Free The Secret of Lions by Scott Blade Page A

cell—masturbating.
And that one, he kept to himself. Not even the other guards knew
about it.
    “Actually, there was a rumor floating around
that…Never mind. It’s probably not true,” Heinrik teasingly
boasted.
    “What? Tell me. I want to hear it,” Gracy
begged. She pulled in close to him. Her hands squeezed tightly
around his left arm.
    Heinrik looked down at the dirt around his
boots for a moment and smiled.
    “Well, there was this rumor that a woman
came in the other day to visit her husband, a prisoner named
Meulette—an Algerian anarchist, who was captured in Munich for his
involvement with something, I don’t remember what.
    "Anyway, his wife came here to see him.”
    “Yes, go on,” Gracy said.
    “Well, she brought him a large loaf of
French bread. I guess she thought that was appropriate because
Algiers is a part of the French empire,” Heinrik said.
    “I know that,” Gracy said.
    “Anyway, she walked into the visitor’s area
with it. She tripped on her way in. The bread bounced off the
ground, and when it finally stopped bouncing, a sharp metal object
protruded from it. The guards discovered she had baked the bread
around a handsaw.”
    “That’s not true. I don’t believe you,”
Gracy said, smiling.
    “Well, it happened,” Heinrik said, shrugging
his shoulders.
    “You’re making that up.”
    “Gracy, I wouldn’t lie to you,” he said,
half smiling.
    Gracy laughed.
    “You are strange sometimes,” she said. She
leaned in to kiss him.
    Heinrik caressed her face with the back of
his hand. Before he could kiss her, a shadow cast over them. They
looked up. Gracy shuddered. Heinrik reached for his rifle, which
rested next to him. He stood with the rifle at the ready.
    “What the hell are you doing?” he asked
Adolf.
    Adolf stood perfectly still, holding his
pencils and sketchpad down by his side. He gripped them tightly in
his left hand. Strands of brown hair fell across his face, mapping
the emptiness of his features. All that was memorable about him
were two piercing, devilish eyes and slicked, brown hair.
    Finally, he spoke. “Are you a Jew? I have
never seen one so beautiful. Your blood must be Aryan in origin. My
blood is like that,” he said.
    He paused for a moment.
    “I have never told that to anyone before.
But I am a hundred percent Aryan.”
    Heinrik ignored Adolf’s babble. Instead, he
quickly reacted. Without thinking, he butted Adolf in the jaw with
his rifle. Adolf fell back and dropped his sketchbook and
pencils.
    Heinrik would have continued to beat Adolf
with his rifle if it weren’t for Gracy interfering. She grabbed him
by the arm and pulled him back. She was far more cautious of people
than Heinrik was. Living with discrimination every day, Gracy felt
threatened by many of the Germans that crossed her path. She could
sense their judgmental, hateful eyes gawking at her.
    Heinrik looked back at her. He realized he
could lose his job for this. He rested the rifle back against the
log and slowly walked over to Adolf.
    “Are you okay?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Adolf said. A trickle of blood ran
down his forehead. He struggled to stand up but slowly made it.
    Heinrik bent over to pick up the pencils and
sketchpad, but Adolf leapt over to them.
    “No! Do not touch my sketches! I shall
retrieve them,” Adolf said, enraged.
    Heinrik backed away from the sketches.
Instead, he stood idle while Adolf collected them from the ground.
It was an awkward moment for Heinrik and Gracy to wait while Adolf
recovered all of his dropped materials.
    Gracy began to approach Adolf; she felt
responsible. She thought she should help him gather up his items,
but Heinrik halted her by raising his hand in the air, motioning
her to stop. He waved her off.
    He did not want her to approach his
prisoner. Adolf finally recovered all of his sketches and returned
to his feet. Heinrik focused on Adolf’s features; he noticed that
Adolf’s forehead bled.
    Concerned for his job, Heinrik took a