Cross Conviction

With the steel-capped heels of his boots clattering against the cobblestone, Scharf made his way down the side of the dark city street. Grey clouds stood out against the near-black sky as they diffused the moonlight. His deep blue eye slid from one place to the next, analyzing every little detail of his surroundings.

The captain slid his hand into his breast pocket and removed a carton of cigarettes. Holding it between his thumb and middle fingers, he tapped the bottom of the container with his index finger until one cigarette protruded enough for him to grab it with his mouth. He then returned the carton and retrieved a lighter from the pocket on the lower left of his tunic. Much to Scharf's dismay, as soon as the open flame approached the cigarette, it began to rain.

Scharf exhaled sharply, aggravated that the very forces of nature had conspired to inconvenience him. He then dropped the soggy rolled paper, returned his lighter, and retrieved a vial of pills from inside his coat. Gripping the cylinder tightly, he popped the lid with his thumb, causing it to drop into a newly formed puddle at his feet. The captain glared down at the round piece of plastic with as much contempt as one could have for an inanimate object.

He pressed the vial to his lips, tilted his head back, and collected a few white tablets in his mouth before hastily swallowing. Scharf then knelt down with little care for the water soaking into his woolen pants. With the cylinder still in his hand, he struggled to retrieve the cap until the entire vial slipped from his hand and into the puddle, emptying its contents into the water.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Scharf stood back up to his feet and inhaled deeply. His breath was heavy with anger as he marched off down the sidewalk. From the time of his injury near the end of the Great War, this was the life the captain had lived. The most mundane, day-to-day tasks were a struggle. He was thirty-seven years old and, when it came to fine motor skills, often found himself less capable than the elderly.

Because of this, Scharf was filled with resentment. Resentment toward the person responsible for his dismemberment, for himself, and for the world in general. As time passed, he found himself increasingly disgusted by his own inability to complete simple tasks, which only added to his already overwhelming frustration.

After some time, he came to the spot Max had described earlier- the street corner where the boys had encountered Käfer. Scharf peered down the alleyway before glancing down into the storm drain and finally shifting his attention across the street.

Nothing.

It was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain, and not a car remained on the road. The captain waited for some time before continuing, satisfied that the mysterious figure was no longer present. Scharf then turned and made his way down the dark alley. His eye quickly shifted focus to every slight source of movement, from rats to the rain runoff of the gutters above.

Coming out the other side of the pass, the captain stopped on the curb and glanced up and down the sidewalk. As he began to walk on, he heard the sound of a car's engine approaching from behind. Scharf paid no mind until the vehicle idled behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the driver's side door fly open, and out step none other than Major Krieger.

"Stalking the streets at 03:00, are we Captain Scharf?"

The captain paid him no mind and started his way back up the street.

"Michael!" Krieger called out once more.

Scharf stopped in his tracks. He looked down as the initially soft ripples in the puddle at his feet increased with the intensity of the downpour. Pivoting back toward the major, Scharf finally spoke up over the rain. "What do you want, Krieger?"

Approaching the captain, Krieger shined his flashlight directly into his one eye. Though Scharf's reaction was delayed, he raised his arm to avoid being blinded by the light.

"Good God, man..." started the major, "You're back to self-medicating?"

Scharf said nothing.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Krieger attempted to appeal to his comrade's sense of duty. "A candidate under your charge is recovering from cardiac arrest and you're popping pills on the street in the middle of the night. Have you the slightest bit of shame?"

"He's fine," the captain snapped back, "If you wanted to spend your time fussing over the candidates, you should have taken on a few of your own."

"This is the behavior of a common vagrant, captain!" Krieger raised his voice in frustration, "It's unbecoming of the academy and the entire armed forces! This is disgraceful!"

Harsh rain striking against the hard leather visor of his cap, Scharf remained calm despite his annoyance. "So I'm to believe you followed me out here with the sole purpose of delivering an impromptu lecture?"

Krieger clenched his jaw in anger. "To remind you of your job, captain. You're putting your students' lives at risk with your behavior, even if you fail to see it."

"If they're to be knights, their lives will be at risk every day," Scharf growled, "It's best that they learn not to trust anyone with their protection as early as possible."

Shocked by the captain's callousness, Krieger stood with mouth agape. "Is that what this is about? You still blame him?"

A pained look framed the pinhole-like pupil of Scharf's substance-dilated eye. He said nothing.

"It's time you move on, Michael," started the major, "It's been twenty years."

Scharf's lip twisted and quivered, his anger slowly rising. His fist clenched as he closed his eye and strained his brow.

"Even if you hold the colonel responsible, that has nothing to do with the boy," Krieger continued.

"Enough!" Scharf erupted.

For a brief moment, the major went silent.

"Yes..." started Scharf, voice laden with suppressed fury, "It's been twenty years, George. Twenty years of blindness. Twenty years fumbling about like a fucking invalid."

The captain stepped forward and pressed his finger into Krieger's chest. "Twenty years since that bastard took Erma from me..."

Still, the major did not speak.

Anger giving way to sorrow, Scharf stepped back and hung his head. "No..." he continued, "I know it doesn't have anything to do with the kid. Still, every time I look at them, I-"

Scharf paused, stunted by his own frustrations.

"I see us..." he finally spat out.

The major stepped forward and placed his hand firmly on Scharf's shoulder. "Enough with the vices, Michael. The smoking, the alcohol, the pills. Live your life, however damned it might be. Tragedy in inevitable. Death will come. Make the young ones strong so that they are at least prepared to face it."

Whether Krieger's words had impacted him or Scharf simply had nothing more to say, the captain did not respond. The rain refused to give way as the two men were further drenched. Spurred on by Krieger, the captain followed him to the black Mercedes the major had arrived in. They entered the car and took off toward Scharf's residence. It was a silent and uneventful car ride.

Arriving at the run down Berlin apartment complex that the captain called home, he swung open the passenger's side door and stepped back into the rain. Scharf turned his head to offer his thanks to the major, but found the car already off and on its way.

The captain walked through the main entrance, climbed several flights of stairs, and turned down the hall before coming to his room. Removing the key from his breast pocket, a tremor in his hand caused the key to fall to the floor. Scharf sighed, quietly cursed his own existence, and retrieved the key from the ground before making his way into the room. Empty bottles clanged against the bottom of the door as it swung open.

The apartment Scharf retired to at the end of every day was littered with empty alcohol containers, depleted cartons of cigarettes, and unwashed clothes. On the dresser rested a Great War era model 98 rifle equipped with a bayonet and telescopic scope, partially concealed by an unfolded pair of slacks.

After removing his sidearm from its holster, Scharf placed the weapon on the nightstand next to his bed and unhooked his black leather belt. The captain then undid his buttons and stepped out of his uniform. Having become heavy with rainwater, his woolen tunic hit the ground with an audible thud, followed by his trousers as he tossed them across the room. Now down to his undershirt and boxers, Scharf sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hand.

Knowing that he'd be unable to sleep after consuming several tablets of pervitin not even an hour prior, the captain turned his attention to a collection of unopened beer bottles atop the desk at the far side of his room.