A/N: Just got reacquainted with the beautiful Eli Roth and the Inglorious Basterds. I forgot just how awesome he was, so here is a little mini FF in homage to the Bear Jew in which I totally rewrite the origin and circumstances of his becoming a Basterd. Enjoy!
Chapter 1- Yankee Doodle at Bat
It was so long ago that it seems like a different lifetime, but I remember the moment with such clarity that I know I will never forget no matter how much of my memory fades with time. I can recall the very night that my path crossed with that of the man who came be known and feared as the Bear Jew, although at the time it was a destiny even he wasn't aware of. So much has been said about him as to make the man a myth and from what I can tell, not all of it was simple exaggeration, but as for my part our association was simple: I saved his life and he in turn saved mine- no more and no less.
Things were so much simpler then and yet so much more complex. Lives were valued in terms of heritage and in that respect I was a millionaire and he a pauper although my good fortune was largely wasted because while in the light of day I was loyal to the Fuhrer, by night I loathed the policy that I was expected to uphold. Being a good German citizen meant depersonalizing the Jew as a race of dogs unworthy of the lead needed to execute them and any hesitation to publicly spit into the face of a Jew was enough to raise suspicion. Still, there were those of us who quietly expressed our resistance by any means that we could manage from giving away scraps of bread and bandages to allowing the fleeing persecuted to sleep on our property with the understanding that should they be discovered, they would be denounced as trespassers. It was not enough for me to feel as if I was truly making any difference because I knew that the chances were great that those I attempted to assist would likely be dead or recaptured before they could reach the advancing Allied armies that swiftly approached from the West. Some, I found out, arrived sooner rather than later.
It was no secret that young, drunken soldiers out of sheer boredom or frustration at the encroaching armies would at times wander into the ghetto where Jews were forced to live like cramped cattle, impoverished and starving, to take out their anger by raping the women and beating or sometimes even killing the men. They were no respecter of age, children and the elderly were just as often brutalized as the young and fit because the soldiers knew there would be no inquest into their misdeeds. No commanding officer would waste time or personnel on investigating such matters because in some way it was seen as harmless sport- a healthy way to blow off steam and maintain morale. There were rumors of kidnappings and horrific medical experimentation being carried out, but no one knew for sure because the missing were never returned to their families.
At the time, I worked at a medical clinic as a nurse and my daily commute took me along the Eastern edge of the ghetto where the two worlds collided. The war had taken much from everyone and every citizen was expected to contribute what they could to the ever increasing demands of maintaining the insatiable appetite of the war machine. All went without for the sake of the Motherland and for the most part people suffered quietly through long and cold winters with minimal food and clothing because we were told our troops endured the same and in some cases much harsher conditions. But if the ordinary German had thinning coats to brace themselves against the chill of the waning winter days, Jews huddled together swathed in dilapidated rags around the few fires they were permitted to burn. Many died of exposure and not a day went by that I did not hear the traditional wailing and prayers for the dead drifting from somewhere in the quarters.
The night I met the Bear Jew was a particularly cold one and it is one that I will never forget. I was returning to my small house late one night after a long shift at the clinic and as I usually did, I passed along the edge of the ghetto keeping my head down to ward off the cold and not have to view the suffering constantly on display. I was never afraid to walk alone at night because SS soldiers were always present and despite the fact that many young men were far from home and facing death at any moment, they were polite to ladies and would gladly escort me home if only I asked. Most were honorable men even if they were pressed into service and they did their duty with honor and courage. Some of the soldiers believed every word that spewed from the Fuhrer's lips, but most just wanted to return to their farms and families. I washed up as well as I could with what water I had the energy to boil, had a snack of bread and cheese, and wrapped up tightly in a blanket to get some sleep when I was awakened by a frantic pounding on my door. Alarmed, I lit a lamp and rushed to the open it to see two of my very good friends looking at me in a panic. "Mila," my good friend Hannah implored, "you must help."
"For you, anything!" I exclaimed. Hannah and Elias were my schoolmates from Kindergarten and felt the same way as I about affairs of state. "Are you in trouble?"
"No, but we will be if we are caught." Elias grumbled, looking up and down the street for wandering guards.
"Why?" I asked. I had never seen him so frightened and it was starting to scare me.
"We were returning from a late dinner and happened upon three soldiers beating a man in the street. Please, you are a nurse, you must help him." Hannah quickly explained. "He's American."
"American?" I hissed. "But how?" The Allied armies were supposed to be hundreds of miles away.
"Please, Mila," Elias stressed, "we cannot wait out here. We took a risk in bringing him here and I do not want to be executed as a traitor."
"You brought him?" I asked looking out into the darkness but seeing nothing but a good deal of blood on his clothing that I hadn't noticed before. I didn't know this American, but if he was bleeding that badly, he surely needed my help. "Fetch him before someone sees us." I kept watch for soldiers while Hannah and Elias fished a large man out of my bushes and hauled him into my home along with a baseball bat stained with blood.
