly opened your hand, and you realized he had given you 10 reichsmarks. You looked back at him confused and worried.
“Get something nice for you. We are in accord, yes?”
Since that night he probably felt some kind of entitlement towards you. It always starts like this. Special requests, special tasks, ridiculous wishes so you can be in his company. Then comes the money, the bribes, like your trust can be bought. After that you won’t get punished for accidental mistakes or at least, not as bad as the others. Then come the questions, about you, about your family, about your childhood, what do you like, what do you loathe, what makes you get out of bed every single morning. If you answer, honestly and in great detail you’ll get a few lingering touches. Then you become the embodiment of sin, you put him under a spell, it was witchcraft when he saw the rolled sleeves and your naked feet in slippers while you were hanging the bed sheets outside to dry them faster, that you - for some reason - made him act upon his urges. It’s futile to find a reason, futile to find an explanation. You can only endure.
And now, you’re just angry. Because there’s no meaning behind it, no feelings, you’re a tool for his entertainment. For some reason he still favors you. Despite that you refuse to submit, you give him no respect, you try to fight back. He probably gets even more riled up from that.
You take a deep sigh before stretching your back, making the bones pop. Whatever mood you’ll find him in, you must deal with him nonetheless.
It was probably the first time ever you had trouble finding him. The house is enveloped in eerie silence, except for the faint chatter streaming out of the kitchen. You looked for him in all the usual places, from the living room to the salon on the ground floor but there was no sign of him. Maybe you should go check the bedroom upstairs. As you roam the corridors you’re so accustomed to, the phone rings in the study. It’s not unusual for you or anybody else to pick up the receiver when he’s not here, it’s nothing more than another chore to complete so you head towards the noise while coming up with an acceptable excuse.
But somebody answers the call.
It’s his voice but it’s obscured, you can’t figure out what he’s talking about. Well, who cares what’s going on in those fancy offices in the Prinz Albrecht Palais? Definitely not you. You already know more than you want and probably much more than you should, since Dieter sometimes loves to get his daily frustrations out of his system. On those rare days when he’s tired of putting up a front, when he gets a little bit closer before pulling away, when he’s penetrating the walls that separate you from him before restoring the status quo entirely. Deep down you can’t really blame him for it. The clearly defined roles keep his sensitive parts safe, frees him from any further sensuality that comes with being infatuated with another person. But some days it does hurt a lot, some days it makes you furious that he refuses to treat you as an equal even in the most private moments.
You let silence linger a bit before warily taking a step inside. Different scents are crawling up your nose. It’s not the usual coffee, it’s cigarette smoke and the stench of liquor. Hurray, he’s absolutely infuriated but seeing him so consumed by his own unregulated emotions makes you pity him.
“How’s that you’re not out of your uniform yet?”
Just an innocent question, but he glares back at you like it’s a vicious insult. You’re baffled, you should be the one who’s mad because he broke the usual routine. It should be the time for quick exchanges, ‘how was your days’ and ‘how you’re going to spend the evenings’ while folding a used shirt or spending some time with getting all the awards off from the tunic, having a sip of his coffee or sometimes having all the leftover sugar on the bottom of the cup because he knows that it’s a luxury for you (or maybe he didn’t realize that Landa’s joke was in fact just a joke and nothing serious). Now you only get a dismissive handwave. It’s not the first time it has happened, but it’s a rare occasion.
“You all bore me.” his tone is flat, but you can feel his teeth almost biting through the filter of his cigarette. “I really must be the embodiment of kindness for letting you know that I have no patience reserved for you.”
You can’t believe that this is the same man who snuck out to the washing room, saw the bruised, scraped skin on your knuckles, burning bright red from the bleach, gave them a soothing kiss and left without a word. And it wasn’t something done back in the beginning in an attempt to woo you, it happened only three days before. But at least you have been warned not to pester him. For your own good.
“I simply asked for your laundry, you don’t need to get angry with me for doing what you’re paying me to do.” you answer but there’s scolding edge in your voice, like you would talk to an unruly child. To save yourself from an incoming outburst you add: “Besides, I already steamed and ironed a fresh set, I left it in your bedroom.”
Surprisingly, he remains silent. But you can see that he can hardly translate his thoughts into words, and he conceals it by taking a long drag of his cigarette. He might be thinking about how you’re annoying, that you’re mothering him and how he hates the inherent condescendence it includes. That you somehow desperately want to cross the line because you got a little bit too comfortable with being special. Yes, you’re special, but you’re not untouchable, you’re not invulnerable. To anybody else, you are, but he’s the exception, he will always be the exception. And while he’s coming up with an idea on how to make you remember about this aspect of your relationship (because you apparently forgot or are deliberately ignoring said aspect), your heel slowly closes the door.
