Enemies To Lovers 4: Foot Massage

She'd barely gulped one bite down before taking another. She felt Schiller's hand on her arm and froze.

"Careful." Did she detect a tiny amount of concern in his voice? "I do not want you to choke."

Joanna nodded her agreement, noting it was the very first time he'd ever shown any concern for her welfare whatsoever. She forced herself to take smaller bites, to chew more slowly. She finished every morsel and then licked her fingers.

"Clean up." Schiller's voice was cold and harsh as he stalked away, leaving her to her task.

The modest meal gave her the energy she needed to scrub the floor until it shone, and when she finished, she turned and saw him smiling at her. When he saw her looking he grew stern once more, turning and walking away again.

One day a particularly large trainload of inmates arrived at the camp, and as always, Jurgen was one of the principal officers in charge of selections. This one to work, that one to die, another to work, and still another to die. Numbed to the pleas as families were torn apart, husbands ripped from wives, babies pulled from the arms of sobbing mothers, all he could think about was the massive amount of work to be done, the many details to be attended to, the satisfaction it gave him to be giving his all for the sake of his country and his fuhrer.

As the hours passed, he recalled his childhood days of working on his family's barley farm in the Rhineland with his brothers, harvesting the grain so it could be sent to the brewery and fermented. Karl Schiller had been a harsh disciplinarian, beating his sons severely at any sign of weakness or insubordination. As a youth Jurgen had hated his father, but over the years, he'd come to appreciate the strict work ethic that had been drilled into him.

It would serve the Third Reich well.

By the end of the day, several thousand new inmates had been processed, and Jurgen was exhausted. He ached all over and couldn't wait to relax at home, but about five minutes before the end of his shift, a new shipment of supplies arrived, necessitating yet another round-up of prisoners and supervision to insure none of the goods were damaged or stolen.

When the task was finally completed, the weary officer left for the day, feeling like his blisters had blisters.

Joanna was so hard at work she didn't even notice the passage of time until she saw the length of the shadows on the floor and realized with a start the Master Sergeant was a good half hour late. His arrival had never before varied by as much as a minute, so she was puzzled. Had he become ill or been injured? If so, what would become of her?

She found she had very mixed feelings about her captor. By all rights she should hate the man; after all, he and his kind had taken her family away from her, had enslaved her and treated her like dirt. Yet she couldn't forget the look in his eyes the night he'd given her the steak, the glimmer of warmth that had told her he did have a heart, after all. She also had to admit she wasn't immune to the allure of his clear blue eyes, the confident way her carried himself, the rugged masculinity he exuded. If only circumstances had been different, she could even imagine their becoming friends.

At last she heard the turning of the key in the lock that told her Schiller was home. She continued to scrub the floor until she heard him enter the house and sit down, and when she heard him call her name, her head jerked up.

"Massage my feet." His eyes were half closed, and he was stifling a yawn.

Her eyes flew open in surprise. She'd never so much as touched him before.

"You heard me! Get over here, now!" he roared.

"Right away, sir." She hastened to the sofa, where he lounged with his long black boots dangling over the end. She grabbed one massive boot and tugged with all her might, and it came off in her hands. She repeated the process with the other boot, then touched one foot uncertainly.

"The socks as well."

She tugged them off, then took one large foot and began to rub it. She'd given her grandfather foot rubs from time to time and remembered what had pleased him.

"Ah, that's so nice," Schiller whispered, and within seconds, Joanna heard his light snoring.

From then on, the Nazi sounded almost jovial as he greeted his captive in the evenings, and in addition to foot rubs, he frequently asked her for back rubs or to draw his bath.

The weather grew colder, and one morning the wind howled as the snow beat against the windows, and Schiller opened the door and then quickly closed it.

"Can't even see my hands in front of my face," he mumbled. "I suppose I have enough to do here anyway."

Joanna said nothing but quaked inside. What cruel tasks would he conjure up for her in order to amuse himself?

Determined not to show her apprehension, she began to go about her daily tasks as if he weren't there, and after awhile, she found herself humming a tune from her childhood.

"Lovely." She almost jumped out of her skin before turning to see Schiller watching her with a slight smile on his face. It stayed there this time. "What is it called?"

"'A Bisl Libe, Un A Bisele Glik.' My mother used to sing it to me when I was a little girl."

"Did she?"

"Yes."

"Hm." He walked to the table and placed a small rectangular box on its surface. "Would you like to learn how to play Deutshlandreise?"

"If it would please you, sir, I'd be glad to."

Schiller pulled a chair out and sat in it, then nodded for Joanna to sit across from him. While the blizzard raged outside, the prisoner and her captive became absorbed in one of his favorite games.