Date: Thu, 20 Jan 2005 18:03:43 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 30

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead),
events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting
adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are
offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this
type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive
language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 30

	Michael Chan was reading through the spreadsheets of financial
information that Joel's new, and expensive, toy had produced. The Order had
taken a hit, true, but the damage had been contained and in the long term,
when the market rebounded, as it always did, the stocks and bonds would
rise and money would be more plentiful.
	The late afternoon sun felt warm on Michael's back as he bent over
the printed sheets. He frowned slightly. The loss was just over one
million. Compared to the damage done to Simpson's bank and Hunter's
brokerage house however, the Order's losses were minimal. Both financial
houses had seen their stock value plummet, and Michael, using a series of
cut-outs and blind trusts, had every intention of keeping up the
pressure. He made a note to ask Joel how he was progressing in accessing
the actual cash accounts held by the traitors.
	Setting aside the spreadsheets, Michael next read through a lengthy
report, a fax sent from The Gunner's Toronto headquarters. The report was
very detailed and Michael thought that whoever had written it should be
commended. The report was concise and listed the names, addresses,
occupations and, where known the financial institutions the men listed
dealt with. The list would go to Joel to work whatever black magic he
worked down in the depths of the mansion.
	A second list revealed the extent of the Order's involvement in the
paedophile ring. As he read the list of knights who had participated in the
old Grand Master's Coquitlam orgies, or held boys, pubescent and
pre-pubescent, Michael felt like weeping. Men he had know for years, and
never suspected, were in this thing up to their necks. Men he had believed,
had even trusted, had betrayed their oath, and made a mockery of eight
hundred years of tradition and determination. Their actions had also made
Michael more determined than ever to tear down, to the very cellars, the
existing structure and rebuild. Lower Canada, essentially the province of
Quebec, was lost. The priory of Upper Canada, Ontario, was battered, but
could be repaired. The Gunner, Stephen Winslow, his Chancellor, would see
to that.
	Uttering a swart oath under his breath, Michael pushed the hidden
buzzer under the desktop. Almost immediately Gabe Izard, who was now Joe's
assistant, entered. He saw the scowling face of his employer, but remained
silent.
	"You have read these . . . these reports?" asked Michael, his face
flushed.
	Nodding, Gabe replied, "Yes." He did not need to add that the
reports were, in fact, devastating.
	Michael settled back in his chair and regarded Gabe. "I know that
this is a difficult time for you, Gabriel," he began kindly. "I can only
imagine what you are feeling."
	"Sir, Michael, I'm, well, I'm not fine, in the truest sense of the
word, but I am beginning to accept that Darren is gone." He smiled
sadly. "I know that he's at peace, and happy. He's, well, he's not a little
boy anymore."
	Michael saw that Gabe was still grieving, although not as much as
he had been before. "If you feel the need, we can make other arrangements.
The Major and Patrick return this evening."
	Gabe held up his hand. "No, and I thank you for your concern, but I
am able to do . . . I have faith, now."
	"You have been in the Gold and Silver Vault," whispered Michael.
	Smiling, Gabe nodded. "I touched the box, Michael. I felt Darren's
presence. I'm going to go on, and do what he asked me to do."
	Michael's eyes opened slightly wider. "He asked you to do . . .?"
	"Before he died, we talked about what had happened at the rehab
centre. He asked me to make certain that the man, or men, who did such
terrible things to his friends, be punished, and that they never do it
again."
	"That despicable Tsapopoulas creature," snarled Michael. "And those
who protected him."
	"Yes."
	"Cousin Tommy will deal with him," promised Michael. "As for the
others, I do not know."
	"My father," began Gabe, referring to Louis Arundel, "and Uncle
Bertie are contacting everyone they know, Uncle Bertie says that they are
'reaching out' to their contacts in the police department. When they are
ready they will speak to you."
