A/N: This oneshot was inspired by the fact that in the Hetalia fandom, Germany tends to be made out as this horrible Nazi character during the WW2 era. I don't think this is so. I think that the Hetalia characters, as personifications of their entire nation, reflect their people but are also their own individuals. They have free will to think and feel, no matter how much their government and culture shape that. They have been through many centuries, experienced many things, and it's impossible that they'd ever get through it without feeling some sort of regret or sorrow. Not when so many people die. Not when so many tragedies occur. Say what you will, but I don't think Germany is a bad man. Nor are any Germans evil, nor is Germany just a "former Nazi country". On the contrary, I find it to be a wonderful place full of kind and hard-working people.
I have strived to be as historically accurate as possible while being sensitive, too. I know that these are real events and I hope that the rest of the fandom realizes that as well. Real people died in the events portrayed in Hetalia. Real people suffered. The Polish occupation was extremely brutal and bloody, and I cannot emphasize the terrible impact it had on civilians. The little girl in this story is just one of many. I hope this story will raise a historical awareness among Hetalia fans, for us to be sensitive and empathetic towards the victims of these events, and for that to show through our attitude towards these events. Now without further ado, I hope you enjoy this story.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz, and the events mentioned to history and time. A hundred million thanks once again to the three people on Google Plus who read, corrected, and approved the German and Polish translations! To those survivors of the Polish occupation and of WW2 overall, and to the descendants of these survivors, I salute you.
In early November of 1941, the sky above Przemyśl was ashes and snow.
The streets were not empty, not full. They were stained dirty beige and iron-gray, mottled veins beneath a winter-pale sky. Collapsed under the weight of war, ruined by the harsh scars of gunfire — the old wounds were visible and terribly distinct, a pockmarked face. Walking through these tired streets, Ludwig noted the dust that powdered the road. It settled on his polished black boots, thinly coated his pressed uniform.
He stopped. He breathed the cold air in.
These streets were his now. The old dividing of the city between his forces and the USSR's, all of that was over. Russia's soldiers had been driven out, Operation Barbarossa had been put into full force. Slowly, he exhaled. His breath emerged as white fog around his face.
As he continued on his way, Polish citizens scurried away from Ludwig's uniformed figure, from the red-white-and-black band around his arm. Their thin clothes were layered with the same gray dust on his boots. He remained alert. His gloved hands were at his sides, ever-ready to pull out his gun and defend himself. There was no place for uncertainty, for any hesitation here. After all, what would it matter if he added a little more to the number of those he'd killed already?
In a dank alleyway, a bundle of rags lay forgotten against the shattered wall of the adjacent building. A dirty basket had been abandoned beside it. Ludwig gave it a brief glance before turning away and continuing on.
Thus, these were the three things Ludwig noticed that first day.
The ruined streets of Przemyśl.
The dust coating his boots and the Polish people.
The rags in the alley.
It was on the second day that he realized the latter was in fact a little girl.
"Hey, du. Was machst du hier?" (Hey, you. What are you doing here?)
Her feet had been the dead giveaway. From the bottom of the dirty bundle stuck out two little feet, red from cold and blackened with filth. The child seemed to shrink into herself against the winter chill, but Ludwig could still see her feet, the frayed shirt too small to cover her entirely. Ten toes were tightly curled from the cold; Ludwig could glimpse pallid skin beneath all the dirt.
Red. White. Black. How ironic.
"Bitte kaufen Sie eine Blume."
(Please buy a flower.)
Her German was heavily accented and her voice was hoarse, rather surprisingly so. Ludwig's superiors would often scream themselves hoarse as well. Always shouting orders to a vast gathering of young soldiers, all with faces as set and focused as his Führer's. But he knew, or at least he felt he knew, the reason behind her ragged voice.
Gunshots, bullets, splintering concrete, screams. So many screams. They had cried out for family, friends, for mercy. Shrieked until the bullets felled them, or their throats cracked and died before them. Overwhelming terror had been carved into their faces, such terrified faces—
"Du sprechen Deutsch?" (You speak German?)
In any case, when Ludwig passed by the alley that second day, when he looked over and saw her feet, when he'd approached warily and heard her speak and knew then that it was a little Polish girl — some forty years later, he would think back on this moment, and be ashamed of the first word that had crossed his mind: Untermensch.
Subhuman.
"Bitte, kaufen Sie eine Blume."
