In a house that was far too nice for the child of a soldier and far too modest for the ruler of a nation, in a land long ago brought to its knees by the brutality of a fascist invader, a child sat by the window, peering out at the front gate.

He was waiting with bated breath, eyes only leaving the driveway for long enough to look to his side at the clock. One minute. One minute and the car would pull up. Papa would be home then, tired and likely still busy, but home and safe, which was all that the child of such a powerful and targeted man could ask for. He bit the bottom of his lip. If only Papa could have worked from home. Everything would have been so much better if he didn't have to go into the city, drive in a barely-guarded vehicle, and stay in the office for hours on end while his son busied himself with learning and play, the fear ever present in his heart that his father would never come home.

Thirty seconds.

He pressed his nose against the window, fogging it up. His sister flitted through the front yard, chasing after what looked like a frog but could have very well been any sort of jumping creature. He chuckled. The little three-year-old girl never seemed to have fear on their father's behalf, but then she didn't really know what he did. In her innocent mind, a soldier was a hero and heroes never got hurt, at least not permanently.

The boy tugged at the collar of his Hitler-Youth uniform. Five seconds.

Three.

Two.

One.

The car should have been there right then. Papa was never late. Never. Not when he said he'd be back at 5PM sharp. If he said he'd be back at 5PM sharp barring an emergency, then that could only mean that an emergency was taking place.

Thirty seconds late.

One minute late.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Twenty.

Mother called to him from the living room, asking him if he was okay, and he replied that he was watching his sister play. A bald-faced lie, for she had moved back to the swimming pool and wasn't even in the front yard, but his mother didn't question him. He was a big boy, after all, nine years old. If he wanted to tarry by the window, he was allowed. So long as he got to the dinner table on time.

He sighed. Mother never seemed to worry about Papa. Even that one time his plane had been shot down and he had been missing for weeks, whatever worry she had felt remained hidden during the whole ordeal. She trusted him too much.

Twenty one.

Twenty two.

Twenty three.

At thirty, Klaus Heydrich stopped breathing and started imagining all the horrible things that could have happened to his father en route to his office in Prague. Czechs, Jews, Americans, Soviets, Brits, perhaps a rival in the SS. Reinhard Heydrich had a plethora of enemies and though he had tried to keep his son and his work as far from each other as humanly possible, Klaus had heard enough worried whispers exchanged between him and mother to know that he was more hated than loved by most people in and out of the Reich.

But the nine-year-old couldn't be bothered with the complexities of wartime morality or what was necessary for the greater good. All he cared about was getting a 'Good Night' from his father tonight, and next, and every night if he and his father were fortunate.

"He's not home yet?"

A young voice, very much like his own, startled Klaus. He turned to face his brother, Heider, one year his junior, a boy that could have very well been his twin and was often mistaken for one. They weren't quite identical: Heider Heydrich's face was a bit rounder and seemed to be almost constantly fixed in a worriedly bemused expression even when he was happy while Klaus tended to display a more thoughtfully optimistic façade even when he was as worried as he was now.

Klaus shook his head and Heider got down on his knees next to his brother. The boys sat side-by-side in silence, noses pressed against the polished glass. Klaus' fear didn't go away, but it stopped mounting. It was good to not be alone, to have someone to share it with. Mother didn't understand, Silke didn't understand, and to a degree Heider didn't understand it the way he did. Heider hadn't peeked in on as many of father's meetings, eavesdropped on as many conversations, heard as many secrets. Nevertheless, Heider knew it better than anyone else in the house did, and that was enough for Klaus to appreciate his presence.

"Maybe…an emergency?" Heider suggested. Klaus nodded.

"Some Jews?" asked Heider. Klaus shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said. There were too few Jews left in Prague. They were all in the East, at the work camps, too far away to cause a ruckus or be a true threat to Papa. Reinhard Heydrich might have been lax when it came to his own security (he had complained about being coddled like a toddler to Mother for twenty minutes after Uncle Himmler stopped by for a visit and voiced concern about his open-topped car), but the two or three Jews that remained wouldn't have lasted a second against him and his bodyguard. They certainly wouldn't cause an over-half-hour delay.

