‘The Hypocritical Oath’ by Ricochet Challenge Entry

The forceful wind of the idling jet engines snatched at Saunders’ hair and jacket as he deplaned with the rest of the passengers…or at least tried to. A garishly-dressed young woman wearing impossibly tall heels and clutching a teacup poodle dawdled down the steps in front of everyone else, and Chip bit back his impatience.

“After twenty-five years, another minute won’t hurt,” he grumbled inwardly, taking a deep breath.

Yet as their slow descent continued, he took action. Gallantly offering the woman his assistance, he scooped her up and hastened her and the unfortunate canine safely down the steps. To the relieved cheers of weary travelers and the outraged yapping of the dog, he strode purposefully across the tarmac toward the airport terminal.

Once inside, Saunders searched the crowd for a familiar face. Despite the long and unwanted separation, he’d recognize those features anywhere: perpetually tousled blond hair, blue eyes, unique dimples on smooth cheeks. Essentially, the face he was searching for was his own, with one significance difference...

“Papa!”

Saunders’ chin went up. His gaze swiftly scanned the crowded gate, locking at once onto eyes that were as brilliantly blue as his own, yet were not the least bit guarded or shrewd. With a fierce sense of protective pride, Saunders vowed to keep it that way.

Cherie’s gold curls waved like ribbons as she ran to him, bringing a grin to Chip’s face. Was she five, or twenty-five? He could never quite remember.

Then she was in his grasp, and he was swinging her halfway around in a hug, bringing girlish giggles to her lips. Saunders didn’t register the tall, darker presence behind them until he’d drunk his fill of Cherie’s essence.

“Papa,” his daughter said, gently pushing out of his embrace and taking the arm of the young man waiting patiently nearby. “Papa, this is Alexander Bach, my fiance.”

It wasn’t until the young man spoke that Saunders finally recognized the origin of his unease, the creeping animosity that had nothing to do with a father’s territorial defenses.

“Charmed to meet you, sir,” Alexander said in that precise, clipped, and slightly arrogant cadence all his countrymen seemed to possess. German.

Despite himself, Saunders felt his expression turn to stone. It took him long moments to find a civil response. “Same here.”

***

The first leg of the journey to Alexander’s family estate took them through the streets of the grand city. Saunders knew the meandering drive had been arranged for him, and despite his brooding thoughts, he couldn’t help but be spellbound by how elegantly Paris had recovered after the war.

On the Champs Elysees, his aquamarine gaze softened in wonder at the blend of modern and Medieval. Yet 1944 was never far away, and the lush twilight river, the gothic spires, and the mixed scent of diesel and perfume evoked memories that eclipsed the present.

Suddenly Saunders was transported back in time to another world, a reality built on a razor’s edge. As though conspiring with his sentiments, the peaceful Paris before him secretly revealed her scars and ghosts. Listening closely, Saunders heard the echo of jubilant liberation resounding from her ancient walls, filling the streets with joyful faces, filling the air with flowers.

That was when he met Babette: petite, dark, and so French. On a warm August evening in a city bursting with giddy life, drunk on freedom and wine and each other, they created Cherie. She remained their only true link, flying to America with her mother every few years for a visit, then later alone, to stay with Saunders for a season or two.

Theirs was a holiday relationship, built on long letters over longer separations, punctuated by a few weeks or months of intense bonding. She was her father’s daughter in so many ways, much to her mother’s exasperation. Saunders often had to hold back laughter at Babette’s outrage over their daughter’s appalling accent following a visit to America.

If Saunders were to be honest with himself, he often looked forward to seeing the mother as much as the daughter. Yet Babette had long ago moved on with her life, and so had he. Like a corny line in a movie, they always had Paris…and Cherie.

Only now his daughter would be leaving him, too. The beauty of the French countryside could not dissipate the heaviness of that thought.

Riding in reflective silence that he hadn’t been aware of, Saunders was mildly surprised when Cherie squeezed his arm gently and whispered: “We’re here.”

***

Although a quarter of a century had dulled their hair and etched lines around their eyes, the two men discovered that Time had not diluted the bitter memory of their first encounter, nor diminished their intense dislike of each other.

“Vater?” Alexander said, addressing the severely handsome man who stared at Saunders wordlessly. Cherie turned to her father also, confusion marring her smooth complexion.

“We’ve met,” Saunders responded to her unasked question, subconsciously making a fist.

“Friedrich?” A woman appeared at the top of a wide staircase, rescuing the two horrified offspring from their dilemma. “Has our company arrived, Lebkuchen?”

At the emasculating endearment, the doctor’s face went paler. Despite the unexpected humor of the situation, Saunders was sure the father of the groom felt exactly the same shock and loathing as he did, and he smiled grimly. Good.