As it turned out, the frayed basket beside her was not trash as Ludwig had first thought. Clumps of dried, crumbling flowers were spilling out from it. Lavender, by the looks of the blooms. It seemed that was as far as her German went, however. Ludwig made a frustrated noise and then stepped back when the rags stirred. He was startled to see blue eyes peer up at him. Hollow, hungry blue eyes beneath stringy yellow hair. A young face, ten or eleven years old at a guess, gaunt with starvation and exhausted fear. Maybe if she were rounded up and brought to the authorities, she might pass the tests for Germanization. Safe blonde hair. Safe blue eyes. Like him. It wasn't impossible.
Something flickered deep in Ludwig's chest, and he found himself looking down at the girl with abrupt pity. His mind seemed to overlay the image of her bony figure with another: how many others in his own land? How many other little children, starving and forgotten, unwanted, abandoned—
Nein.
Except.
Nein. Nein!
Not the same. They were not the same.
Untermensch!
And yet.
And yet.
He swallowed. "Wie heißt du? Wo sind deine Eltern?" (What's your name? Where are your parents?)
He shouldn't be doing this. He should have seized her the moment he laid eyes on her. He should be dragging her to his superiors, to the German guards out in the streets. He should be doing anything but this, speaking to her like she was an equal.
Like she was a human being and not…
"Verstehst? Sprechen, verdammt!" (Do you understand me? Speak, dammit!)
Perhaps here it must be explained that Ludwig is not a cruel man. He is not a bad person, but merely entangled in a web that he realized too late was inescapable. Like the others. Like so many like him, before him. He was desperate back then, desperate to prove himself. Still desperate, even now. To pull himself — his country — out of the mire and put it back where it belonged. And apparently it belonged in the highest place possible.
Yet there was doubt. Just as Hitler had gained millions of followers but a few kept their resignations, so too did Ludwig have a candle-flame of doubt within him. This flickering light grew, became scorching whenever he looked at those subject to expulsion. To humiliating degradation, or glass-shattering violence.
Or extermination.
As if a red-hot poker was pressed to his flesh with every scream, his doubt would turn into a blaze. He could feel the burn of it now when he looked at this young girl.
"Masz zamiar mnie zabrać…?"
"Was? Was hast du gesagt?" (What? What did you say?) Ludwig ran a frustrated hand through his hair. What was he even trying to do? The girl couldn't understand him, knew just five irrelevant words in German, and he wasn't even supposed to be talking to her. So why? Why?
Why?
He growled a string of profanities under his breath, then looked back at her. The little girl seemed to have lost interest in the soldier before her, her head dropped into her wan chest. It was obvious: she was dying in this lonely alleyway. If hunger didn't take her soon, then it would be the cold; the snows were approaching, and when they came she would breathe her last under a blanket of powdery white. Frozen and forgotten. Unwanted.
In Russia, his troops were dying from the cold, too. Even as they laid in wait outside Moscow, waiting for their orders, waiting—
Damn it. He clenched his jaw and shook his head.
"Du bleibst hier. Nicht bewegen, gut? Bleibt hier!" (You stay here. Don't move, okay? Stay here!)
Ludwig retreated quickly from the alleyway, with still no idea what he intended to do. Two soldiers, uniformed as he was, stood at attention on the street corner — he could go alert them now. He could take the girl to them himself. Hell, he could even take his gun and do away with her this very moment. What difference would it make, getting rid of just one more Slavic subhuman?
And yet.
A tiny voice followed him, crawling along the ground weakly. "Proszę, nie zabieraj mnie…"
He pressed his lips into a thin line and shut his eyes, hurrying away from the place. Part of him felt like he might've understood her. Another part was glad he couldn't.
It was a sickening sort of irony. A cold knot twisted in the pit of his stomach with every step. Verdammt, Ludwig was disgusted with himself. One moment he was sitting at the same table with other officers, discussing Poland's further Germanization and the makeshift camps needed for the expelled Poles, the ongoing search for Poland himself, who rumor claimed had become a leader in his own Resistance movement — and the next he was hiding a loaf of hastily purchased bread under his jacket, hurrying back to the alley.
It was soft wheat bread. In the bakery Ludwig had suddenly realized the need to buy the most expensive kind they had. It wouldn't look right if he came in and got a cheap loaf of dark rye. Not when his soldiers were infamous for just demanding what was "rightfully" theirs be handed over. So when the baker nervously greeted him and asked a question in Polish, Ludwig had silently pointed to the pricey white bread, indicating exactly what he wanted.
