The year was 1942, and the world was a cold, dark, merciless place. Soldiers had come at night and ushered his people out of their homes, giving them less than 30 minutes to pack what they could carry and thrown into camps. Camps where not only their belongings were stripped from them, but all of their hope, their joy, everything that made them human. Poland watched as his people wasted away slowly, nothing he could do to help. He smelled the boiling of human fat as it was made into soap. The officers had dispelled the rumors by telling them it was merely the day's gruel, but you could see the lies in their eyes. They had probably even seen the process themselves.

Then the typhus hit, and the prisoners were dropping like flies, weak from starvation and forced labour. He had contracted it himself, bedridden for days - why hadn't they taken him to the chambers yet, why? -delirious from fever, pain that traveled from his head and radiated down his back, leaving him curled up on the floor. His bed had been taken by another prisoner. There had been a great influx of people lately, rumored to be from the camp in Klooga.

—

It was 1944 and no one was safe from the Nazi regime. Typhus came back with a vengeance. There were rumours of liberation circling, but they would fade soon - there was no hope, the world had forgotten about him. They would never come rescue him.

"So, Feliks, where are you from?" Poland and a Jew, named Jozef from Białystok were sitting in the mess hall, slurping down what thin broth they received, along with a piece of bread. He had grown close to some of the other inmates, those who had been tossed from camp to camp. He tried to stay away, to hold his heart close. When they passed and were exterminated it would only hurt more. But he couldn't help it. Humans were always so caring, so loving, so hopeful, even in the midst of hell.

"Warsaw. Hey they're pretty close by. How the hell did you get all the way out here to Sztutowo," Poland questioned. Late at night, when he laid in bed - if you could call it that - he wondered the same thing. How did he get into this mess. He of course, had been arrested on the street shortly after the war broke out, along with about 150 other Poles, and shoved into a train through the woods into what the Germans called it - Stutthof. The first camp in Poland.

And there had been reports of more, that much was evident. Stories from other people about the other camps, Auschwitz, Chelmno, Treblinka. And not just Poland. Rumours - rumours happened a lot - about there being camps in Austria, throughout Germany and France, even in the USSR.

"One night, the SS came into my home and dragged me, my wife, and child out onto the street with many others. Somehow I ended up here. I can only pray that my family is alive," he ended the sentence with a tremor in his voice. It happened often. Families were often separated, children from mothers, wives from husbands, brothers from sisters. It happened too often. They swallowed the rest of their bread - they were given so little, so little, their stomachs ached with hunger - and hurriedly left the mess, back to work, making guns for the Nazis to shoot at their kin.

Such it was in Nazi occupied Poland.

—

It was January. 1945. He sensed something wrong. The evacuation had begun. Thousands of people, moving skeletons, were forced to move. Some were marched towards the Baltic Sea, Poland guessed, he - and thousands of others - were marched, pushed, urged, towards Germany, the opposite of the other group. What did this mean? The air was heavy with shallow breathing, the smell of sweat, the sound of groans from those who were trying to carry on, and the thud of bodies that hit the ground. The march lasted hours. Then, gunfire, screams of soldiers, amalgamations of Russian, German, and Polish filled the freezing air. The guards forced them back to camp, treading over the bodies of their loved ones, through the deep snow and freezing cold.

Poland ran, ran for his life. He had no shoes. It felt as if he hadn't had shoes in years. As if he never had shoes. At camp, they waited. They expected to be led into the gas chambers soon. Not even him - Poland, a strong nation, but weakened by the horrors he had seen - could survive that. He put on a brave face. Comforted the few others who survived. The thousands who went towards the east never came back.

Months had passed. It was warm again. Not much had happened. He still had all his limbs, although many lost theirs from frostbite. The camp was currently surrounded by Soviet forces. They were going to be liberated. Emotions ran high, those who were left cried tears of joy for being saved, for being alive, but tears of anguish for those whom they had lost, who were so close to survival but not quite. Then the soldiers forced them into the sea.

Men and women screamed, resisted, but they were dragged into sea and shot. Some where dragged away, to other camps. Poland and many others were shoved onto a barge like cargo meant to be delivered and destroyed. Days passed. Many drowned.

Such it was in hell.

—

He was forced to board another barge. It was left to drift at sea, a grave for those left. The day was bright, whatever the date was. His boat was pulled into harbour by a German tugboat. This was the end. They were all going to be shot and killed. The great Republic of Poland was done for.

