The sun is setting over France and, if Donny were any other man, he might have thought it beautiful. But he doesn't. He sees something very different. He sees the red of blood. He sees the orange glint of fear in a man's eyes just before Donny's bat makes contact with the man's skull. He sees the yellow of fear-induced vomit. He sees the pink of men's quivering lips as they beg for their lives. The sunlight only brings out the darkness of Donny Donowitz.
This is his first night with the Basterds. Really, it is the first night of the Basterds. Just this morning, they lined up and joined the ranks of Aldo Raine's Jewish-American resistance. Now, they sit, scattered across a field in the French countryside. Two guys try to start a fire. One smokes. Aldo refills his snuff box. Others clean guns or sharpen knives. Everyone keeps in their own world, ignoring the bodies of seventeen dead Nazis piled up on the far edge of the grass, partially hidden by the brush.
Donny heaves in a sigh and feels his hand reach into the breast pocket of his new civilian shirt. He feels odd to be free of his uniform, but he will survive the shock. He's the Bear Jew. When his hand emerges from his pocket, he allows his eyes to leave the sunset. He focuses his solemn energy on the thin photograph in his hands.
It is a rare snapshot. The young Bostonian doesn't often take pictures. But it isn't his image that concerns him. No. It is the woman in his arms. It was taken at some dopey carnival on the boardwalk one night, a few weeks before he shipped out. They are both smiling, both mid-laugh. He forgets what they were laughing at. He just remembers scooping her up, marriage style, and the bright light of the flashbulb. She is beautiful. All lipstick and teeth and eyes. The picture is black and white, but, like a sappy old woman, Donny can still remember the red color of her lipstick and the blue of her dress. The dress was new. She said it was no big deal, but he knew different. It was a huge deal. It was a new New Deal. Because she was a stunner in her new blue dress.
Her name is Annie O'Malley, a knock-out with an unfortunate Irish-Catholic heritage. And she is the girl waiting for him back home. They aren't married or anything like that. But she is his all the same. And, from the day she gave Donny an earful for beating her mother's trashcans as "batting practice," Donny knew she would be. He looks down at the picture again.
Today, it doesn't make him smile. It isn't that he is weighed down by the day. He isn't. Every Nazi in the pile of lifeless bodies deserved what they got. And it isn't that he questions the girl in the photograph. Because, if there's one thing he believes in, it is her.
It's the lieutenant's words ringing in his ears. No letters home, the lieutenant said. Because, as far as the people stateside are concerned, you are dead. For all intents and purposes, the Basterds are ghosts. Donny's thoughts hitch as he imagines Annie, answering the door as some uniform hands her his flag and his death telegram. He shakes the image from his head. Annie would be proud of him, he thinks. He is doing something important. He is getting revenge. He is fighting for his people. He is Gideon and Elijah and David and Joshua from all of those stories. Yes. Annie would be proud. At least, she would be if she wasn't so busy mourning a man who isn't dead.
"Donny!"
His sudden, dark thoughts are broken by Utivich running across the field toward him. Donny simply turns his head, making no move to put his photograph away. When Smithson arrives, he leans on his knees, points, and manages to huff out,
"Who's that?"
Eyes shifting from the private to the picture, Donny is almost surprised that Utivich would ask. But he merely turns it over in his hand, hiding the image of Annie in his arms, exposing her address written in hasty, feminine script. She had wanted him to write to her. Dammit.
"No one," he says.
The younger man easily accepts this. Every Basterd has his secret. After only twelve hours with these men, Smithson understands that.
"Alright. The lieutenant wants to see you, posthaste."
He regurgitates Aldo's language, finally catching his breath. Donny nods once, an astute tilt of his chin. It doesn't escape Smithson's attention, this sudden change in Donny's manner. Donny is all attention and smirks and shouts. Now, he is quieter, contemplative, smaller, somehow.
"Be right there," he says.
Utivich gives a small salute before running off. And Donny rises to his feet. His grasp has subconsciously tightened around the thin memory in his hand, and, in the failing light, he turns it over one last time. Annie O'Malley, the impatient girl who was waiting for him, the Catholic girl who reread the Old Testament for him, the listening girl who would never hear from him again. The taste in his mouth suddenly turns metallic.
He gives the sunset another moment of his time. The night they took this picture, Annie sat on his shoulders and watched as a sunset just like this one bled into darkness and fireworks. Donny gives the image of his girl one last glance.
"Bye, Annie."
And then, he tears the photograph into pieces before releasing it into the blustering French wind.
He doesn't watch as it goes. He doesn't look after it with longing in his heart. He turns his back and walks toward Aldo. From that day forward, Donny is all business. After all, he is a Basterd. And a Basterd's work is never done.
So this was my first kind of foray into the Inglorious Basterds universe. Please let me know how I did! I'd love to hear some reviews! Thank you so much for reading!