Relatively Important Author's Note:

Hello, my dears! Thanks for giving this a shot!

Just a few quick technicalities. The real A/N's at the end.

This story, in a sad attempt to stick to the same universe as the movie, will have other languages in it, namely French and German, as well as English. I'm fairly okay at French, so at least I'll know my grammar is correct, but I know virtually no German. Any help or corrections is welcomed. Also, any foreign language will either be explained or will not interfere with the story. I hope the switches in language will be pretty much clear, but a lot of it will be written in English, simply so everyone can understand. If anything's left to question, let me know and I'll do what I can to fix it.

Any historical discrepencies I'll ask you to overlook. I mean, seriously. The movie was not historically accurate. Why should my fic be? I don't want to research it THAT much! :) I'm going off a partial college education here, so I know a bit about WWII. I don't think the inaccuracies will be distracting, but if they are, let me know.

I want this story to be relatively dynamic, so any and all reviews will be greatly appreciated! Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think.

We'd been camping there for six days before they found us. In my experience, that was usually the case. As soon as you started to feel secure, get used to the idea of staying in one place, start to believe you could really make it work for quite a while and that you wouldn't die tomorrow, they found you.

Lack of movement is a mistake, of course, but these runaways, these escapees, these unfortunate people—mothers, children, husbands, wives, most of whom hadn't eaten for a week and had been running for much longer—wanted only to rest, just for a while.

So we set up a temporary camp in the deep woods, due in part to the fact that, when we looked at them, all we knew was pity. I was there to help these people. If that meant allowing them the smallest moment of happiness it was well worth the additional danger.

Though of course, it was all for naught on those occasions when their faith in us was destroyed, when they were caught before they could reach the borders of safety.

I could only speak with a few people in this particular group; I didn't know the language. American born, I'd only moved to France six years ago, in 1935, before the start of the war. I was relatively fluent in French, but the two Jewish families we were helping had traveled all the way from the Netherlands and spoke only Dutch. One of my three colleagues could converse with them effortlessly but the rest of us made due with gestures.

All in all, there were eleven of us in the group—too large a number but we planned on splitting up once we reached the river. A wealthy Frenchman, Luc, and I would lead one family to our correspondences further south—very capable hands—as we both had obligations in Paris and were expected back there soon. The other family would stay with Guy, another citizen of France, and Christoph, Austrian born, until they reached the safety of Switzerland.

I never really found out why the men with whom I worked chose to help Jewish refugees escape to Switzerland or Spain. We had a sort of Underground Railroad set up and the unspoken rule was that the fewer questions asked, the better. I was never even sure if I knew their real names.

My own name was well known among Ally and Axis forces alike, though of course I went by alias while attempting to live a regular life in Paris. There, I was simply Adele Benoit. My real identity—the American Hazel Montgomery—was unfortunately far too high-profile for its use to be safe anymore, mostly because of my own foolish mistakes. I used to let people know who I was, which only forced me to completely alter my identity.

I could pass as French to anyone who didn't look too deeply into my world, so to those who were not colleagues, I was Adele.

The one thing that was common among Guy, Luc, Christoph and myself, besides our sympathy with the plight of the persecuted, was that we were all incredibly wealthy. I say this with no arrogance or egotism; I am merely stating a fact that made protecting the fugitives much easier. In their racist ignorance, Nazi soldiers tended to overlook the amount of resources often required in successfully hiding enemies of the state, focusing their attention instead on poorer families, with whom they assumed the Jews consorted.

We knew better, of course. More than once, ample funds had saved my life and the lives of refugees in my care.

Hazel Montgomery was rumored to be very poor and living in a hidden cabin just over the borders of Spain.

If only they could see my apartment in Paris…

Besides common humanity and the belief that my inheritance should be spent on something worthwhile instead of dresses and hats, I had no reason to be doing what I was doing. I'd lived with my grandmother most of my life and her death had had nothing to do with the war. I hadn't even heard the word "Nazi" until I'd been in France for a few years and I was not in the position where I could be persecuted by them, before I started helping their enemies.

It started, really, when I met the DuPonts, a Jewish family I'd become acquainted with upon moving to Paris. Their kindness towards me was incredible and I was very fond of them. When the war started I offered them a place in my home, which was large and had many areas to hide.

They were the first people I helped save; I saw them safely to Spain, with the invaluable aid of over twenty other sympathetic individuals.