A soft touch on his arm broke the spell. Saunders looked down into the pleading gaze of his daughter, her eyes an arresting blue behind shimmering tears. “Papa…please,” she whispered in a broken voice, breaking his heart.

He was silent for a moment, gathering the strength he knew it would take. Then he turned toward his old nemesis and extended his hand, fingers uncurling from an incriminating fist.

“Nice to see you again, Doc,” he said, meaning not a single syllable of it.

***

Dinner was a less-than-festive affair. The doctor’s wife was a warm and generous hostess, but she seemed not to notice the tension strangling the atmosphere. Or perhaps she was ignoring it, no doubt accustomed to her husband’s moody personality.

Yet try as she might to drag the two men into the conversation, they remained stubbornly locked in silent combat across the table from each other. If looks could kill, her dining room would be a charnel house.

Finally the interminable meal ended and the doctor’s wife, Magda, announced brightly that ‘kaffee’ would be served in the drawing room by the fire. The evening was chilly, and Saunders wondered if Magda had intentionally neglected to turn on the heat, forcing the newly-formed family to draw closer physically, if not in spirit.

He would never know the true nature of her plans, for she swiftly excused herself and, asking Cherie and Alexander for assistance with some mysterious task, disappeared with the kids, leaving the men alone.

Never one to postpone the inevitable fire fight, Saunders turned to the doctor with a narrow glare. “You’ve done well for yourself. I didn’t know there were that many pure German patients in Paris.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Bach replied with an ill-concealed sneer. “I knew it would come to this! The war is over, Sergeant. Or hasn’t anyone told you that?”

“Is it?” Saunders responded tightly. “Twenty-six years ago, I watched you play games with two men’s lives. The only reason that old Frenchman survived was because of the gun I had pressed between your ribs! You think just because the war‘s over, that makes you a different man, Doctor?” He drew out the venerable title, as if in doubt of its validity.

Dr. Bach‘s face flushed crimson with outrage. He felt backed into a corner, unable to escape his past, no matter how desperately he desired to. “I am a physician, not a soldier!” he argued. “You undoubtedly killed more men and ravaged more women than I ever did!”

Saunders pressed his lips together over his angry retort. He couldn’t stand to be in the same room with this monster. “You’re deplorable,” he muttered.

“No, I am realistic,” Bach stated. Wrapping his disgraced ideology firmly around his shoulders, his voice suddenly became as precise as one of his scalpels. His gaze grew distant, as though peering into the past, recalling those terrible, thrilling, wolfish days when Germany declared war on the world.

Looking down his nose at Saunders, he said coldly. “I don’t care about inferior people, or what happens to them. Is it a crime to think so? For instance, these hippies stinking up the world, making it weak; they should be dealt with harshly. And you feel the same way, don‘t you? The only difference is I do not hide my true feelings, unlike you.”

He rose and went to the window, staring out at the lights. “Darwin said it best: the natural order of the world is survival of the fittest. Those who are not fit, will die.”

“Or be killed.” At the menace in the sergeant’s low tone, Bach turned. The accusation of six million souls seemed to focus through Saunders’ gaze. For just a moment, Bach felt a chill of apprehension spread up his spine. Suddenly he understood the full scope of this American’s anger at Germany, and his own role in eliciting it.

Looking at the doctor, Saunders felt his skin crawl. “Twenty six years ago, my daughter would have been your prisoner in Paris. What if she’d been hurt? Would someone have to hold a gun to your head to make you help her, or would you just let her die?”

They both knew the answer to that scenario, and this time it was Saunders’ turn to sneer in disgust. “You would’ve done what you wanted to her, and no one would have stopped you. I‘ll be damned if I‘ll let her marry into this wicked clan!”

Shaken, Bach wondered if Saunders’ penetrating gaze could see into his soul: see all his sins on display in bright, cleansing light.

He would never reveal to his family the things he’d witnessed during the war, when no one held a gun to his head. He hadn’t even tried to stop the madness, and he thanked God only his pride was wounded when it was over and the fanatic veil had fallen from his eyes.

Now he despaired of the war ever ending. Now this furious stranger was jeopardizing his comfortable, safe world. He wondered if this was how the refugees had felt, when hateful men burst into their homes and beat them without mercy.

Bach didn’t like feeling vulnerable, and he turned his fear into anger, directing it back at Saunders. “At least I am honest!” His voice shook with insult. “I don’t hide behind a shining suit of armor and pretend I‘ve never indulged in seedy displays or licentious acts.”