	"And then we will do what we must do," replied Michael. He rose
from behind his desk and gestured for Gabe to follow him as he opened the
French door and walked onto the terrace.
	Almost immediately two men, dressed in suits and ties, appeared
from the shadows. They were white men, not Chinese, and while they could
hardly be called burly, they looked extremely muscular and fit. Their body
language, their clean-cut appearance, their haircuts - both wore their hair
cut short on the sides and back, and trimmed on the top - screamed
ex-military.
	"What is this about?" demanded Michael, not angry, but
impatient. He did not need protection that badly.
	"Lieutenant Sheppard's orders, sir," replied the shorter of the two
men. He had close-cropped, dark brown hair, shining, clear eyes, and a very
determined look on his face. His accent immediately identified him as an
American. Michael assumed, correctly, by the young man's slim, wiry build,
that he was an ex-SEAL. "We go where you go," the young man continued.
	"One assumes that precludes visits to the toilet!" returned Michael
in typical Upper Class fashion. He never used polite euphemisms, and often
sounded blunter than he intended.
	"If we've checked it out first, no," offered the second
bodyguard. He was taller, and stockier than the other guard, although just
a dark skinned from the effects of the sun and a life spent outdoors. His
accent was not quite as drawling as the first's, but he was immediately
marked as an American. Michael knew this man. He was an ex-Green Beret, and
very experienced.
	Michael pretended to be annoyed. "Has the good Lieutenant assigned
more of you, or shall I have the Staff make up pallets in my bedroom?"
	"We change shifts every four hours," supplied the shorter
guard. "There will always be someone in the corridor." He glanced at
Gabriel, whom he had seen around the cantonment. "Just a precaution. After
what happened, Lieutenant Sheppard is not taking any chances."
	"The Chinese?" asked Gabriel, who had heard of the Taiwanese
Captain's treachery.
	"Confined to their quarters," supplied the taller guard. "They
don't know what's going on." He looked pointedly at Michael. "They haven't
been harmed."
	"Good," replied Michael. "I doubt that Hsiang took any of them into
his confidence." He looked at Gabe, explaining. "The Taiwanese loathe and
distrust anyone from the mainland, or from Hong Kong. To K'ang Hsi the men
he commanded were little better than animals, ignorant barbarians who could
never be trusted."
	Gabe, who had noticed that Cousin Tommy, and all of the Tsangs, who
up until now seemed to be lurking in every corner, were conspicuous by
their absence. He had a very good idea just what they were up to and had no
doubt at all that the unfortunate Captain Hsiang would very shortly be, or
now was, as the saying went, "Sleeping with the fishes."
	Michael decided to end his conversation with the guards, although
he was secretly pleased that Sheppard, who was turning out to be a very
intelligent and foresighted young man, had taken the precautions he had. He
examined the rose bushes that grew along the edge of the terrace and
frowned. Their growing season was coming to an end and the beauty they lent
to the house would wither.
	Leaving his roses, Michael walked down the steps and strolled along
the gravel paths that separated the beds of flowers and the greensward. He
glanced down the driveway at the Gate House and the closed, iron gates. At
least there were no naked men wandering about, he thought with a silent
chuckle. Laurence was certainly making a point with the Outside Security
Force.
	As he walked, stooping from time to time to examine the flowering
beds, his thoughts returned to the devastated priories, and the gaps that
would appear in the Order's Roster of Knights. So many, he thought
angrily. All too soon he would have to deal with them. The Chancellor had
called a Bar of Justice, and Michael had agreed to it. Simpson, Hunter,
Willoughby would surely pay dearly for their part in this horrible
trade. As for the others, Michael did not know. His instinct told him to
lash out, to cut and burn, to punish, punish, punish!
	While he could not completely ignore his instinct, Michael had to
consider the implications of what a Bar of Justice meant. He could not
arbitrarily order the punishment the Bar called for. There were too many
knights involved, too many bodies to even think of allowing Cousin Tommy,
or the Tsangs, or Steve Winslow for that matter, free rein. He would deal
with the disappointments of the past when the time came. At the moment he
was more concerned with the hopes of the future.