From there, it became something of a self-imposed calling; I grew enthusiastic at the thought of, not only the lives I could save, but the thought of surviving with them. I'd grown up a bored little rich girl in New York. Doing something, especially something so difficult and worthwhile, felt right.

Terrifying, yes, but right.

We'd built a fire, perhaps our first mistake. If the S.S. were patrolling the woods—which, despite my naïve hopefulness, was always a distinct possibility—they'd see the smoke rapidly. But winter was coming swiftly and the nights were getting colder. We hoped to reach Switzerland before the snows came. Fires meant losing fewer people to harsh conditions. I'd thought it would be okay. We hadn't had any kind of disturbance for nine days and we were almost at the next safe-house.

"A rest will do no harm," I told Luc. How I regretted my words only an hour later…

It had been a long day and I was exhausted, so while the rest of them chatted almost easily around the fire—sure that they were practically in the clear; Switzerland was only one safe-house and a week away—I laid down on my blanket in a small patch of grass and drifted off.

I was woken by the sounds of voices, heavy boots tromping through the woods, fierce German orders I could no more understand than I could like. There were new lights now, dim torches shining in my eyes, and I rolled over immediately, heart racing, grabbing a handkerchief and wrapping it around the lower half of my face, quickly berating myself for not putting it on before going to sleep.

I was not about to allow these German soldiers to get a clear view of my visage; not a single one had yet and I wanted to keep it that way. The other men had done the same, I knew, and they were actually being worthwhile in perhaps getting the two families into the dark safety of the woods.

I found myself overwhelmed as I scrambled to my feet, attempted to gain my bearings, and ducked as a bullet whizzed by my ear. The Germans, I came to understand, could see about as well as the rest of us, the ineffectiveness of their flashlights rather crippling; as such, their aim was abysmal. Which was a good thing, too. In the light of day, I'd have been dead.

I couldn't see if anyone was apprehended but right then my first instinct was to get my hands on any refugee I could and get them the hell out of there.

I finally laid eyes on the youngest girl in our group, cowering in fright, the shadows of the surrounding trees her only protection. I lurched towards her, desperate to grab her and run. It was darkness, confusion, and pandemonium and I could see no one else, besides the outlines of tall German officers, all screaming commands meant to frighten and intimidate.

My heart pounded as I reached towards the girl—her name was Ibel—and she saw me, caught onto my meaning, turned and sprinted away, the shrewd thing. I wanted to protect her and I was sure she assumed I would follow her to do just that; being alone in the woods would have seemed a fate worse than death to the poor child.

If I had been a bit quicker, I could have helped her.

As it was, I barely took two steps before my hair—longer than I usually kept it—was seized in an incredibly stalwart grip and tugged, forcing the rest of me back with it. I screamed as I fell backwards, tumbling to the ground, my head landing on shiny black boots which immediately withdrew themselves from under me.

I looked up only to find a flashlight shining in my eyes. I made an attempt at scrambling into a seated position, but the boot lifted and stomped down hard on my chest, pinning me to the ground and knocking the wind from me in the same movement. Unable to do anything else, I crept my hand towards the gun hidden under my coat.

"Wer ist das, Standartenführer?" one of the soldiers asked the man with whose boot I was becoming very closely acquainted.

Judging from his respectful tone and the use of "Standartenführer," this man was a high ranking official. His foot pressed down slightly, eliciting a wheeze from me, but I didn't think he noticed that I was reaching for my gun.

"Wenn ich mich nicht irre," the colonel said in surprisingly mild tone, "ist est Hazel Montgomery."

God, I needed to learn German. I could only gather that this man knew who I was simply by seeing my half-masked face. I wasn't familiar with his voice, however, which led to me to believe that I had never actually met him.

That probably meant he'd been looking for me.

My fingers touched the metal handle of my pistol.

The colonel called a few orders back to his men and some of them took off in each direction, searching the woods for the rest of my companions. I breathed a sigh of relief. They'd heard them coming with enough time to scatter.

At the very least, they had a head start.

I hoped Ibel would be alright.

"Je ne peux pas me rappeler," the man said, suddenly switching to extremely fluent French, "si vous parlez le francais ou… non?"

He was wondering if I spoke French; more specifically, he said he couldn't remember if I did. Who was this man? He obviously knew more about me than I liked.

I decided to keep my French a secret.

"Go to hell, Nazi pig," I hissed in English.