Locals streamed out of the town onto the bay, waiting for the ship to come in. Poland lifted himself off the floor of the boat, taking a look at the scene. His head swam and stars filled his vision. No one had been fed for days. He saw Denmark standing there with his people, waving the ship in. They were saved?

Denmark saw Poland, and grinned. They were saved.

A doctor boarded the ship, looked at them, scrutinized them. They were all sick, all malnourished, some had typhoid or tuberculosis, and most all of them had fleas. The locals had rounded up bread, milk, and butter - it had been so long, too long - for them, they fed them and gave them water and food. Those who were near death were moved to the nearest hospital. Along with Poland, whose sharp cheekbones poked through his skin, threatening to break, his hair cut short and scalp scabbed from itching the fleas. His breathing shallow from the infection shutting down his lungs, aching from illness. He would live, he was a nation.

When they were led off the ship, the locals hugged them. They were skeletons, shadows of people, diseased, and lice covered. But they hugged them. Humans were such wonderful things, Poland thought to himself. Still so full of kindness.

He laid in the hospital bed, half asleep. Denmark was sitting next to him, saying nothing. Not questioning him or talking about himself - which was surprising. His eyes closed, comforted by the soft bed and full belly - as full as they allowed, the nurses said if they ate too much they could die from the strain on their bodies. He slept, and didn't wake up for four days. The entire time, Denmark stayed by his side, worried and waiting.

In the middle of the fifth day, he woke up.

"Germany's surrendered." Denmark's words hit him hard. The war, as far as he knew, was over. All he knew was joy, absolute joy. The death, the death was over it was done. No one else had to die. Ever again. Not for their religion, their ethnicity, their race. For now. It was over. Tears slipped from his eyes before he could even register it.

"This means I can go home?" If his home was still there, that is.

"Yep! Well, as soon as you feel better, that is."

"Or as soon as my hair grows back," he grumbled, distastefully running his hand through his short locks. They looked at each other, and burst into laughter. It felt foreign in his throat, the feeling of laughing. The sound of Denmark's was loud and contagious, and could probably be heard throughout the entire hospital.

He left a week later, saying his goodbyes to the locals, and lastly Denmark. "Thank you," he whispered, giving him a great bear hug. And he was gone.

—

It was 1995, and Poland was at Denmark's place again. Denmark called him there, saying that they had some business to finish. 'But we hadn't even started anything,' Poland thought. He knocked on the other nation's door, and waited. A few minutes passed when the door was flung open, revealing a very flustered looking Denmark.

"Oh, you're here, you're early!" Denmark ushered him in.

"Actually I'm not, this is actually later then you said broski," Poland chuckled.

"Looks like your hair grew back." Poland rolled his eyes, not replying. He subconsciously ran a hand through his hair, back to its normal length. It was nice. "Well, actually our meeting is outside. I know you just got here but c'mon, I have something to show you!" Denmark was excited. Almost too excited. He ushered Poland outside, towards the harbour where they had found each other so many years ago, a lifetime ago it seemed.

Fifty years.

There was a large stone towards the edge of the land, away from most of the ships and barges the dock held. Closer, Poland could read the writing that had been engraved in it. First it was written in Danish, then English.

"Fra sult og nød,

tortur og død

De mødte på en fremmed kyst

I hjælpsom ånd, en udstrakt hånd."

"From hunger and peril,

torture and death,

They encountered on a foreign shore

In helping vein, an outstretched hand."

"It's for our anniversary, dontcha know." Denmark was behind him, admiring the words carved. "Brand spankin' new, and all for you guys! What do you think?" Poland turned around looking at Denmark. He had an expression of… wanting to be recognized graced his features. Wanting to be acknowledged.

"It's totally awesome," Poland grinned. "Even if it's not business." The laughed again, like they had done a lifetime ago. It filled the air around them, traveled to the town, the ships, and out into the sea. Denmark slung an arm over Poland's shoulder, grinning.

"Why don't we go get some coffee? Then maybe we can go do some business." He chuckled again. "Or we can go down to the pub." And they walked off, talking of the future, not the past.

A/N So I wrote this in like 2 hours. There might be a few mistakes. Everything in this fic is as historically accurate as possibly, except for Jozef, he is fictional. The formatting got screwed up as well. :I Enjoy!