"Maybe it's nothing…" Heider said. "Maybe just…soldier problems. Maybe we should just do our homework."

"You go," said Klaus.

"Uhm…I need your help…"

"Heider," giggled Klaus, finally allowing a very small smile to come to his face.

"It's handwriting! I hate handwriting! You have the best handwriting!" Heider cried.

"It's just practice!" giggled Klaus.

"Papa practiced and he still writes awful!"

"Because he always writes with his right hand. He oughta' use his left hand, he writes better when he does."

"He does?"

"I think Grandmother didn't…"

But before their conversation could continue, there was a sound: the rumble of an engine. The blue eyes of both boys shot to the driveway and Klaus' heart plummeted when he saw that the passenger seat was empty.

Klaus acted without thought or a word, nearly knocking his brother to the floor as he bolted from the window and out the door, throwing it open so fiercely that he nearly knocked over a vase and managed to get a shout from his mother about horsing around.

Klaus ignored her, ignored Heider calling to him, ignored Silke as she tried to strut up to him and brag about the frog she had caught. He ran to the car just as the driver emerged, stumbling and grasping his head. Klaus was about to shout at the driver, to interrogate him as to Papa's whereabouts and demand to be taken to him.

It wasn't until he got close that he realized the driver was not the giant Johannes Klein, but Reinhard Heydrich himself: blond hair covered by a skewed SS cap, blood visible on the buttons and white undershirt his uniform. Panic threatened the child's heart, but it left him when he saw the Head of the Gestapo smiling.

"Pap…"

Before the child could finish a word, the elder Heydrich laughed. Klaus' father had an odd laugh: his voice had always been high-pitched and when he laughed it came across as more of a bleat,. Uncle Heinz sometimes told stories of how Papa was tormented by bullies who would make fun of him for his laugh. He had even posited that the reason Reinhard rarely laughed anymore was because it brought back too many bad memories.

But the senior Heydrich laughed right then and pulled his son into a triumphant embrace.

"What did I tell you, Klaus?" he said. "Those Czech vermin can't lay a hand on your Papa."

Klaus nodded. Of course, he shouldn't have doubted him, but he hadn't been able to keep the worry away. He would have to work harder at trusting his father. But for now, he was happy. His heart was calm once more, reassured by the fact that Klaus Heydrich still had a father.

Of course, across Europe and beyond, the news of Reinhard Heydrich's continued health was not greeted with relief. Operation Anthropoid had failed, the newspapers in England and America reported the next day. One particular paper bearing the bad news was plucked up by an American officer, John Smith, who took one look into the icy eyes of the Man with the Iron Heart and cursed any deity that might have existed for sparing such a monster.

In a few years, when he had his own boy to come home to, Smith would have even more of a reason to curse the fact that Klaus still had a father.


Yeah, yeah, I know, I already have like four other long fics I need to finish, shut up! (No, I'm kidding, don't shut up…Review! Review!)

Anyway, to make a long author note short: I love history, and I also love the show 'Man in the High Castle'. Strangely, I actually like it a great deal more than I like the book except in one category: Reinhard Heydrich. The bald guy who threatens Smith, for those of you who don't know, and a real historical character I happen to know quite a bit about because I've done like six projects on him.

In the book, Heydrich was never seen, but there was an interesting dilemma going on because even though Heydrich is very intelligent and dangerous, in the book he didn't support the war on Japan, as opposed to Joseph Goebbels, who did. I thought the series kind of didn't get his character right in some places (literally, he's the most arrogant human being on the planet earth and he's just gonna let Heusmann take the reins? Yeah, right, while you're at it try and convince me that Goebbels beat Jesse Owens at the Olympics), and while I was pondering this matter in relation to the research I've done, I decided I had no choice but to do a fic.

Not sure how long this'll be, but reviews always help me to persevere! I'll still be updating my other stories, of course, but this one's on the pile now too. Yay!

Just a few history notes: Operation Anthropoid was a Czech operation that killed Reinhard Heydrich in real life, but obviously Man in the High Castle has him survive. Klaus Heydrich is Reinhard's first-born son.

And with that, I'm out! Thanks for reading, thanks even more if you review or favorite! I'll be back!