The beam of the flashlight shifted away from my eyes and, after a moment of rapidly blinking, I was able to see the details of his face as he stared down at me, a charming dimpled smile on his lips.

I hated him as soon as I saw him, and of course I knew who he was. I'd seen his picture regularly in the newspapers.

Colonel Hans Landa of the S.S. was not particularly young, but nor could anyone call him old. In reading about him—he was, after all, one of the most dangerous of his kind; they called him the Jew Hunter for a reason—I'd learned he hailed from the Austrian Alps, was very well respected by German powers and soldiers alike, and was known for being extremely clever, extremely charming, and extremely merciless.

He had a strong jaw, full lips which spread into a devastatingly magnetic grin—with dimples—and bright blue eyes. Light brown hair with a hint of grey at either temple completed his disarmingly dashing appearance; seeing him in a uniform would make any girl under the Nazi banner swoon. He knew it, too. From what I'd heard, he'd never had a problem finding women in high places and helping them shatter their reputations.

This, I think, was what was so terrifying about Hans Landa. A villain such as he should have been ugly, unintelligent and unpopular. He was the antithesis of each of those.

As I stated before, I hated him.

"What luck!" he said in English, that stupid, proud smile still plastered on his face. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Montgomery. I will admit I have been looking forward to this for quite some time!"

All said with a smile. I had to resist the urge to spit at him.

I grasped my pistol, ready to put lead between his eyes. Considering my aim, however, coupled with my position on the ground at such an awkward angle—craning my head back to look at him—this would be next to impossible.

I'd be delighted if the bullet hit him at all.

"Who are you, again?" I asked, getting the inkling that digs at his pride would be most effective.

Sure enough, his smile slipped very slightly.

"I apologize, how rude," he said, his tone a bit lower. "I am Hans Landa of the S.S."

I pretended to think for a moment.

"Nope," I lied through my kerchief, "never heard of you."

His boot dug into my chest.

"Rest assured, Miss Montgomery, I've heard of you. Your actions, to me, educe a great deal of interest. I've been following them quite closely. Does this meeting really come as much of a surprise?"

I smiled, letting it reach my eyes as my finger wrapped around the trigger.

"Yes," I said. "I must have been oblivious to it. Tell me, Colonel Landa, how long have you been chasing me, exactly?"

Landa's eyes flicked upwards momentarily as he thought. I used his fleeting distraction to pull out the gun, and when his eyes darted back down to me and he saw the barrel pointed right at him, I pulled the trigger.

He stepped back, away from me, trying to dodge the bullet which just scraped his left shoulder. I jumped up as he stumbled, surprised that my plan had worked, and ran full speed into the woods.

I heard them following for a while. Then their lights faded behind me and, after a time, even their voices.

I just kept running.

I'd been in Paris for two weeks before the fate of the Dutch families reached me. Cristoph arrived at my doorstep, bearing the news.

They'd all reached Switzerland. None of them had been captured.

Guy and Luc had not been so lucky. Luc was shot down in the woods, his grave the base of an oak tree. Guy hadn't been heard from since that night; this meant he had been captured, had been wounded and crawled away to die, or, in the best case scenario, was hiding out.

I cried for them and laughed in relief for the Dutch families simultaneously, clinging to Cristoph's arms in the middle of my kitchen.

"What happened?" he asked once I'd calmed down a bit. "We got them out of there as quickly as we could. When we realized you weren't with us…" He shook his head.

I sunk down onto the couch and told him about my meeting with Hans Landa.

Christoph's eyes flickered with fear as soon as I said the Jew Hunter's name. The man was tremendously dangerous, brutal, but most of all intelligent.

"You say he knew you," Cristoph said. "Your mask was on the entire time?"

I nodded, subconsciously feeling the lower half of my face as though I could conjure the memory in sharper detail simply by doing so.

"I wonder how you were recognized."

"Cristoph," I sighed, shaking my head, "how many women matching my description do you see running about the woods with Jewish fugitives? Landa didn't have to have seen me before to know exactly who and what I was. The mask would have given up my identity immediately."

"True," Christoph muttered, lowering himself into an armchair. "Now, this presents a rather striking problem."

I frowned at him. I agreed, Landa has seen the color and shape of my eyes, but brown wasn't exactly a rare hue for irises. My hair, which had been in a long braid that night, was never coifed into such a style while I was in town. The problem wasn't so much striking as it was easily managed.