In the dim light of the kitchen, it became clear that they had not told me the entire truth. As he lay limply on my kitchen table, barely conscious of his surroundings and moaning softly, I pursed my lips. "A Jew." It seemed incomprehensible, but somehow an American had found his way into the ghetto for he was marked with the telltale yellow star on his torn and bloodied shirt.
"I can't explain it." Elias shook his head dumbfounded. "But the soldiers were striking him with the bat and mocking him for the American sport and when he was no longer moving, they left him for dead in the middle of the street. Hannah and I waited until no one was around and he carried him here. We tried to talk to him to keep him alert, but he doesn't seem to speak German."
Hannah agreed. "He only mumbled a few words in English. He wouldn't say his name, but he did seem to want the stick they beat him with."
"Are we too late?" Elias asked worriedly as he looked down on the man he tried to help.
The American Jew had taken a very vicious beating and he seemed to be bleeding from every pore, but through the haze in his dark eyes he made it clear that he hadn't given up and neither was I. "He is still breathing," I answered in a determined tone as I set to work removing his shirt to get a better look at his injuries, "and for now that is enough."
"Will you need our help?" Hannah offered anxiously. She was an engineer by trade and not familiar with medicine, but I knew she was without a doubt willing to do anything I asked of her.
After getting a good look at his injuries, I reluctantly had to ask for assistance. I simply didn't have what I needed to help him in my home. "Yes, for just a little bit." I conceded. "I must go to the clinic and get supplies. Will you put on some water to boil and tear up some rags to use from the linen closet? Keep an eye on him. Speak to him, gently prod him if you have to, but try to keep him awake until I return." She accepted her task with grim efficiency and determination while I fetched my threadbare coat and prepared to venture out into the night.
"I will go with you." Elias declared. "The soldiers will be less suspicious if you are with a man." I didn't want to involve them any more than they had already volunteered for, but he was right and we didn't have time to lose on bored and inquisitive soldiers.
Elias and I walked as quickly as we could without appearing overly hurried to the clinic where I quietly but quickly slipped in through an unlocked window and retrieved bandages, antiseptic, medicine, and thread. Elias and I divided the bounty amongst our empty pockets and hurried back, nervous that at any moment we would be stopped and caught with the stolen supplies. Upon our return, we found Hannah alternately tearing the fabric of a tablecloth and yelling at the American to keep his eyes open in pointed German. The American responded in a slur of syllables, but the things that came across clearly were "kraut" and "broad." Hannah may not have known English, but she certainly recognized the derogatory name for Germans popular with the Allies. Although she was offended, she showed the wounded man mercy and did not punish him for his vulgarity, perhaps assuming that he was not entirely at himself and it slipped out.
Elias and I emptied our pockets onto the counter while Hannah poured the hot water into a porcelain bowl to cool. The American's eyes lazily followed us as though he was suspicious of us doing harm despite all that had been done to try and help him. Even if he wasn't a European Jew, surely he had been in the ghetto long enough for his people to tell him that we risked death in coming to his aid. Surely someone in the encampment spoke his language even if he didn't speak theirs. I learned English in school, but I could not speak it so well as to pass for American or even British. Still, I was confident that it was good enough to communicate and I thanked my lucky stars that my friends were not successful in persuading me to take French along with them. He was probably typical of most Americans in that he only spoke his own language. He only briefly took notice when my colleagues went to the living room to keep watch out the windows just in case a soldier would wander too close to the house and see me working on a patient through the curtains.
I carefully dipped a corner of a freshly torn rag into the steaming water and wrung it out. I smiled at him tentatively to convey that I meant him no harm and dabbed at a small cut on his shoulder. If I could show him that I intended to be gentle, he would be more likely to trust me and that would become very important when it came to the deeper and more serious wounds that I would have to stich without the benefit of anesthetic. His eyes never left me while I worked and I could all but see the questions forming in his sluggish mind. To ease the tension, I briefly smiled and asked, "What is your name?"
His dark eyes widened slightly when he heard familiar words in his own language. It was my hope that he felt even a small amount of relief to know that he could be understood in a house full of Germans, but a small smile indicated that although he may not have been completely in his right mind, there were still some things that he knew shouldn't be shared. "Donny" was all he said and it was clear that he wasn't going to say anymore on that particular subject.
I pretended that his arrogance didn't bother me and I spoke to him in the politest tone possible. "Hello, Donny. My name is Mila."
"Hi-ya." He sarcastically replied with an odd accent as his eyes drifted shut.
I was starting to see why the soldiers beat him as they did and my frustration got the better of me. I pressed down on a fresh blue bruise with a little more force than necessary to wipe away the drying blood and that got his attention. "You are a Jew from the ghetto, yes?" I clipped, still a little irritated.
"Yeah…" he cautiously eyed me, wary that I might punish him again, "I mean…sorta."
He laid his head back with a solid "thud" on the table and suddenly I felt bad for being so rough with him. He had to be in a tremendous amount of pain and possibly disoriented from a head injury and I was angry that he was not being a mannerly gentleman. He was no doubt aware that the yellow star on his shirt marked him as less than human and by all rights I could finish the job the soldiers started and be called a hero for it no less. He didn't know me or my plans for him, so I thought it best to inform him. "You are hurt very badly." I softly said, being as gentle with him as possible in the hopes he would forgive me for my little tantrum. I poured a little more hot water into the bowl and continued to gingerly swab his cold skin and he seemed to find at least a little comfort in the warmth of the water and my commitment to henceforth remain clam. "You will not be able to return to the ghetto until you recover enough to make the journey. You are welcome to stay here while you heal, but we must be careful or we will be found out."