	"Gabriel," Michael said bluntly, "What was your relationship with
Darren?" He glanced back at his minders, who were keeping a discreet, but
watchful distance behind. "And you are aware that Joe Hobbes is in love
with you." This was a statement, not a question. "I ask for no confidences,
but I would have you become a member of the Order, and I wish to be certain
that you understand all of the implications my offer entails."
	His mind racing, Gabe paused, and then blushed furiously. He knew
better than to lie, to prevaricate, to Michael Chan. "I, um, Darren and I
were lovers," he blurted out. There, it was done, in the open. "I did not
plan for it to happen, in some ways I did not want it to happen, but it
did. Darren wanted it, and I am not sorry, not sorry at all."
	"And Joe?"
	"I . . . I just don't know," replied Gabe. "I have feelings for
him, I won't deny that, but . . ." He shrugged expressively. "I just don't
know."
	"You could do worse," returned Michael, not bothering to disguise
his bluntness. "Still, the main thing is that you are aware of his
feelings. I would not presume to tell you what to do."
	Gabe knew this last statement to be true. Michael could order the
Tsangs to be set loose and never lose a moment's sleep or discuss in great
detail with those in whom he trusted the Order's business, but let sex
somehow be brought into a conversation and Michael became a Sphinx. He was
notoriously strait-laced, and never in Gabe's memory had his employer
referred to a bodily function, a sex organ, or that he knew what two men
did together in the night.  The Major, who had been Michael's teacher, and
was still his confidant, was as bad. Neither man would question another's
relationship, and both felt that there were certain things a gentleman did
not discuss, openly or in private.
	Gabe was certain that Michael knew a physical relationship had
sprung up between Cousin Tommy and Joel, a relationship that was hot and
heavy according to Joe. Michael knew everything. If Michael disapproved,
which was not impossible, seeing as Cousin Tommy was not only married to a
strikingly beautiful woman - a shrew, and greedy and grasping, sadly, but
beautiful nonetheless - and the father of three young boys, all of whom
favoured their mother and were preciously handsome as many Chinese males
seemed to be at that tender age. Gabe decided that Michael might know, but
he would say nothing. What went on between Cousin Tommy and Joel was their
business, and so long as nothing they did endangered the Order, or
interfered in Michael's business interests, he would remain silent.
	Michael knelt down and gently picked up some rhododendron blossoms,
dying flowers, once beautiful, now curling and discoloured. "I merely wish
to ask you to consider that life goes on, Gabe," said Michael as he waved
away his minders who, when he dropped to his knee, had started
forward. "Winter is coming, and the flowers die. Their cycle of life is
over and they will give way to new life. The buds will reappear and the
gardeners will work their magic."
	"Are you my gardener?" asked Gabe with a smile?
	Returning Gabe's smile, Michael said, "I once had a very
philosophical discussion with the Chancellor, comparing my flowers with his
cadets. My point was that by using his skill a small bud, his cadets, could
be nurtured and groomed into flowers of great beauty. He is their gardener
and I would be yours."
	"I'm honoured, Michael," said Gabe truthfully.
	"You are a very intelligent, knowledgeable man, Gabe," replied
Michael. "You have suffered a great loss, and I understand your grief. But
there comes a time when you must put aside your grief. You will never truly
get over Darren's passing, but you will accept it."
	"And life goes on."
	"Yes. It must." Michael brushed the loam from his hands and
motioned for Gabe to walk with him. "You are obsessed with the destruction
of the ring of paedophiles that you and Joe discovered. That is your
passion, I understand, and I do and will continue to, support you." A
pained expression crossed Michael's face. "I have been struggling, Gabe,
inwardly unsure of what I am to do. The Order must be rebuilt. That is my
passion."
	Gabe returned Michael's analogy of the flowers. "Joe tells me that
tomorrow the first harvest is being gathered in." He chuckled.
	"Some humour?" asked Michael, pleased that Gabe could laugh.
	"Joe's little brother, Calvin, is one of the candidates. To hear
Joe tell it, the boy is a rose amongst thorns."
	"Good. We need thorns," said Michael, laughing. He glanced at his
watch. "It has started. The first ceremony is completed."