The money he'd put on the counter was much less than what the bread was worth. Walking fast through the streets, Ludwig tried to comfort his conscience with the fact that he'd intentionally taken the smallest loaf. It was fresh from the oven, warm, even hot against his chest. Just like the doubt burning inside him.
So pathetic.
"Ich bin wieder da, Kind." (I'm back, child.)
Was it right for him to be relieved she was still there? She lay still, half-asleep, a bundle of rags that moved just barely with every breath. When he squatted down before her, the girl stirred and blue eyes, safe blue eyes blinked at him again, weary and startled.
"Twój że żołnierz..."
Ludwig smiled, letting out a tired laugh. "Wenn ich wüsste polnische, könnte ich mit Ihnen zu sprechen." (If I knew Polish, I could talk to you.) He sighed and then pulled out the bread from his jacket.
The reaction was instantaneous. The girl jolted upright, her eyes widening at the sight of food. It must have been so long since she had anything to eat. She let out a weak whine and made a feeble grab for the bread, without another glance at him. Ludwig swallowed hard. Her hands were so bony.
This was wrong. This was all so wrong. He turned away from the starved, desperate look on her face as he broke off a third of the loaf. The moment he held it out, she seized it away and huddled against the wall to tear into it eagerly.
He stared at the ground, trying to ignore the animalistic sounds she made as she ate. It reinforced everything that had been drilled into his mind, the minds of his people: the Slavs are not human, the Slavs are less than slaves, less than animals, we are the superior race, we are superior.
Deutschland über Alles. Germany over everything.
He wanted to remind himself she was just a hungry girl, but even then he couldn't. She wasn't a girl, wasn't a child, wasn't even human, was not, was not, was not—
"Du hast keine Angst vor mir…" he said. "Warum?"
(You're not afraid of me. Why?)
She chewed and swallowed and glanced up at him, uncomprehending. Ludwig shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. Frustration began to bloom in his chest, bitter and harsh.
It would be so easy. Ridiculously easy. To take her away, to drag her from the alley. He kept returning to that thought as he watched her eat, noting the sheer difference between them. His decorous uniform and her ripped, dirty rags. His powerful build and her terrible thinness. His superiority. Her inferiority. Stop it.
A sobbing sound pulled Ludwig out of his reverie. With a jolt, he realized that the girl was bent over the morsel of food now. Her hands trembled as she tore and lifted handfuls of bread to her mouth, eating as if she would never eat again. And she was crying. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, gulping. The food went down in lumps, he could tell.
"D…Dziękuję..." A moment of silence. "Um… Danke, soldat."
He blinked, then laughed oddly. Two more words then: "thank you" and "soldier." How had she picked up on those? "Thank you" was an easier guess — maybe she'd heard the German soldiers chatting, figured out the meaning of the term. Perhaps she had family members who were German and taught her a few phrases.
But the other word, "soldier," made him a little uneasy. Even little children such as these could be used as Polish spies. The word could be used as a warning, shouted to German citizens who sympathized with the Polish but spoke not a word of their language. If she didn't look so pathetic, Ludwig might have turned her in then and there.
Might have.
"Keine Ursache." (Don't mention it.) He meant it half-literally. Ludwig couldn't begin to imagine the disapproval and outrage this would be met with. He gave a heavy sigh and set down the rest of the bread beside her, in the basket. The dried lavender crumpled under the weight.
"Essen Sie nicht dieses zu schnell. Verstehst?" (Don't eat this too quickly, understand?) He did what he could to make himself understood, pointing at the bread and then the girl's stomach, a stern look on his face. She just looked at him, perplexed, and he sighed again. What was the point?
"Ich komme morgen wieder, gut?" Ludwig murmured, standing. (I'll be back tomorrow, okay?) Then, after a moment of hesitation, he reached out to place a gloved hand on her head.
She didn't move. Didn't seem to breathe. Underneath his palm Ludwig seemed to feel her trembling slightly — whether with cold or fear, he wasn't sure. After a long minute, he cleared his throat and finally moved his hand away. "Ja... Ich komme wieder."
He pretended he couldn't feel her gaze on his back when he left. It burned.
"Um…"
"Hm?" Ludwig looked up at her; the little girl wore a frown as she regarded him. The glass milk bottle was clutched tight between her hands, half-drained already.