His broad, muscular chest trembled slightly with his laughter and he smiled grandly. "Oh, I ain't goin' back." He declared with a wide smile. "I don't belong there nohow."
I was very surprised. "You are not Jewish?" Sometimes people did get sent to the ghetto by mistake- accused by spiteful neighbors or spurned lovers.
He opened his eyes to look directly at me and his expression was sincere. "Sure as shit I am! But in case ya couldn't tell, lady, I ain't exactly from these parts and the only place I'm goin' is back to my parts."
Between his thick accent, the fast pace at which he talked, and the slang he used, it was a little difficult for me to follow because I had learned proper British English and only a few Yankee words that the Americans tended to use, but his opposition to returning to the ghetto was clear and no matter his reason, I couldn't blame him. I knew I couldn't put it off any longer, so I wrapped a small chunk of ice in a wet rag and pressed it against the deepest cut that ran along his flank in a jagged line. He hissed and moved away slightly, but remained stoic despite the pain and chill that made him break out into goose bumps that dotted his exposed skin. "I'm sorry," I quietly offered, "but this will numb it so I can clean your wound well and sew it together." He nodded with his eyes clenched tight and his teeth bared, but he was determined to remain still and take it like a man- a trademark of the brave, macho American. While I held the cold bundle against his side, I thought it best to try and distract him. "How did this happen?"
Either the ice was lessening the pain or he gave my inquiry far more attention than he needed to because he relaxed somewhat and panted out, "Whadya mean? That," he jerked his head slightly toward my hand, causing his dark hair to flop listlessly across his forehead slick with sweat, "or the whole deal?"
"Let's start with this." I smiled, glad to see that he was at least willing to entertain my questions more so than he was at the start.
He again laid his head back with an exhausted sigh and answered, "The krauts had me on the ground and they kept kickin' me with their damn jackboots. One of the buckles caught me, I guess." The weariness in his voice was evident and it was clear he was at the limit of his physical endurance, but he knew he still had a long way to go.
Of course I wanted to know more of the story, but the topic only served to add to his discomfort so I switched gears. "You are the first American I have met." I announced, removing the ice and prodding the wound to see if he could tolerate it.
He didn't wince or show any sign of discomfort, in fact he smirked. "Better or worse than ya expected?" He asked cockily.
"You are bigger than the Americans I see on the propaganda films." I giggled. "The Americans are supposed to be smaller and not very good shots."
His smile widened despite my scrubbing of the gaping wound and he said, "Ya can't believe everything you see in those films, doll. Hell, I don't believe the films on our side, either. It's all a bunch of dirty lies."
I had to work quickly because he was bleeding profusely and the ice would soon wear off, so I pulled the needle and thread through his skin as fast as I could even if it wasn't the most beautiful line I had ever done. I could tell by the way the corner of his mouth twitched every time I pierced his skin that I was running short on time. "I can stop and…"
"Nah." He dissented through his clenched teeth. "I just wanna be done with it. Keep goin'." Hannah tossed back worried glances at his low growling, but she could tell by his white knuckled grip on the edge of the table that I was in no danger. "Do me a favor though and hurry, lady. You ain't exactly fixin' your stockings here."
And hurry I did until the last knot was tied and he let out a huge sigh of relief as the tension in his body relaxed and he slumped back to the table in an exhausted, spent, and sweaty heap of American born muscle. The worst was over, and I picked up another cool rag to blot the perspiration and remaining blood from his ashen face. "You did well." I commended. "That was the worst of it."
He panted lightly as his eyes fluttered shut. "Thank God. It felt like getting my ass kicked twice in one night. I haven't fought like that since the day I got jumped in an alley by two Irish kids back in Boston."
"Did you win?" I inquired pleasantly. The only thing I knew about Boston was that it was the home of the rebellion against the British and it was a wonder to me how the two nations got along.
He flashed a faint grin and replied, "I'm here, ain't I?" He managed to sit up long enough for me to wrap bandages around his broad chest to alleviate the ache of sore ribs and he patiently allowed me to clean him up as much as possible, but his sanguine acceptance probably had more to do with the sedative I gave him to help with the pain than it did his general level of comfort with me. Although he was clearly fighting to stay awake, his mind was still active and after Elias and I helped him to my bed to lie down, he cautiously asked what I knew had been weighing on his mind the moment he found himself staring at my kitchen ceiling. "So why are you doin' this?" He asked in a dreamy voice as the medication began to win the battle. "Why help me? An American and a Jew?"
I spread out the last worn blanket that I had in the house over him to keep him warm and watched his dark eyes catch the flickering light of the lamp as each blink became longer and longer. "Because not all Germans are evil, Donny. Some of us just want to live in peace." I answered, quietly shutting the door behind me so he could rest.