there will always be people shopping for glory. and they will pay it with other people's blood and their country's honour. ~N.N.
Was it only last week, he wondered, when he sat on the same table with Reichsminister Goebbels? In fact, it was closer to three, his treacherous mind supplied. How the mighty have fallen, it mocked.
Mere three weeks ago, he could be found sitting in the very best establishments in Paris, drinking great wine and eating wonderful food. Now, he was choking down some French swill in some rundown tavern in some rundown village. Granted, Propriétaire Eric ran a better tavern than most others. It only took him three weeks to find La Louisiane, he lamented. At least it's quiet here, he consoled himself, grateful he didn't have to endure raucous soldiers and their drunken ways. Nadine it seemed, was a place that could kill through boredom and complacency.
He idly watched the barmaid empty his overflowing ashtray before scurrying away. The girl had too-wide smiles, entirely different from the cultured women of Paris.
Damn that soldier, he cursed under his breath. And his damned girlfriend, he added for good measure. He was bitter, could they blame him?
Private Zoller had somehow found out that he had been less than civil to his girlfriend when he picked her up from her sordid cinema of hers. Having the ears of Goebbels had unhealthily inflated the Private's ego, it seemed. Add to it that Zoller wasn't just any ordinary Private at that, but one who was a decorated war hero, killed more men than Dieter had ever written a report, and most importantly: a hormone-driven Private, not quite out of his puberty, who was madly in love and whose prick was wrapped around a French heifer's little finger.
Admit it, Dieter, his overly annoying inner-conscience supplied, you would've done the same if ever you were to enjoy the same favour. Only he didn't, which was why he's now in Nadine nursing his bruised ego. Which must surely allow him a certain measure of righteous bitterness.
Surprisingly, it had been Colonel Landa who saw him off at the motor pool and who had tried to console him, albeit half-heartedly.
"Come now, Dieter," the Colonel had said as they waited for a car to be taken around. "It won't be for forever. Favours are easily gained and easily taken away, anyway." A small pause, a smirk. "Why am I telling you this?" he said, with a small wave of his hand. "You already know that."
Well, maybe the Colonel was not there just to console him. Probably there on a special errant to rub salt in the wound. He remembered Landa being rude to the heifer, too. "If it helps," the Colonel said instead, as his car arrived and a soldier jumped out to open the door for him, "you can help me dig around. I've heard disturbing things about those pesky English rats. They're up to no good. I can smell it. And the smell comes from Nadine..." A pause, a wrinkling of nose in distaste, "...or thereabouts."
"I will see what I can find out, Colonel," he answered, wondering to himself why he sounded so very pathetic, so eager to believe there's something worthwhile to be done in what amounted to a career exile, so eager to believe that the Colonel actually meant something more than empty platitudes.
"I have no doubt you will."
"Heil Hitler!" Dieter extended his arms, clicked his boots together, and saluted before he could lose his nerves, before he could snap at the Colonel and make him stop trying to placate him.
"Yes, yes. Heil Hitler," the Colonel had smiled indulgently as he helped Dieter into the backseat of the car. "Come next year, you'll find yourself back in Paris." And maybe next time, you'll remember your place, the Colonel did not say it out loud, but Dieter heard it all the same.
"More beer, Herr Mayor?" the barman asked, shaking him out of his thoughts.
"Why not?" he replied, his beer must've gone stale by now, anyway.
It didn't take Eric too long to bring a fresh glass of beer, too quick even. Eric seemed to be more efficient than most Frenchmen he'd come across and spoke better German than most, too. He should ask, he thought. But he wasn't in the mood, after all, so he merely nodded.
"A good book then, sir?" Eric asked. Dieter had to stop himself from rolling his eyes in despair (though he did wonder why he bothered to be civil at all).
"It's tolerable," Dieter surprised himself by replying. "Like the beer. Tolerable."
"Then, I'm glad."
"And I shall thank you to leave me in peace."
"Of course." Eric seemed to know when he was dismissed. "By the way, care for some cheese?" Or maybe not. This time Dieter rolled his eyes, exaggeratedly so, and waved the grinning barman away.
He waited until he could not hear Eric's footsteps anymore before he lifted the glass to his lips, looking down to the book in his lap. He had to let out a small chuckle when he saw the book was upside down. Yet another surprise, he realised. His exile had somehow given him the ability to tolerate disrespect and laugh at his own folly. I'm growing soft, he concluded. Undisciplined. Disgusting.