******
	Nethanyu Schoenmann groaned softly. After the introductions, and
making sure that all the cadets and officers had donned their caps, his
grandfather had smiled, and announced that he would tell a story. Why every
Jewish ceremony needed to be accompanied by a parable escaped Nate. That
there was usually a point also eluded Nate who was, sadly, a most
inadequate Jew.
	Mr. Schoenmann scowled at his grandson. The boy could be such a
schmuck at times! The euphoria of their meeting earlier with Chef and young
Phantom had obviously long dissipated. Here was a perfect opportunity to
build a bridge between the Christian and Jewish communities, to establish a
rapport that that could lead to better understandings, and Nate was looking
like his circumcision had failed!
	Shaking his head, Mr. Schoenmann regarded the company assembled for
the saying of Kaddish. The Minyan consisted of himself, two of his three
sons, his grandson, two nephews, and four elderly Jews, all of whom, as had
Mr. Schoenmann, had survived the camps.
	Assembled in a loose circle were the young gentlemen of Aurora, all
of them neatly uniformed in blue, their boots shining and their hair
barbered and combed. Mr. Schoenmann saw that almost all of the assembly had
chosen to wear their white, round sailor hats. Two, Chef, and the young man
everyone called The Phantom, had placed kippa, black side out, on the backs
of their heads, a mark of respect that Mr. Schoenmann had not expected. He
smiled his approval and looked with sad eyes at the boys.
	"How do I begin?" Mr. Schoenmann asked. He gestured at the small
group of Jewish men. "Here are my people, men who have endured the
unendurable." He waved at the assembled cadets. "There stands the future,
young men of a different religion who are no doubt wondering what they are
going to do here, and I think, asking themselves, some of them, why they
are here in the first place."
	A soft titter waved through the cadets. "A snicker, a laugh, a
giggle," said Mr. Schoenmann, "Good! I say that because death is a serious
affair, but at the same time Yahweh, God, does not want us to weep too
much. Death, for the Christian, for the Jew, for the Muslim, for all save
those poor individuals who claim that there is no God, silly creatures,
death is but a step on the highway of life!
	"A poet, John Donne, once wrote that no man is an island, entire of
itself, that every man's death diminished him. This is true, for each man
is a part of his fellows. Sylvain, whom we mourn, was by his very presence
here, a part of you. He has died, yes, but then so has a small part of
you. We therefore mourn his passing, and we mourn our loss.
	"Each religion teaches, be it Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist,
whatever, a belief in God, and a life after death. To a Muslim death is but
a gateway to a wonderful, celestial garden when a True Believer will dine
on pomegranates and be attended by 24 virgins for all eternity!"
	Mr. Schoenmann waited for the expected wide-eyed looks and gaping
mouths to subside, although he did notice that Nate, who normally thought
with the head of his keckel, was appropriately subdued.
	"Christianity teaches that Jesus Christ, whom we Jews call Jeshuwa,
died on the Cross for the sins of mankind and that man would, if he lived a
good life, and obeyed the Commandments, enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
Mr. Schoenmann shrugged, and continued. "Of course, with 270-odd different
Christian 'religions', it is sometimes difficult to know exactly how to
attain entry!"
	The Phantom smiled to himself. In this small chamber there were
Roman Catholics, Anglicans, Baptists, Lutherans, United Church, and all of
the Fancy Religions, including, he was sure, Calathumpians, Anabaptists,
and non-swimmers!
	Mr. Schoenmann smiled kindly. "The point is, each religion teaches
a life after death, a meeting of those who have gone before. And yes,
before the fish-eyes start staring, we Jews believe in a life after death,
which we call Olam Ha-Ba. The Torah speaks of 'Being gathered to our
People'." He raised a finger. "Of course, like all good Jews, we argue
about who will, or will not, enter the world to come, or when we will get
there! Some men spend their lives in the study of Scripture. Others spend
their lives arguing about Scripture! One rabbi sees this, two rabbis see
that which means, my friends, that you may rest content in the knowledge
that the Jews are just as argumentative and confused as everybody else!"
	This sally brought forth a gale of laughter. When it subsided,
Mr. Schoenmann continued. "So, here we are, standing at the gates to Gan
Eden. Christianity teaches that the Saint Peter, the Gatekeeper, waits to
pass the good from the evil into the Judgement of God. Did Sylvain arrive
and be, as the Bible says, 'Weighed in the balances and found wanting?' I
don't believe this! A young Jew wishes to honour his memory, and by your
very presence, you echo that young Jew's sentiments. Sylvain was not
perfect. He was merely human, and he has seen the Judgement of God."
	"The Talmud tells us that humanity is capable of righteousness in
God's eyes. Humanity! Not just Jews, not just Christians, but
