A Punishment for a Traitourous German Actress

Wiping off his fingertips on the back of her dress, Landa glanced down at the large white flower in Fraulein von Hammersmark’s hair.

“You mystify me, Fraulein.”

A few tense moments passed, as she pondered how to reply.

“What is mystifying about your discovery, Colonel?” she finally responded, feeling utterly violated and yet in dire need of keeping up her guise, which suggested she act the opposite of how she was feeling.

“I find it mystifying how you can tell me to eat shit,” he replied, saying the word shit in English, and then pausing. “Yet in the meantime your body is responding quite the opposite.”

“You tell me,” she shot back, knowing that he himself had quite a conundrum to explain: his anger at her, his desire to punish her—possibly to even kill her—and yet, he was unmistakably aroused at doing so. Now that she had retorted in such an audacious manner, he was probably going to kill her. Colonel Hans Landa did not seem the type to tolerate disrespect.

“Stand up.” His response was curt and sharp, and she blinked with realization. She had made a misstep and now she would pay. She had to throw him off-guard. She knew what she had to do, and the thought made her want to vomit. If she could make him close his eyes for even a couple of seconds, that would be enough time. Every acting skill she had ever learned, she had to use for this next test. If she succeeded, she would live. If she failed, she would die. There wasn’t much time.

Mouthing a silent prayer, she hesitated for a moment before gaining her footing on the floor with her uninjured leg and its loose shoe, and then her stiff, cast-bound leg.

She bent her knees as she again leaned her hands on his thighs for support, and then—not so subtly, allowed for the fingers of her left hand to slip down into his lap.

At the unexpected touch, he jerked involuntarily, looking down at the offending hand, than up at her face. She was giving him a shy smile. Immediately he used the hand that had discovered her secret to lift her hand out of his groin area, wrapping his strong fingers around the entire circumference of her dainty wrist to remove her hand. She did not move or pull away from his touch, instead keeping bent over, her other hand still leaning on his thigh. As he released her wrist, he made a gesture for her to stand. She didn’t move.

“Stand up.”

She gazed into his eyes from under heavily made up lashes. His face and eyes were unreadable.

“Colonel, you took conspicuous. And that,” she said, face ever so close to his own, as she indicated his arousal, “has to be taken care of before you leave this office—as you well know. Now that you have discovered my well-guarded secret, I’d hope you’d permit me to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”

His brows etched in confusion, he narrowed his eyes at her. He did not bother to look down.

“And what would that be?”

She didn’t skip a beat.

“Pleasing you.”

His breath caught in his throat. She couldn’t be serious—and yet…. how else could that unmistakable wetness be explained? As he watched her suspiciously, she removed her hand from his thigh, straightening her back, the glittery fabric of her dress cascading down her body like a shimmering tidal wave.

“Why would you want to do that?” he heard himself say. Bridget von Hammersmark, the beautiful young German actress, loved and worshipped by hundreds of thousands of men all over Europe—including himself, he bitterly recalled—in addition to being quite the spy for the Allies, no less—throwing herself at him.

He knew very well it was not because she cared for him in any way—quite the opposite, in fact. She was desperate and would do anything to live. By chance, this anything consisted of her pleasing him. Why not let her feel like she had a chance to change his mind, all the while satisfying his unrequited lust for her? If she didn’t know better that after all was said and done, that he’d still refuse, then she deserved to use her last moments on earth getting him off. On second thought, perhaps he would spare her somewhat more than he was intending to, as a reward for her work—rather, ending her life cleanly and quickly with a single shot to the head. Yes, that is what he would do.

His thoughts were soon interrupted by her explanation.

“I’ve always been intrigued by you, Colonel. On the many occasions you’ve spoken with me, you’ve been polite and interested but you’ve never made an attempt to flirt. Your indifference towards me only heightened my interest of you over the years.”

Much to her horror, he frowned.

“So you are saying that what interests you about me is my treatment of you. Nothing about me as a person.” With that, his frown faded into a smile of amusement, a teasing grin.

“Now, that’s simply not true,” she stammered, feeling the contents of her stomach boiling in her throat. It would be literally painful for her to utter her excuse.

“Colonel, as you are certainly already aware, you are highly intelligent, extremely witty, and quite the gentleman. Quite handsome as well, I admit. I don’t think I’ve known another as well read and prepared as you are for every conversation, every inquiry. In short, you amaze me, Colonel Landa.”

She watched him, keeping her expression constant as she observed his face turning a subtle shade of red. He was blushing! As he blushed, he tried not to smile, but failed. She was certainly trying to win him over, he noted, beaming most cordially at her.

With a flirtatious smile, she clasped her hands in front of her, waiting.

“If your mission is to please me, I am not stopping you,” he murmured, his eyes twinkling with mischief, a big boyish smile on his lips.

Awkwardly she leaned down to him as he sat in the chair, her hand making its way for his belt. He watched her carefully all the while, as her hand deftly unbuckled his belt, pulling the strap away. Her eyes focused on the task at hand, she began to unbutton his trousers but before she could continue, he put a hand on her own, moving it away from his groin. Her eyes widened and she stood frozen before him.

Why will he not let me continue, she mused worriedly. There is still some time before Operation Kino is carried out—but perhaps he doesn’t believe that. Who am I kidding? Of course he knows we have time. He probably knows more than I do about exactly how much time we have. But then—why did he stop me?

“Let me tell you what I prefer, Fraulein,” he said, with a disarming smile. “It requires you to be on your knees. Completely hands-free.”