You lean against the wall, your nails penetrate the wallpaper on their own. The silence is uncomfortable and the collar of your shirt is getting tighter around your throat.
“Hard day at work, wasn’t it?” you taunt him with a crooked smile. The sarcasm in your voice is thinly veiled, you’re sure he has absolutely no idea what real hard work feels like. Before you continue you can’t help but let out a chuckle. “Who managed to get on your nerves this time? Would you let me guess, Sturmbannführer?”
You must admit it’s fun to ruffle his feathers, even if you never know how he’ll respond. Sometimes you spend the rest of your day adjusting your clothes and hair, and despite all the efforts nothing could conceal the color in your cheeks and the shaking of your thighs. Sometimes he calls you a filthy slut and shoves you out of his way, but you remain free of him for the rest of the day. It’s worth the risk for sure, you can corner him with a few carefully aimed words, your only weapon at hand. It makes you feel in charge for a short while.
And seeing how his features twist, you definitely struck a nerve. Your lips curl up in satisfaction.
“Get over here, or I’m going to drag you here myself.”
It is known when Dieter is truly angry, he won’t scream, he won’t even raise his voice, when he speaks it’s low and a bit hoarse like in this very moment. So you play along this time, reducing the distance between you in a slow, careful and just barely coy manner till you arrive right before him. His form almost blends into the dark cushioned leather of the sofa. You playfully cock your head to the side, glancing down on him, keeping the eye contact even if it’s too much to bear. The smoke slowly crawls up to your nostrils, but nothing happens. He waits, he waits for the ash to fall on the floor. Oh, for the love of god how much he loves to reminisce about that particular night. This is nothing but a signal, a silent command to recreate the infamous scene. With you kneeling down on the floor and your visage displaying the perfect blend of anticipation with a dash of fear. But to his dismay, you smear the ash with the sole of your shoe. The sight of his dreams is denied with a roll of your eyes.
“I don’t have time for your games.” you say, so soft and demure but you have no idea how much he wants to get rid of that smug smile of yours. And you fail to notice how he extends a leg between the space of your ankles. So much so he needs to direct your gaze with a swift glance downward. But when you see his foot locked to the back of your heel it’s already late. He makes you trip, and without any balance you fall to the floor.
Before you can collect yourself and ask him what was that for, he grabs you by the shoulder and even with a tense body you can’t resist to be pulled back in his direction, to face him again. That tiny shriek that escapes your lungs is like a melody to his ears. He’s not particularly gentle and you’re startled enough so your facade can break, and fright can sweep through your eyes for a split second before everything settles back in its place. And he eagerly feasts on that sight.
You don’t know what motivates him, but he gently cups your face with both hands. The skin of his palm is so soft, and tender compared to yours. His fingers dig into the flesh of your cheeks, to the point that your lips unwillingly form a pout. To him, you look adorable except for the glare. Oh, if looks could kill… maybe it’s not that big of a problem, he could spend the rest of the day staring at you like this.
One hand slowly slides down towards your jaw while the other holds your shoulder firmly so you can’t get away from him. His fingers clench around the bone, for a moment you believe that he’s going to force your mouth open to imitate the way that you talk, make a fool of you for whatever you said in some mockingly high pitched tone. But he does nothing that you would normally expect from him. His voice is just barely above a whisper and there’s no explanation for why his lips twist into a smile.
“I’ll let you talk back one more time, and we’ll see what happens.”
You should spit on his face. He really deserves it, but you don’t have a crippling death wish just yet. Instead…
“I’m not going to play along this time.” you hiss.
Your body is in a tense tremor as you wait for his reaction. His smile widens and the mischievous spark in his eyes has your stomach clenched in anxiety.
“Let’s take you across my lap, shall we?” his voice grazes your throat like sharp teeth.
You immediately want to crawl up from the carpet but he cages you in his grasp. Your attempt at fussing and breaking free are futile, you can never match his strength. He slowly pulls you up and even kicking your feet in the air won’t help you with running away from him.
“Dieter!”
You hope screaming his name will help. Strangely, he always listens when you call him by his first name but this time it has no effect. A shame really, it’s such a nice name to be called by…
It takes no effort for him to lay you completely flat in his lap. You still try to pull yourself up by clinging to the armrest, but he twists one of your arms to the small of your back.
“Good grief, of course today is the one day you want to be set straight.” he complains as he pulls your skirt up and pushes your undergarments out of the way. As you’re exposed, your nails dig into the leather of the sofa. You try to pull your hand from his grasp, you’d do anything to get away from him but all your efforts are useless.
“No! You’re just being cruel! You just want to get your anger out on me!” you oppose, but as his palm lays on the naked skin of your butt, you freeze, your breath hitches in your throat. He can’t stop himself from squeezing and kneading the plush flesh and all the blood and heat paints your face bright pink. You feel so vulnerable and ashamed. There’s no way you can cover yourself, not when his hold on you is so tight. You let out a pathetic whine.