At Saunders’ puzzled glare, Bach jerked his head in the direction Cherie had gone. His humorless smile was like a sliver of ice. “I understand you never married her mother…”

***

“You’re going to have to speak up, Sarge! I can’t barely hear you!” Kirby pressed the receiver closer to his ear and squinted in concentration. When his toddler grandson tried to climb onto his lap, he distractedly handed the child his empty beer and pointed at the refrigerator. Better not let his daughter see him doing that…

“Yeah I got the money, business is real good!” Kirby shouted into the receiver. “You think five grand is enough? Hey-…hey, Sarge? You gambling on the ponies now?”

Taking the bottle of beer from his grandson, Kirby patted the boy on the head and sent him back for a church key. He almost missed Saunders’ response, then gave a huge grin as the faint words reached his incredulous ears. “No kiddin‘! You‘re in a French jail? Heh, that ain‘t happened in a long time! What did ya do?”

He switched the phone to his other ear, to better hear and revel in the name of the so-called victim of the assault. “Yeah, boy! I remember that stinkin‘ lousy kraut!” Kirby shouted gleefully. “Give ‘em hell for me, Sarge! I’ll send enough bail for two ass-whuppin’s!”

Hanging up the phone but unable to disconnect the grin from his face, Kirby set the beer down and swung his grandson onto his lap. The chubby child cooed in contentment as the former BAR man tickled his tummy.

“Whaddaya say, Chip? Want to go to the bank with Pop-pop? I’ll buy you an ice cream cone, if you promise not to tell your mother…”

***

“The wedding is off, do you not understand me?” Though straining his words through a wired jaw, Bach still managed to sound as though he were shouting. Next to him, Magda folded her hands in her lap and stared out the window of his hospital room.

She had pleaded with her husband, cajoled him, threatened him, everything under the sun. He would not change his mind. In the corner of the room, her son and his little fiancée huddled together in misery.

“You are an unreasonable fool, and so is that other man!” She murmured in German, not looking at him. “Two angry old fools who cannot forget old wars!”

“Magda, he is a lunatic,” Bach ground out. “I would rather Alexander marry the daughter of a rabid hound!”

“Vater!” Alexander exclaimed, hugging his intended to his side. Cherie hadn’t stopped weeping in hours, and he nervously wondered how much of their familial conversation she understood. Even he had offered an opinion on her father’s mental instability.

There was a knock on the door, and Magda rose to answer it. Saunders stood outside of the room. In one hand, he held a bouquet of flowers, in the other a bottle of champagne.

“What do you want?” Bach demanded, hoping his voice did not betray his latent fear.

Saunders shrugged almost bashfully. “I came to invite you to a wedding.”

“Sergeant, there will be no wedding!” Bach struggled to make himself understood. “My son will marry your daughter over my dead body!”

“Not their wedding…” Saunders said dismissively. “Our wedding!” He held his hand out to someone standing just beyond view. Stepping into the room, a pretty, petite woman with stylishly gray hair gave them a lovely smile and showed them a sparkling diamond ring.

“Mama!” Cherie gasped. The tears started anew as she rushed into her mother’s arms. As Magda joined the huddle of weeping women, Saunders moved to the bed and sat down.

“You know, Bach, sitting in jail, I thought about what you said. You were right…at least about the one thing I can control. Nothing I hate worse than a hypocrite.”

“Do not try to make amends for what you’ve done, Sergeant. You will not change my opinion, just as you will not change me!”

“I’m not trying to change you, Bach, that‘s a losing battle. Just trying to make you see. Hatred has no place in our kids’ world. If there’s only one thing we can agree on, it’s that we want them to be happy.” Saunders lit a cigarette without taking his bemused gaze off the doctor. “And for the record…in my Army, there’s an old saying about opinions”

The doctor stared hard at Saunders. In the depths of those blue eyes, he saw a soldier raising a white flag of truce, and somehow he understood how rare that gesture was.

“I believe there was a similar saying in the Wehrmacht, too,” Bach admitted grudgingly. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he winced. Even that hurt.

***

The bride wore white, as did the father of the groom, albeit in swaths of bandages and a matching neck brace. The ceremony, arranged in haste in the hospital chapel, was brief but touching. The reception, conjured from cafeteria fare, was simple but savory.

Afterward, in an admirable gesture of largesse, Bach called his attorney to drop the assault charges against Saunders. In private, colleagues tried to convince him of the folly of releasing the ‘crazy Amerikaner‘ from custody, but he was oddly adamant about it. It was time, he reasoned, to end the war.

“I still don’t like you,” Saunders said as he prepared to fly back to the States. Babette had returned to Paris, and he was heading back to his job, but now he had two countries to call home. It was a good feeling.

“And you make me absolutely ill,” Bach said conversationally.

“Alright, then.” Saunders leaned forward to shake his hand. “Goodbye…Doctor.”

Bach looked up at him through his one good eye, studying his face for any signs of deception or disrespect. Finding none, he nodded slightly. “Auf wiedersehen, Sergeant,” he said. “Until we meet again.”

End