Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

Finland. They've already stuck a fork in Norway." Joseph looks up from his plate; Markku has already recomposed his face into a mask of polite frustration. Neither man seems willing to let his true passions show. Not fully.
    Our stolen time ticks by. Maybe there will be a bombing. Maybe the roof will come down on our heads. We can't hide forever. Not from each other, not from ourselves, not from this war, and especially not from death. Joseph doesn't have a hope or a clue. Which makes it all the stranger that—judging by his expression in those unguarded moments, at least—Markku does . Markku knows something is going to happen, although I don't know what, and I don't know if Markku does, either. I'm not sure I even want to.
    Antti, the other, more genial Finnish American, usually provides balance. Without him, the dynamic between Markku and Joseph is hard to call "friendship." Sometimes I think of them as nations: Markku eyeing the border lines with hungry intent as Joseph trusts overly in neutrality. It's happening even now.
    Markku is always watching Joseph when he isn't paying attention. Studying him. Making some calculation over and over, but the answer to the sum is never the one he desires, no matter how he approaches the equation.
    When Joseph finishes his meal and leaves the restaurant, Markku's burning gaze follows, and I know his body wants to follow, too.
    Joseph doesn't notice. But Joseph never notices, not even on those times when Markku stands close enough to brush sleeves or subtly uses the largeness of his body to herd Joseph against walls or furniture. When they're alone in the kitchen. When they're alone in the sauna.
    Joseph is immune. Was it the same with the nurse, the one Joseph lent his handkerchief to? I can't be sure. For Joseph, desire must be an alien, unrecognizable thing, perhaps because he can never entirely escape the mechanical isolation of the iron lung or the boy he was inside it. The protectiveness I get from that knowledge is a warm feeling, usually, but with Markku it runs hot enough to scald.
    I don't think I'm supposed to feel emotions with such chaotic intensity, not if I'm ever to serve my purpose.
    And I will serve my purpose. It's just a question of when.
    ****
    December 1941
    The sun sets shortly after lunchtime. A killing cold descends with the darkness.
    The old wooden farmhouse has a gaping, splintered hole in the west wall, and offers little protection. Lieutenant Järvilehto stands in the kitchen still swathed in his parka. "I can confirm what the press officer said. Every detail. You can even interview my men. We haven't passed over the old border."
    Joseph nods politely. The lieutenant watches with poorly guarded anxiety as he jots down a note or two in his little leather notebook. No matter who they are or what they speak of, the sight of the notebook puts men ill at ease, so his reaction is no clue as to whether he's lying or not.
    An SS officer stands behind Lieutenant Järvilehto. The only visible marks of his rank are twin lightning bolts on a dark collar almost submerged by his bulky, paler overcoat. Joseph just tries not to look at him. I mark the subtle aversion of Joseph's gaze. The way he studies his notes, looks too intensely at the Finnish Lieutenant as they speak with one another. All tactics to make him appear focused on his task versus... whatever he's feeling. I wonder what storm of emotions roils through him now. Not fear, surely.
    "Is the German presence here in response to Finnish requests?" asks Joseph, gesturing in the direction of the officer, still not looking at him.
    "SS-Hauptsturmführer Lange is... observing. That is all. The Soviets determine our actions with their mindless aggression. Unlike them, we respect international boundaries. We hold Karelia safe and take no part in further German advances."
    Lange's eyes are barely visible under his low cap, but his lips tighten at those words. His partnership with Järvilehto is obviously not an easy one.
    "I've heard that there were partisan attacks in this area," says Joseph. "That there were successful defenses, and prisoners taken."
    "They set fire to a mill, and killed the old man that ran it. Another in the long list of atrocities against our civilians. I can have you taken to the site tomorrow. But no, no prisoners—the partisans resisted capture and were all shot by our forces."
    He's lying.
    The pencil slips from Joseph's cold-numbed fingers. He curses, but not in English. It's a