“Relax.” he commands, and your body obeys for some weird reason. You can feel his soft palm meandering around your lower back, like he wants to calm you down. “If you’re tense it’ll hurt more. Follow the pain and thank me for it.”
Honestly, this shouldn’t be surprising. Dieter showcased numerous examples of his… peculiar tastes. Like when he found out you spent the 10 reichsmarks on new tights. Nylon. They enveloped your legs like a layer of smooth, sheer skin. So he made you spend the rest of the afternoon in his study wearing nothing but a shirt, your underwear and garters to secure the tights. You were free to do anything you liked, even laying around on this very couch for him to have a glance. When he got bored of sitting at the desk, he brought his stash of documents next to you and continued filling them out while pulling your feet into his lap. It was so hard to escape his grasp, but his fingers worked some tension out of your feet and shins before moving them up to dig into the flesh of your thighs. Or that other afternoon when he ordered you to sit on the floor, right next to him, with his hand occasionally pushing your head to rest your chin on his thigh. As if you were just a dear little pet to him. His digits did also get lost in the strands of your hair, brushing along them. He even slipped some licorice into your mouth after every hour if you stayed still and quiet. He went too far when he scratched you just below your chin, but it was a nice gesture, affectionate even.
And then, his palm makes contact with your behind for the first time. It’s quite gentle, it doesn’t even sting.
“Thank you.” you mutter, with a tinge of annoyance and bile. You want to get through it as quickly as possible.
It seems as if the second strike won’t arrive. There are some strange noises but you can’t figure out what he’s doing. So you wait, with your heart racing in your ribcage and a breath held back for seemingly an eternity. The second spank feels like your skin could crack open at any moment. A sharp pain resonates through your whole body, white hot and searing deep into the flesh. Tears pool in your waterline, you bite the sleeve of your shirt, whining in pain.
“What was that for?” you question him in a hoarse voice, obviously sounding like you didn’t deserve it.
“Your tone.” he answers coldly, pulling the leather glove off with his teeth. “You might get another one if you don’t choose your words carefully.”
You go limp in his grasp with a sigh but deep down you stay fearful of him. It’s so hard to defeat the urge to wiggle away from his hand.
“Understood.”
The third spank lands on your other cheek, still free from any soreness or red tint, it makes a gasp tear from your throat. And you have no idea how much he likes that sound, how he wants to devour it.
“Thank you.” you mumble out the words, acting grateful for the discipline but there’s no true fondness behind the act. You need something else - but you can’t figure out what exactly due to the dizziness of being on edge.
“Don’t hold your breath.” he commands again, but this time in a much softer tone.
The fourth spank makes you squirm. The fifth has you keen and tense. The sixth makes you tremble and shake. He needs to keep you in place when you receive the seventh. The eighth makes you wobbly. And he keeps going without any intention of stopping at the tenth. His rhythm is slow, but not enough for you to recover, yet you thank him each time. The pain builds up steadily until it stings and burns horribly. Every little morsel of you is on fire, scorching hot, even your face is puffy and bright pink just like your bottom. It’s good that he can’t look you in the eye, you wouldn’t survive that shame. Your head is swimming, your consciousness is drowned in a weird haze. Everything is so cloudy, distant, and murky. You feel like you’re in a whirlpool. It’s too overwhelming and you’re becoming desperate.
The next spank makes you break, it makes you sob. You finally abandon your dignity.
“I’m sorry!” you mewl, and he immediately stops. You wait with a shallow breath, contemplating on if you should let those tears flow freely.
“Alright. That’s enough for you.” he rumbles, carefully fidgeting around the garters and your girdle to adjust them. The stretchy fabric makes the pain from your burning skin flare up. He frees you from his grasp, and you’re immediately trying to pull down your skirt. You crawl away from him, as far as you can and curl up. You’re an aching, torn mess on the verge of crying. A blanket would be nice.
You would’ve never guessed that he would come closer, slowly closing the distance between you two, taking you in his arms gently and pulling you to his chest. At first, you tense but you don’t oppose, you only let out a weak, fussy noise. You’re no different than a terrified child full of bitter disappointment. But you slowly warm up and melt into the embrace, you let him cradle you a bit, like you should be proud you endured his punishment. Your cheek is pressing against the fine, vibrant mourning-black fabric of his tunic that you take such good care of. Your arm slowly meanders around him, in a makeshift hug, playing with the silver buttons and clutching his awards. Sometimes, when he’s generous, he shares with you how he earned them. Your fingers are fidgeting with the Leistungsrune, running a thumb over the cold silver runes. Your nose follows all the way up to the starched collar of his brown shirt underneath and it continues it’s journey to the jugular of his neck. You take in his cologne, you admire the constellations of the various moles peppering his skin. He moves and you can feel his lips pressing on the top of your head. But it’s not a kiss. It would cross the line, too affectionate for his liking.