"K… Kaufen Sie…eine Blume…" She swallowed and set down the bottle, reaching over to pull her basket closer. She sifted around in it before pulling out a small sprig of lavender. The bloom still had a touch of purple to it, barely more alive than the rest.
"Oh. Er, danke, aber ich brauche das nicht…" Ludwig replied, blinking in confusion. (Thank you, but I don't need this.)
"J-Jest podziękowaniem prezent. Dla Ciebie," she said and pressed the sprig to his hand. She looked up at him, frowning, frustrated that she couldn't make him understand.
Ludwig slowly took the flower from her. The blossoms crinkled under his fingertips, delicate and powdery. He inhaled, looked up, and managed a small smile and nod.
"Mm. Danke."
She beamed and suddenly Ludwig had the urge to look away. That heart-wrenching smile stretched at her gaunt cheeks almost painfully. Yet it lit up her face, too, a candle in a dark room. Why, why, why — she was just a child. Just a little child.
"Proszę bardzo!"
The German froze, emotions surging in his chest as the girl turned back to her bottle of milk. He could hear the roar of his Führer's voice in his ears, the thunder of several thousand soldiers marching. The howl of Russian snow. The shattering rain of bullets. The low hiss of gas. The screams for mercy. The whisper of the dried-out flower in his palm.
If.
If he could save someone—
Just one person—
Oh, scheiße. What was he thinking? This went against everything he believed in, everything his people believed in, his Führer, his soldiers, everything! I can't. I can't!
But.
He could.
Safe blue eyes. Safe blonde hair.
If he could get her to somewhere safe, maybe Sweden, yes, Sweden was still unoccupied, Ludwig remembered the frustration and rage that had stirred among the officers, dammit, Sweden was still free — no, no, focus, if he could somehow smuggle her across the borders — how? how? It was impossible, he couldn't — but he could, he had connections, money, if needed he could even do it himself as a last resort — no, that would cause suspicion, but maybe if he found someone who sympathized, someone who would be willing—
Oh.
Oh, verdammt.
Was he actually going to go through with this?
He lowered his gaze, heart pounding in his chest as if it would burst through his ribs. By chance his eyes fell on the sprig of lavender. Maybe the most meager gift he'd ever been given, from a Polish citizen to a German soldier, her worst possible enemy. He was her enemy, as she was his. What thoughts were he entertaining, thoughts of betrayal and rescue and…and…?
In the back of his mind, he could hear them: the groans of his soldiers deep in Russia. Their shivery conversations, their wishes to come home, for the war to end soon so they could come home. Home to Germany, oh great Germany.
And then the others. The others with their despair, their wishes for it to end, the war to end, their lives, the deaths, torture, crippling hunger, bullets, everything—
Just one person.
Just one person saved, for everyone he had not.
He closed his hand around the flower and looked up at the little girl. She was gazing back at him.
"Ich werde dich an einen sicheren Ort zu nehmen," he whispered and reached out to touch her cheek. "Ich verspreche."
(I'll take you to a safe place. I promise.)
Stars pricked the dark sky outside, pinpoints of bluish-white light. The moon was veiled by clouds so the starlight proved more helpful in illuminating his path. Ludwig gripped the collar of his coat tight. He constantly cast furtive looks around as he walked through the dark streets. The shine of headlights and a rumbling engine alerted him, and he slipped into a narrow alley just as a German armored car turned the corner. Fortunately it continued on, tires slicing over the damp ground with a muted shhhhhh. He exhaled. The drivers hadn't noticed him.
He kept going over the plans in his head, over and over as he hurried on. A dirty puddle splashed underfoot and he cringed at the noise. If he was seen, if they were seen, oh, if they were seen— No, no, he had to remain calm. He had to think rationally, dammit. The child... Somehow he had to get her out of Przemyśl without anyone noticing. He had a car waiting, just outside the city, where he would take her as far as he could. With luck — as well as a great deal of manipulation on his part — they could cross the border to Berlin without any problems. His sudden absence might not be too suspicious if his superiors were told he'd taken sudden illness. Then maybe they could take a train to Hamburg and then into Denmark. (Occupied Denmark, his land, my land, mine — no, damn it, focus!) Once they were in Denmark, he could get a boat, get the girl to cross the Kattegat strait.
If needed, he could even contact Sweden.
Get him in on it.
Get him to keep her safe.
Suddenly Ludwig stopped. The urge to laugh bubbled up in his chest and throat. Ask Sweden to save a little Polish girl for him — oh that would be ironic. Sweden, who was doing all he could to fight against Germany. Sweden, the one who remained free. Sweden, who hated him with a fervor.