With that, he gently pushed her on the small of her back for her to step further away from him. He then began to get to his feet, but was stopped by her hand bearing down on his shoulder. A hint of annoyance appeared on his face as she removed her hand from its position.

“Colonel, you may stay seated,” she explained, her countenance remaining positive. “It will be more comfortable for you. I think I have an idea of what you want,” she added with a wink.

These past couple of years, there weren’t a lot of women who could get it right the first time. Often, he’d have to stop them shortly after they’d started their task, chiding them gently for their incompetence as they’d try again to no avail and then leave in a flurry of tears. These French women he’d choose for his subordinates to pick up from various venues as they sat alone or with other women—girls no older than in their late teens and early twenties, with light colored hair at his shade or lighter—were the epitome of the Aryan race—and yet, he was not purposefully being shallow in choosing these particular women. Instead, he’d hoped that as he’d speak of himself, divulging his name and status, that he’d see a glimmer of recognition in the woman’s light-colored eyes—a gasp of fear from those scarlet lips as he finally found his quarry—a young Jew named Shoshanna that he had allowed to escape back in 1941.

He had a vague idea of her appearance from interviews he had conducted with other French farmers in the vicinity of her family’s home. And yet, strangely enough, when fate crossed his path with a woman fitting the description—the cinema owner Emmanuelle Mimieux, he—for the life of him—could not recall the name of the farmer who had harbored her family. He had reasoned out his plan for her and could not divert from it, even if it meant letting her go for the time being. He had to checkmate her with a series of planned moves and without this information it’d be—a checkmate nonetheless, though a less satisfying one.

Her immediate discomfort at meeting him had him on high alert, as well as her irritation towards the young, polite German war hero Frederick Zoller, an irritation thinly covering raw animosity—and yet, the reasoning for this unclear. Her demeanor at his mentioning of milk, though muted, was unmistakable, confirming to him her identity. Undoubtedly the obvious dairy references rattled the woman—step one. However, in order to further build the suspense, perhaps even bring it to a climax, he had to mention the name of that farmer, which he simply could not remember when the time came.

“How is your milk?” he’d planned on asking her. She’d nod, solemnly, perhaps with a hint of suspicion. He’d continue to speak, as she watched him warily, smiling all-knowingly at her. “I noticed you don’t seem all that impressed, Mademoiselle Mimieux, but I certainly understand your predicament. It isn’t every day you taste milk as magnifique as Monsieur LaPadite’s, oui?”

That would have been the lynchpin, the word that would’ve brought the woman’s resolve to a screeching halt—her realization that he knew where he last saw her and who she was. Perhaps she would’ve gasped. Perhaps her eyes would have filled with tears. She might’ve even tried to run. Only then would he have been satisfied. Unlike her family, this girl had to see her death coming before he would be pleased. He had to wait until the next time they’d meet, which certainly they would, in Emmanuelle’s own inherited cinema. He’d bring up an entirely new set of discomforting questions with which to destroy her, bit by bit, until she crumbled. Of course, until the eve before the premiere, he had never suspected the beautiful, famous German actress Bridget von Hammersmark of working for the Allies, let alone her having the audacity to bring a couple of dim-witted Americans into the cinema and think they’d slip past him unnoticed. Her treachery had changed his plans as soon as she’d entered the cinema—but soon enough, he’d find Shoshanna and finish what he had started there.


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It had been six months or so since he had enjoyed the company of a woman. Of course, when these women he had encountered would fail to recognize him, he’d proceed to promptly seduce and bed them, lest his efforts be wasted. Of course, in the last six months, his mind was occupied with more pressing matters; German morale was falling as the Allies tightened the noose on them, dropping more and more troops daily into German occupied lands.

As he watched incredulously, Bridget von Hammersmark painstakingly lowered herself to her casted leg, keeping the other leg bent forward as she pulled herself towards him with her pump-clad foot. His smile ever-increasing in size, he spread his legs and scooted slightly forward in the chair, watching her slide up between them, her face smiling warmly up at him. It might be more difficult to kill her than he first considered, if she performed as good as she looked right now, kneeling there in front of him.

Compared to the women of his past, Bridget von Hammersmark was already doing the right things. Firstly, it didn’t hurt that she was gazing up at him with her pale blue eyes from her submissive position in that expensive evening gown. It also didn’t hurt that she was a famous actress who was going to be spending her final moments alive pleasuring him.

As she affixed herself in her final position between his thighs, she spent a few seconds adjusting the positioning of her legs beneath the fabric of her dress. Her smile plastered on her face, she moved both hands to free Landa’s arousal from his trousers. Before she could touch it, however, he again stopped her. He raised a hand, his expression remaining friendly, much to her relief.


“Allow me,” he murmured, his voice taking on a different quality, as he looked down at his lap.

His smile had extended as large as it could be—and she could sense the excitement in his actions, for he fumbled before unbuttoning the first of three buttons.

She brushed her right hand down the side of her dress as she watched his fumbling, smoothing out some twisted areas of glittery fabric that hadn’t fallen quite right when she had allowed the dress to cascade down her body upon standing.

It was then, in the course of a second or two, that she reached under her dress, clutching the end of the object with an iron-knuckled grip.

Feeling her heart pulsating behind her eyes, she swung it up swiftly it towards its intended target, the thick heel of her brown and cream pump uniting with the center of Landa’s forehead.

You all are a tough crowd, eh? What can I do to get you to review? (catchy rhyme, eh?)