Closing his book, he returned to his thoughts once more, trying to analyse his current predicament in order to (possibly) cheer himself up. "You're not the only one having a bad year." Wasn't that what Colonel Landa told him some three weeks ago (has it really been three weeks? Mein Gott).
Then again, not even the Führer was immune to the fickle machinations of time. Ten years ago, no one in their right minds would doubt Hitler's dream for a German empire to last a thousand years. But now? Generals were hired and fired quicker than a whore would find and bed customers, soldiers fighting (and often losing, dying, on multiple fronts), the American had entered the war, and the English rats didn't know when to just roll over and die. The Führer even had to travel to France for a film premiere, so far from Berchtesgaden.
Even here, in a sleepy French village, Dieter could see the soldiers' continuous fidgeting (and not just due to their general incompetence), nerves pulled and stretched to breaking point. So much for a quiet, mind-numbing exile. And he heard that the Basterds were somewhere in the vicinity also. And Stiglitz will be with them also, he thought morosely.
Ten years ago, he would have boxed someone quite squarely in their face for even suggesting that his friendship with one Hugo Stiglitz would crash and burn so spectacularly. That is, if Hugo didn't get to that ignoramus first. But ten years ago, the two of them were naïve and ignorant little shits who had no way of knowing the ways of the world.
Has it really been ten years? It baffled him. He tried to remember the first time he met Stiglitz. Must be early 1930s, he was sure, but for the life of him he could not remember when exactly.
And his thought was broken by a sudden disturbance to what up to now was an acceptable silence. He was about to stand up and yell at the miscreants when Eric appeared, harried and eager to mollify him. "Just soldiers, Herr Mayor," Eric started, as if he could read Dieter's mind (maybe he could). "I'll make sure they don't trouble you."
Dieter raised a skeptical eyebrow, to which Eric responded by looking properly chastised. "May I offer you some whisky? We have good scotch whisky. 33 years old, I think you'll find..."
"Scotch?" Dieter cut sharply, somewhat pleased to see Eric flinching; pleased to know he hadn't lost all his touch."I can never abide them."
"Beer then?" Eric asked, leaving even before Dieter agreed to anything.
Scotch. Dieter cringed, but at least he now knew that Eric was no mind-reader.
The noise from the main tavern floor grew louder as the soldier grew more and more inebriated. They were celebrating, he heard. Something about a newborn. Hopefully the little bugger would only know peace. War, as Dieter found, was too overrated.
Eric arrived with a new glass of beer, when a loud concerted cheer and whoop rose.
"You told me you'll have them under control, Eric," Dieter said disdainfully. "But I hear them getting louder. Or are you unable to keep order in your own tavern?"
"You must forgive them, Herr Mayor. It is not every time Bridget von Hammersmark graced us with her presence. The poor soldiers are merely very happy to see her."
"von Hammersmark? The actress?"
"One and the same. Now you see their excitement," Eric finished his statement with a flourish, impudently holding the Major's eyes. "But, as I said earlier," Eric finally said, breaking eye-contact with the Major, "they won't trouble you. Not in my building."
"Fine."
"So." Eric straightened his back, and brushed a non-existent wrinkle on his shirt. "Are you sure you won't try the scotch? I'm pouring one for Fraulein von Hammersmark. On the house."
"No."
Eric shrugged, as if saying that he had tried his best. "They won't disturb you," he repeated.
Dieter merely watched the barman, as though the Frenchman had grown an additional head. He settled back, unable to hide his amazement at how von Hammersmark seemed to be able to indulgently tolerate uncouth remarks. Grandmother Hellstrom would have pitched a fit, possibly (thank goodness she departed when the Earth was still relatively acceptable; leaving behind a husband who grew more and more unbearable, which was an unfortunate thing).
Or maybe von Hammersmark wasn't merely tolerating. Maybe that was how she really was. Rude and uncultured. How terrible, if it were true, Dieter mused. He hoped not. He rather liked that woman.
A young Dieter Hellstrom first met an equally young Hugo Stiglitz one day in November 1933. Not so much as met as clapping eyes from across the hall, one ear on Heidegger's address to the students at Albert-Ludwigs-Universität. Dieter had been sitting near the back of the room, next to his over-eager dormitory-mate. Hugo had been standing, leaning against the wall, looking bored—as bored as he was, too, Dieter suspected.