humanity. This, all men, all those who are righteous of all nations, share
in Olam Ha-Ba. Therefore, it follows, if God has no objections, why should
the rabbis? So, we say Kaddish."
	Turning, Mr. Schoenmann reached out and received a small package
from his oldest son. Almost tenderly he unwrapped the purple velvet shroud,
to reveal a tattered, blue and white tasselled shawl, a Tallit.
	"It is customary to wear the symbols of our faith," Mr. Schoenmann
said, gesturing for Sandro to come forward. "When a Jewish boy is
Bar-Mitzvah, one of the gifts he receives to mark his passage from boyhood,
to manhood, is a Tallit, a prayer-shawl. Alexandr, Sandro, has not yet
stood before his people and declared, 'Today I am a man!' No matter. He has
reached manhood in the eyes of his friends and brothers, and it is enough."
	As Mr. Schoenmann draped the Tallit around Sandro's shoulders,
Nate's eyes widened. It could not be, for the Tallit had not been used,
ever, outside of . . . Zeyda was passing on to this stranger, a great gift,
and suddenly a most inadequate Jew felt shame, and sorrow, and pride. Shame
and sorrow that he had not paid more attention to the rabbis, and his
grandfather, and pride that he was participating in something that could
not be described, a special, wonderful happening! Something that he could
not understand, but which filled him with warmth. The words involuntarily
escaped Nate's lips, "Nes Gadol Hayah Sham!" A great miracle was happening
here.
	"In the camps," began Mr. Schoenmann, his eyes filling with tears,
"the Germans, and their Ukrainian and Polish henchmen, attempted to destroy
the faith and souls of their prisoners. Men, women, children, were taken
from the trains and stripped naked. Most went to the left, to the gas
chambers and the ovens. Some, not many, went to the right. They became
slave labour, to clean the chambers, to operate the crematoria, to bury the
ashes, oh, so many things they were forced to do. The SS, may God forgive
me for uttering the name, also thought to make a little money and not waste
this source of free labour. I will not relate or recall the horrors. I only
say that factories were established. Jews were culled from the masses that
flooded the railway platforms and soon began turning out articles of
clothing, uniforms, to clothe the very men who abused them!
	"Being Germans, boom, boom, boom, the guards convinced themselves
that they had eliminated all thought of Judaism in the prisoners. What they
forgot was that they were, with the possible exception of sailors, dealing
with the most stubborn people on earth!" Several of the cadets stifled
their chuckles, and both Cory and Todd turned their heads to grin at The
Phantom as the old man continued, "The prisoners kept the faith and they
observed the Commandments.
	"Now, in the Christian religion a cross is essential to any
service, and easily made from two pieces of wood, or scrap metal, even
bones. A chalice can be an old tin cup. To an observant Jew, the essentials
of his religion are his phylacteries, his kippa, and his Tallit! In the
camps, such things were taken away, burned, destroyed! Still, being Jews,
they found a way!"
	Smiling, Mr. Schoenmann ran his hand over the cloth shawl draping
Sandro's broad shoulders. "The Germans, being upright and moral people," he
said, the sarcasm all but dripping from his lips, "could not have thousands
of people walking around naked - remember, everything was taken when the
people arrived - so they gave their slaves a uniform of sorts, caps,
trousers, coats, all made out mattress ticking, shoddy cloth used to cover
mattresses!" Mr. Schoenmann smiled, and held up his finger. "Blue and white
striped mattress ticking," he said almost conspiratorially.
	None of the cadets understood the significance of the
colours. Mr. Schoenmann explained. "The colours of Eretz Yisrael!" he
shrugged, "Which leads all of you to think, so what!"
	Once again the boys could not help tittering. Mr. Schoenmann was
not offended. Humour had its place in everything, even religion. "Now,
remember I told you how the Germans used Jews in their factories. Who makes
uniforms? Tailors! And what is Judaism if not a guild of tailors? Give a
tailor some cloth, and he will make a suit!" Once again Mr. Schoenmann
fingered the Tallit. "A thing of beauty, no. A thing of wonder, yes, for
this Tallit is made from strips of cloth taken from the very uniforms the
Germans clothed their prisoners with! A piece here, a strip there, and now
. . . The Tallit of Maidenek!"
	Sandro began to weep. On his shoulders rested the souls and
memories of 200,000 human beings. Yet he did not feel a weight. He felt
. . . a peace that he had never known. The oppressions he had endured in
Russia, the sneering and bigotry he had suffered in Canada, were as
nothing, now. With him were young men who faced their fears, confronted
their secret horrors and, in their own way stitched a Tallit, a robe of
love edged with hope. The cloth that covered his shoulders was made of
ticking, blue and white. Another cloth covered him, and every man in the
Gunroom, a tapestry, woven of red, and blue, and green, and white, the
sepia figures bold and brave, and through it all ran a thread of gold.

