One

And so it begins.

A thick, heavy cloud of cigar smoke hung over the dazed but aware young crowd.  Some sat at the bar, lonely and on their 4th shot of Jameson’s.  Others danced in the close space, twisting to The Beatles.

Marcus Cub, the only Brit in the room save for his brother, was not apart of the dancing, nor was he a part of the lonely congregation of drinkers.  Instead he was sitting in a corner booth with the brother in question, Henry Charles Cub III, who was speaking animatedly, his usually-gaunt face turning an alarming shade of pink as he made his point.

“...And the damn Americans are just sittin’ over there in their convertibles smokin’ tabs and lettin’ the dang Berlin wall go up!”  Henry swiped an angry drink of his whiskey before slapping his brother’s long hand, which was resting beside his pack of stouts.  The younger man startled, looking at his brother.

“Are you even listening, Mark?”  Marcus shook his head.

“I can say that I am not in the slightest, dear brother,” He flipped open his cigarette case and stuck one in his mouth.  “Now, have you got a light?”  Henry, unwilling to abandon his proper British ways, struck a match and lit the tab.  He shook the flame out and shook his head simultaneously.  

“Anyhow, I want you to go visit mother soon.  She’s lonely back in England.”

“And how would you know?  It isn’t as if she’s got the money or the knowledge to send a wire,” Marcus leaned back in the leather seat, and it crackled with his movement.  “Besides, we’ve only been gone a year.  She’s probably still rejoicing to have us out of her hair,” He looked past his older brother, instead now interested in the young man, newcomer, that had stumbled in.  Cliche, Marcus thought, but nevertheless kept his gaze where it was.

The boy’s bare head was full of dark hair that was damp with the August rain.  His dark overcoat was ripped in several places, and his face was bloodied and beaten.  He walked with a limp, though Marcus could tell it was one he had had for a while.

Henry, following his brother’s gaze, suddenly became serious.  “Soviets.”  He said with unwavering certainty.  Marcus nodded gravely.

“Shall I help him?”

“You probably must,” Henry replied, already sliding out of his seat and making his way over to the man.  Marcus watched as he spoke with him, putting a supporting arm on his back.  The young man attempted to decline his help, but Henry persisted when his legs slid out from under him.  

His injuries were clearly worse than they looked.

Marcus grabbed his stouts and rushed to help his brother, who was fit but too lean to bear the young man’s weight on his own.  

“Here, put your arm around my shoulders, now.  That’s it,” Marcus whispered softly as the man obliged.  “What’s your name?”

“Clarence Randy Meyer,” He mumbled, wincing at his split lip.  “Come on Henry.  We must get him out of here and to somewhere I can properly look at his injuries.”  Eddy turned them around, careful with the boy’s leg.  Together, he and his brother maneuvered Clarence back out the doors, Twist and Shout filtering out the door behind them.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The brothers and Clarence managed to get back to Marcus’s flat before Clarence bled out, which came as a great relief.  They heaved the man up onto the sofa grimacing as he cried out in pain.  “Sorry, mate,” Henry muttered.  Marcus turned towards his cabinet of medical supplies, grateful that he’d chosen a doctor as his profession.  

He loaded penicillin, valium, lots of bandages, medical tape, and a bottle of bourbon, along with a needle and suture.  He made his way back to Henry and Clarence and dumped his supplies on the table.  “Henry, take off his shirt,” Henry hesitated, and Marcus barked, “Now!”  He scrambled to work, ripping off his overcoat and soaked-through dress shirt.  The sight underneath was horrid, and Marcus could not repress a gasp.  The skin was varying shades of black and blue, blood covering his torso.  Marcus had thought that all of Clarence’s blood had been soaked up by his shirt, but he had been very, very wrong.  It was just short of bubbling out of Clarence’s mouth, in fact.

“Henry,” Marcus looked at his brother solemnly.  “Grab a wet cloth.  He may not make it through the night if something internal has ruptured,” Henry gave his brother a sympathetic look before hurrying out.  Marcus kneeled down in front of Clarence, who moaned, and set to work on the sutures, pouring bourbon and wrapping wounds methodically, like he’d been taught.  

He worked with no emotion and no thoughts, like he’d been taught.  Marcus worked as quickly as he could, ignoring the groans and cries of pain he was eliciting from the younger man.  Henry brought what he needed, and Marcus worked his way up Clarence’s torso.  He could tell that the man’s ribs were broken, probably kicked in by the Reds.  

Fortunately for him, Clarence was unconscious by the time Marcus was finished and cleaning his wounds with the washcloth.  It was difficult, because he had to go around the bandages, but two hours after they had brought Clarence in he was looking okay and sleeping on the sofa.  

Marcus stood and wiped his hands on the cloth, stepping back to look at the sleeping man.  He was younger than Marcus for sure, but not by too much.  Marcus himself had been born right on the middle of the Nazi’s power, when their ego was getting to be too big for their swastikas to handle.  Clarence looked around twenty-two, maybe twenty-one.  Marcus had caught a bit of Scottish in his accent when he had stated his name, which was not uncommon in Germany, especially in Dresden.

Henry came up to stand next to his tired brother.  “Good work.  Mother would be proud,” He nudged Marcus’s shoulder, but the younger man sighed.

“Don’t praise me yet, brother.  Like I said, he might not make it through the night.”  

“What if he needs a hospital?”  Henry suddenly worried, glancing over at his sibling.

“I dunno, Henry.  I honestly don’t know.”  Soviets had been slowly sending Reds in to watch the hospitals and make sure no one was coming in with suspicious wounds, or claiming to be beaten by Reds like Clarence.  Marcus watched Clarence’s chest rise and fall before retiring to his room.

An hour later, the door to the flat opened and shut.