"Is there a problem?" Hugo had asked as Dieter walked past him at the end of the address. His voice was low, almost incomprehensible underneath the chattering and buzzing around them.
"Problem?" Dieter let himself be taken aside to a quieter corner, Hugo's hand wrapped around his upper arm. For one irrational moment, Dieter feared for his life, at least his physical health.
"You were looking at me the whole time." The hand around his arm tightened. Dieter could feel a bruise forming.
"I thought you looked bored," Dieter replied, proud of himself for not stammering or stuttering. He even held the taller man's eyes steadily.
"This isn't my cup of tea, if you get my meaning. Politics have never interested me." Hugo gave Dieter one final once-over before releasing his grip. Dieter didn't realise he had been holding his breath the whole time, either. "I hope I didn't bruise you too much," Hugo said as Dieter tried to rub the fleeting ache of his upper arm. "I don't like people staring at me."
"I'm fine. It's my fault," Dieter replied, trying to look unperturbed but still taking an unconscious step back. "Staring is rude, I know. My apologies."
"Apologies accepted," Hugo replied sheepishly, though Dieter wouldn't know it from the straight face Hugo always wore. "But only if you'll accept my apologies, too." Hugo added quickly. "For your discomfort."
"Of course," Dieter replied, offering a tentative smile. "No harm done. Look," Dieter said, flexing his arm, giving it a wide flourish. A heartbeat later, and out of an unexplainable whim, Dieter decided to push his luck by offering his hand to shake, "Dieter Hellstrom."
To his astonishment, the grave and sullen man took his hand and shook it firmly. "Hugo Stiglitz." Two words fired like bullets, and the conversation ended.
Dieter had thought that would be that, especially when he finally learnt they shared not one class between them. They didn't even belong to the same faculty. Yet, they seemed to be able to spot each other even in a crowded room. Like all inevitability, they gravitated more and more towards one another. Hugo who couldn't help but buck rules and regulations he did not agree with, and Dieter who couldn't help but be charming; knowingly used his charms as a weapon either to help Hugo into trouble or out of it. A terrible mix, as the university—and by extension, the city of Freiburg—found soon enough.
Looking back, it had been the best years of his life—both of them, triumphant, at the top of the world, unstoppable. Together, they skipped class, plotted mischief, destroyed pubs, bars, and watering holes with their merry-making, chased skirts and collected notches on their proverbial bedposts, cheated people of their hard-earned monies in card games and had gotten lost more than once in the Black Forest (the emergency services had long refused to search for them, unofficially declared, of course. Search and Rescue was their duty, even though the lost ones were better off staying lost).
The first time they got lost in the Black Forest was because of a film.
"Hugo, tell me," Dieter had asked, as they sought refuge at the ruins of the , trying to count the stars peeking out through the trees.
"Tell you what?"
"What's so great about King Kong that you need to cross the border to watch it? Illegally and in the middle of exam periods?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" Dieter raised an eyebrow. "Why am I not surprised?"
"I heard they have dinosaurs. And a large monkey."
"Dinosaurs or monkeys? You can't have both."
"This film has both."
"Doesn't sound like a good film to me," Dieter replied, idly tracing his finger along a large gash on the floor.
"It might be good."
"How do you know?"
"I don't know," Hugo replied, grim and almost too-quiet, his eyes never leaving the small, unappealing fire they made for themselves. "All I know is that it's banned by the Government."
Dieter had sat up straighter then, had looked incredulously at his friend, and after a second or two of slack-jawed silence, he laughed. An honest-to-goodness laughter he thought he had forgotten due to the stress of exams. "Banned!" he exclaimed "Of course!" it explained Hugo perfectly. Dieter laughed once more, threw his head back and laughed until his belly ached and tears streamed out of his eyes. "Why didn't you say so!"
"Dieter..." Hugo looked at his friend, a bit worried that Dieter had finally taken leave of his senses. He learnt that insanity ran in his friend's family (he had heard rumours, though he had yet to ask).
"No~" Dieter drawled. "Say no more!" He laughed and laughed, and Hugo just watched, from across the other side, half-obscured by fire.
In the end, they never did manage to cross over to France. They never did manage to watch this monster monkey and his dinosaur friends (years later, Dieter would read about it, and found himself amazed at the tripe the Americans managed to churn out seemingly without any effort).