******

Weeping, Sandro held out his hands to The Phantom. "Help me with the
prayer, my brother."
	The Phantom reached out and took Sandro's hand in his. Nodding,
Mr. Schoenmann opened a small prayer book. A slip of paper fell from the
onionskin pages to flutter onto the deck. The Phantom picked it up and saw
written, in a firm, bold hand, a phonetic transliteration of the Hebrew
prayer, and a translation. A tear rolled down his cheeks as Sandro began
the ancient prayer in a low whisper,

	"Baruch ata Adonoi elohaynu melech ha'olam asher . . ."

	The Phantom's firm, tenor voice rose to the overhead rafters,

	"Blessed are you, Lord our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who has
made us holy . . ."

******

	Paul Greene had a headache. Sleeping with Stennes was not only an
exercise in perversions that Paul had only suspected existed, but a bloody
Party rally! Not content to slobbering and buggering the tow-headed Paul,
Stennes had insisted on dragging in the two Chinese peasant boys, broad in
the beam like bulls, but as under hung as stud mice.
	The two youths, each with an unpronounceable Chinese name, Paul
called Shem and Shoo. Shem enjoyed rough sex, the rougher the better and
for a time Paul feared that Stennes would drag out a stock whip. Shoo, as
broadly built as his friend, or cousin, or lover, or whatever - Paul did
not know which - delighted in anal sex which, considering the length and
girth of Stennes' hugeness, caused him to howl and scream with
uncontrollable fervour while he bounced, happily impaled, on Stennes' lap.
	Shem, when he wasn't having his buttocks slapped, or nipples
pinched, and neck bitten by Stennes, snuffled at Paul's crotch, mooning and
cooing over his smallness. The goofy fuck had fallen in love with Paul's
penis!
	Paul was disgusted.
	Paul had no objection to uninhibited sex with the two Chinese. They
were, after all, Untermensch, and born to please their betters. Stennes'
perversions, and there were many, were merely indicative of the creature he
was. What disgusted Paul was that Stennes had retreated into a world so
perverted that Paul could not believe what he had seen. The man delighted
in inflicting every degrading act he could think of on the two Chinese,
from ejaculating on their faces and bodies, to watching Shoo and Shem
laughingly giving each other a 'golden shower', fortunately in the
adjoining bathroom shower stall.
	The bedroom stank of sex, and Paul had hoped as the sun sank slowly
in the west and the room darkened with approaching night, that Stennes
would exhaust himself.
	Not so. Sated, with Shem and Shoo giggling inanely, the German had
hauled out a 16mm projector. First had come films of the more well known
customers who frequented the upstairs rooms. Sex, Paul decided, unless one
were actually engaging in it, was boring as hell if you had so sit, or in
his case, lie on a bed with Stennes rubbing his bum and Shem licking his
dick, and watch it!
	Shem and Shoo, dreaming of celluloid riches, devoured every frame,
and gazed hungrily at the flickering images on the screen, watching as Nhan
and an unknown client copulated like manic rabbits. When Shem and Shoo
glanced hungrily at Paul, and then back at the screen, Paul shuddered and
decided that under no circumstances would his film debut see the light of
day.
	Not content with porno, Stennes then decided to relive the days of
his childhood and hauled out grainy, black and white films long hidden.
	To set the mood, Stennes first screened Hitlerjugend Quex, which
was supposed to show the sacrificial spirit of German youth. Shem and Shoo
wept crocodile tears as the young actor, played by a boy who conformed in
all things to the Party's racial policies, died a heroic death at the hands
of vicious Communists thugs, muttering as he expired (over acted, Paul
thought) the opening lines of the "Fahenlied", the "Banner Song of the
Jungen". Paul was much more interested in the firm round butts and sturdy,
bare legs of the young actors who portrayed the members of the local
Truppe.
	Next came Jud Seuss, which was little more than an anti-Semitic
diatribe, unfortunately with English subtitles. Shem and Shoo, who barely
spoke their native Cantonese coherently, soon became bored and pleasured
each other throughout the screening, much to Stennes' disgust. Paul
pretended to be interested.
	There followed several shorts of the Fuehrer ranting on the dais of
the Reichstag. Paul had seen them, and as there were no subtitles,
understood not a word. He was further annoyed when Stennes, lost in
adoration, fondled him throughout the two films and growled in
disappointment when Paul failed to respond.
	Next came two clips from the 1936 Olympics, which Paul found
interesting, filled as they were with scantily clad male athletes.  The
piece de resistance, not unexpected, was the so-called classic, Triumph des
Willens, Lili Reifenstahl's Triumph of the Will, which glorified all things
Nazi. Paul's ears ached with the loud, Germanic music that seemed to
punctuate every other scene, the "Horst Wessel Lied" predominating. Paul
knew the words, of course, and rather enjoyed the music, even if a Berlin
pimp had cribbed it from a music hall cabaret.
	As he watched the films, it struck Paul that for an organization
that pretended to abhor homosexuality in all its forms (and harboured more
than a few gay men in its ranks), sending gays to concentration camps and
killing thousands of them, the Nazi film makers saw nothing wrong in
glorifying the male body, the young male body. Every film had at least once
scene with the young boys of the Hitler Youth, all short trousers, bums,
drums and oversized bugles hung with banners, parading about, blowing,
banging and tooting for the glory of the Fuehrer. And scenes not filled
with boys parading, camping in their underwear, or showering in their
shorts, were filled with athletes, always it seemed, male, and all wearing
the skimpiest of sports gear.
	Throughout the afternoon Stennes chattered away, offering a running
commentary of the Third Reich, and how wonderful it had been to be a German
boy in those days. He also fondled Paul, tweaked Shem's foreskin, allowed
Shoo to fellate him and ended the cinematic extravaganza by masturbating
Shem and Shoo simultaneously.
	Paul endured it all because the more Stennes' let down his guard
and showed his true character, the more Paul could use for, or against
him. Paul had a feeling that Stennes, for all his faults, was a man to be
reckoned with, and a man who would take him where he wanted to go. Paul
reasoned that the more Stennes trusted him, the more he could get out of
the German.
	"Ach, Liebchen," cooed Stennes as he pushed Shem aside and reached
out to fondle Paul. "The days of glory. What supermen we were!"
	Paul regarded Stennes sourly, noting the new appellation. So, he
was no longer "youngster", but "sweetheart", and wondered if it was worth
the effort.
	Stennes crawled from the bed, groping the three naked boys as he
did so, and wobbled a bit as he searched in the pile of vinyl records piled
haphazardly around the phonograph that stood on the side table. Smiling he
found what he was looking for, turned on the machine and presently,
preceded by a blaring trumpet fanfare, the music of the "Horst Wessel Song"
blasted the quiet.
	Stennes began marching and bellowing the words to the forbidden
anthem,
	"Die Fahne hoch, die Reihen fest geschlossen
	S.A. marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt . . ."