“You know that I didn’t do it because I like it.” he whispers into your strands. “But I like it more when you know your place. And the quickest way to learn is through a bit of pain.”
He’s drawing circles on your back. Oh, those soft hands, you know that they don’t always give you pain, they’re capable of tenderness. And with those fine hands, he can commit many atrocities. With a pen and a piece of paper, he can ruin lives. Oh how you’re ashamed that you long for gentle touches from this horrible man. What a stupid lamb you are, offering your throat up for the wolf to bite through.
“You’ve never held me this long before.” you murmur.
He lets go of you not long after your words, accompanied by a rough exhale through his nose. It makes your heart ache a little, and you see him disappearing from your sight, going around the couch to his desk. You don’t follow his form, it’s too tiring to even lift a finger. You hear him opening a drawer and he comes back holding a red and white metal canister in his hand. He opens the container, revealing some chocolate in cake-like shape. A piece is held only an inch away from your lips.
“What’s this?” you ask warily, not daring to eat without permission.
“Scho-Ka-Kola. Take a bite.”
You take a small chunk off with your teeth. But instead of sweetness bursting into your mouth as it melts, it tastes so, so bitter.
EXTRA SCENE: Fanyar vacsora
“You didn’t enjoy the strudel? I specifically asked for it to be made. Heard you like it.”
Landa is frugal and shameless at the same time. Sharing a meal with him could be anything between a headache and simple formality. He had no alcohol of course, even though the major picked an exquisite Italian wine for the evening, Landa asked for a cup of espresso. Despite unabashedly stuffing his face with the main course, the dessert was almost untouched. Dieter had no idea what was wrong, though he was very proud of his natural perceptiveness, Landa was always so hard to read. Borderline impossible.
The colonel appeared a bit lost in his own thoughts, but deep down he was merely contemplating whether he should smoke or not. He wasted enough time being here. Though he must admit that the sauerbraten was excellent, it would be a shame if the taste of tobacco overpowered the memory of that delicious meal. The strudel however…
“No, no, it wasn’t that terrible.” he answered in a flat tone.
Dieter decided to play it off, he wouldn’t dare be visibly offended by his superior.
“Should I get a new cook then?” he inquired with a soft, crooked smile.
“No, Dieter, don’t tire yourself with finding new employees for your lovely home.” Landa said in a disingenuously flattering tone. “I’m merely being a generous guest.”
“A generous guest?” the major echoed.
“You know, we talked so much about workers who are in the domestic field and…” he stops for a moment, letting out a small chuckle. “Workers, employees, such kind words, let’s tell the truth between us, we were talking about maids and servants. Perhaps the Bolsheviks are right about one thing: there’s no true equality between men. Everyone under this roof is part of the same master race but there are differences between us and them. They’ll never be able to enjoy a fancy dinner like we just did. They’ll never have tailors fit their clothes for them. They’ll never afford a driver, let alone a Mercedes. It all boils down to the cruel fact that they had less from the get-go, and they’re predestined to forever be exploited by the likes of us. Humans will always create differences, there will be a small circle of people who matter more, and a lot of others who matter less. These poor souls understand it more than you and I ever could. I’m sure they will fight over our leftovers, so I left them plenty.” he rose from his seat, and nothing could’ve stopped him from heading back home. “Their lives are miserable, they deserve a little sweetness every once in a while, don’t you think?”
And his smile was, indeed, nauseatingly sweet.
FOOT NOTES:
laundry blue: Dolly blue or washing blue was used to improve the appearance of white textiles, made from blue iron salt and added in rinse water. It was usually sold in pellets, powder or in liquid form.
Prinz Albrecht Palais: It was a Rococo style city palace in the suburbs of Berlin, originally a summer residence for the House of Hohenzollern. From 1939, it was the administrative seat of the RSHA, which combined the SD, the SiPo, the Gestapo and the Kripo under one organization. The buildings were destroyed during the Battle of Berlin in an air raid and was later incorporated into the American sector. Today the area is used for the Topography of Terror exhibition.
Germanische Leistrungsrune: It was a decoration issued in 1943, awarded for physical fitness for the members of the Germanic-SS who were serving in countries under Nazi occupation. The badge was similar to the SA Sports Badge, with a similar physical programme and annual proficiency tests for each recipient to retain the award. Both awards are worn by Dieter in the movie.
Scho-Ka-Kola: A bittersweet dark chocolate brand consumed for it’s strong caffeine and kola nut mix to extend alertness. It was introduced in the 1936 summer Olympics as a performance enhancing sports chocolate and was later issued in army rations.