But Christoph always had a point. I raised my eyebrows, asking him to continue.

"Hans Landa lives in Paris," he said, something I knew already. I nodded. "So what happens, Hazel my dove, when your eminent social status brings you into yet another German soiree and Landa, who's fame spreads like wildfire, is at the same event?"

Such a situation was hardly feasible. It was true that I'd been invited to more than one Nazi get-together—Adele Benoit was not a prolific supporter of the Germans though she stayed on good terms with them—but I'd never seen Landa at one.

"Risible," I whispered, looking down. "It will not happen, Christoph."

I hoped.

I stared at myself in the mirror, heaving a deep breath as I smoothed down the green chiffon on my stomach and turned slightly to the side.

This was the third party this month that I was obligated to attend, for fear of insulting some rich Nazi, and they were starting to strain my nerves. It was never a comfortable crowd to be surrounded by and, at the moment, a Jewish family was hiding in a small room behind a bookcase in my parlor. Once, a few German soldiers had all but demanded to accompany me back to my apartment for drinks and I'd been sick with anxiety after they left.

I'd dyed my hair a rich mahogany brown three days after returning from the encounter with Landa—which I liked far more than my natural mousy blond—and had it curled fashionably that morning in a salon.

Admittedly, I'd never quite gotten over the charm of preparing for a party. Ever since my youth doing so was a true pleasure. Wearing pretty gowns, pampering myself, having an excuse to go to a stylist at the center of Paris, being surrounded by high fashion… I was living any girl's dream.

Except this one had Nazis.

The festivities that night were held in the house of an extremely wealthy Vichy Frenchman by the name of Louis Crevalier, a dogmatic Nazi supporter. I'd met Louis three years ago and pretended to be charmed and rather in love with him ever since. In truth, I found the man odorous, but I kind of liked the idea of leading him on. If he ever tried to make a serious move, he'd be sorely disappointed.

"Mademoiselle Benoit!" he greeted me as soon as I entered, as though he'd been hovering by the door to await someone he felt he might get to see naked that night.

Louis was handsome and had more than one girl after him. They must not have arrived yet.

"Monsieur Crevalier, you're looking well," I told him in French, unable to keep a touch of boredom from my tone as I looked over gilded railings to the crowded ballroom below.

I noted more than one German uniform and tried not to cringe at the oversized swastika tapestry hanging from the banister opposite.

"What a lovely crowd. It seems you have every single German officer in Paris here."

Louis chuckled, the laugh obviously outweighing his amusement.

"Oui, presque tout a fait," he agreed. "We should dance, Mademoiselle."

"And we should do so all night," I said, groaning inwardly and taking his proffered arm. We made our way down the stairs and into the crowd of dancers.

A/N:

Inglourious Basterds is a phenomenal movie, so much so that I actually feel the need to say I have no hope of doing any kind of justice to it, even the very limited amount a fanfiction can do. However, my addiction to it--and to the character Hans Landa, as portrayed by Christoph Waltz, who I hope to see more of in the future--has been so strong that I just HAD to write this and post it. It's all I can think about at present, and I've been neglecting my other stories to bring you this. The chapters will probably be shorter than in my other stories, but that means I'll be posting more, especially if I am the lucky recipient of a buncha reviews!!

I guess if you're here I don't really have to justify a Hans Landa/ OC romance, but if you're skeptical or here because you got a Favorite Authors alert, I ask you to hear me out. Yes, I know Landa is an SS officer, and that he works for Nazis, and for a while that thought gave me a stomach ache. BUT BUT BUT!!

I found this interview on SlashFilms with Christoph Waltz, the guy who plays Landa and, so, has more authority to talk about the character than almost anyone else:

"What makes him so intriguing is exactly that; he's not driven by an ideology. When people say "Nazi," it's such a gross generalization, I feel. And sometimes I feel compelled to say, "Well, he's not even a Nazi." Yes, he wears that uniform, but he doesn't care. Not about Nazi ideology. He's completely unideological. He just understands how the world turns, and in that way, he's three steps ahead of everyone else."

So, I swing with that. In the movie, Aldo accuses him of being a Nazi and he denies this, calling himself a "damn good detective." I'm rolling with that.

If you hate it, don't read. No one's forcing you.

More to come soon (given the way I've been writing this, probably VERY soon)! Let me know what you think! Review please!!