******

	""Nightfall In Camp"". The slow, hauntingly inspirational music
drifted into the Gunroom. As the notes soared, Sandro his eyes clouded with
tears, faced the assembled officers and cadets.

	"Yis'ga'dal v'yis'kadash sh'may ra'bbo, b'olmo dee'vro chir'usay
v'yamlich malchu'say . . ."

	His hand shaking, The Phantom wiped away the tears and spoke
softly, reading from the sheet of paper.

	"May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout
the world . . ."

	""Nightfall In Camp"". Outside the Staff Barracks, Peter Race would
barely hear the music his lips made on his muted horn. He did not have to
hear the music, or the words that were being spoken inside. Another voice,
quavering, filled with sorrow, echoed . . .

	". . . b'chayaychon uv'yomay'chon uv'chayay d'chol bais Yisreol,
ba'agolo u'viz'man koriv; v'imru Omein."

	Behind him, The Phantom could hear Chef weeping openly. He raised
his eyes and said,

	" . . . which he has created according to His Will. May his
Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the
lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future;
and say, Amen."

	"Nightfall In Camp". Eion Reilly's tears obscured his vision. His
fingers fumbled to press the valves of his trumpet. "Oh Lord, let me be a
part of this," he wailed inwardly. "Please, oh Lord . . ."

	Ray left the group and walked to stand beside his friend. His hand
rested on Sandro's shoulder, unable to stop the tears. The Phantom, seeing
Ray's tears, handed the young cook the piece of paper and pointed to the
next line.

	"Y'hay shmay rabbo m'vorach l'olam ul'omay olmayo."

	Ray swallowed, quickly wiped his eyes, and said,

	"May His great Name be blessed, forever and ever."

	"Nightfall In Camp". Another voice, louder, filled with profanity,
replaced the softness that had quieted Peter's spirit. "My kid ain't no
fuckin' Jew! The answer is no!"

	Sandro's eyes cleared and he looked to his God.

	"Yisborach v'yishtabach viyispoar viyisroman v'yishmasay,
v'yishador v'yisaleh v'yisalal, shmay d'kudsho, brich hu, l'aylo min kl
birchoso v'sheeroso, tush'bechoso v'nechemoso, da'ameeran b'olmo; vimru
Omein."

	The bond reached out to touch the two youngest members of the Band
of Brothers. Joey and Randy, unable to stop crying, reached out to express
their love for their brothers in the only way they could. Each boy wrapped
his arms tightly around the waists of Sandro and Ray, who held out the
piece of paper for them to read aloud, their high-pitched voices rising in
awe and praise,

	"Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honoured, elevated
and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he - above and beyond
any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations, which are uttered in the
world; and say Amen."

	"Nightfall In Camp". Peter Race lowered his trumpet, unable to
continue. He knew now, he knew the secret his mother had always refused to
tell. He knew as the words rolled onward through the open window. He knew
and he laid his head against the worn wood.

	"Y'hay schlomo rabbo min sh'mayo, v'chayim alaynu v'al kol Yisreol;
vimru Omein."

	Cory, holding his brother's hand, led Todd forward. Cory's vow to
keep his emotions in check, no matter what happened, forgotten, kissed
Sandro's cheek and took the piece of paper from Ray. He looked at Todd,
smiled, and nodded.

	"May there be abundant peace from Heaven . . ." Cory read.
	" . . . and life, upon us and upon all Israel; and say, Amen"
finished Todd.

	"Nightfall In Camp". Peter Race picked up his trumpet again and his
streaming eyes found barely discernable notes. The quiet voice had
returned.

	Holding Randy and Joey close, Sandro's smile made the room bright
as he finished his prayer.

	"Oseh sholom bimromov, hu ya'aseh scholom olaynu, v'al kol Yisroel;
vimru Omein."

	The Phantom retrieved the piece of paper. "He who makes peace in
his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; and
say Amen."

	"Nightfall In Camp". The mournful notes faded and the impromptu
musicians lowered their instruments. Andrew, Mikey and Nicholas stared into
space, for some reason overcome with emotion. They did not know how or why
they felt the way they did, but deep inside each cadet was the thought that
they had been a part of, and witnessed, something wonderful. Only Mike Knox
seemed unmoved. He carefully cased his instrument, folded the sheet music
into a fan and alternately scratched at his crotch and fanned his sweating
face.
	Eion regarded Mike sourly, stifled a retort comparing Mike to
Madame Butterfly, and looked at Peter, who nodded slowly, his eyes brimming
with tears. Eion returned the nod and lowered his head. Peter had been
terribly upset and moved by the music, and the words, and Eion knew that
both he and Peter would seek out The Phantom.

******

	Sandro, his grief-stricken face flushed with pride, turned to face
his brothers. "I am sad, but I am happy," he began quietly. "Today, at this
hour, we have said goodbye to our brother. Many of us thought bad things
about him, but he was our brother, and we have said goodbye to him. That is
my sadness." He smiled and gently stroked Randy's smooth cheek. "But I am
filled with happiness, for today I also found my brothers, who will be with
me forever. You are my brothers, and from this day you are my brothers in
the spirit, and in the flesh."
	Sandro did not hear Peter and Eion come into the Gunroom. He had no
knowledge of the effect the service had had on each boy, nor did he know
that soon one would seek to join his brothers, and the other to rejoin his
people.

******

	As the low voices drifted from the open windows of the Gunroom, and
while the young gentlemen, the Boys of Aurora, did not know it yet, the
tapestry grew ever larger, with new threads, threads of different faith,
different age and different calibre. The tapestry grew larger, the threads
bound together ever more strongly by the marvellous thread of brilliant
gold.