Like they all did. All of them. Denmark. Poland. France. England. America. Russia. All of them.
He let his head drop into his hands, pressing his knuckles against the space between his eyes so hard that it hurt. Only he could save this child then. The burden was on his shoulders, and his alone. Slowly, he dropped his hands to touch his coat pocket lightly. He could just feel the outline of the flower, the soft crinkle of petals against fabric. Ludwig released a shuddering breath and then straightened. He had to do this. He could do this.
He turned the corner — and froze. His mind shut down. Shock. Blank. No.
A small group of soldiers stood outside the alleyway. Two of them held onto leashed dogs. One was just emerging from the alley, holding a basket of dried flowers and a torn loaf of bread.
No.
Another soldier snorted at his friend. "Was machst du mit diesem Müll?" he asked. (What are you doing with that trash?)
"Ich werde es wegwerfen, was sonst?" (I'm going to throw it away, what else?) was the matter-of-fact answer. The young man rolled his eyes at the other and went to dump the basket and bread into the gutter.
"Hey, nehmen das Brot," said another man. "Wir können es vor die Hunde zu füttern." (Take the bread. We can feed it to the dogs.) There was an assenting grunt in reply and the soldier picked up the loaf, tearing it in half and dropping it in front of the straining dogs. Ludwig watched, senses numbed as the animals pounced onto the food.
Oh. Oh, the car. She was on that car. He felt as if his legs were going to give, the weight of despair pressing against his lungs, suffocating. Despair and failure. Failure.
He'd failed her.
Why? Why? Why?
"Du da drüben! Was machen Sie hier?!" (You there! What are you doing here?) The soldiers' voices changed, becoming accusatory and menacing. Their dogs snarled and snapped their leather leashes taut, pointed ears shoved towards him. Ludwig felt a surge of ire in his chest, fueled by the burning doubt that now flared so much bigger than a candle-flame.
He thundered, "Ist das wie Sie Ihre Vorgesetzten anzusprechen?! Idioten!" (Is that how you address your superior?!) His gloved fingers unbuttoned his coat and he yanked it open to reveal his uniform. The men startled to see braided medals on his chest, those that signified he was a high-ranking officer.
"Heil Hitler!" they responded at once, jolting to attention and cocking their arms in salute. Ludwig gritted his teeth, his anger roiling inside him. I failed, I failed, I failed—
"Rührt euch!" he bellowed and immediately they put down their arms. "Wast ist denn hier los?" Of course he knew perfectly well what had happened. The girl had been discovered and then taken away. That was the simple fact of it. Simple.
Rage twisted in his chest, choking him like thorns. It was his fault, all his fault. If he had just come sooner — if he had just helped her right away that morning, damn the plans — if, if, if!
"Nichts, Sir! Wir fanden einfach ein wenig Untermensch Versteck hier!" explained the soldier that had ordered the girl's bread be fed to the dogs. He seemed to be the leader. (Nothing, sir! We just found a little Untermensch hiding here!)
Don't call her that, Ludwig suddenly wanted to roar at him. Don't you dare call her that! Because she wasn't anything less than human, she wasn't, she was just a girl, a little girl who gave him a flower in return for the food given to her, this was his fault, his fault, all his fault— "Ist...!
"...Ist...das so...! Gut gemacht!"
(Well done.)
No. No. Wait. What was he saying?
"Sie haben Ihren Job gut gemacht. Fahren Sie weiter!" (You did your job well. Carry on.)
No! Why? Why?! Why?!
Why…
"Heil!" The soldiers clicked their heels together and saluted him once more. He "Heil"'d and nodded — barely feeling the action — and then continued walking down the street, away from them. Away from the alley. Away from the basket and spilled flowers in the gutter.
Away from the soldier that had emerged from inside him. Away from the war. Away from the terror, the violence, the darkness. Just away. From all of it.
His hands were trembling, violently. Upon reaching the next street, his boot caught on the curb and he stumbled. With a gasp his hands shot out to catch himself, the torn concrete ripping at his palms. It sent pain jolting through his body and wrenched Ludwig out of his numbed mind. He choked and fought back a sob, tears springing to his eyes before he could stop them.
The one time he thought he could help someone, the one time he could do something good, for once—
The German officer pressed his bleeding palm to his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a shuddering breath and then opened his mouth, teeth scraping over the wound before he bit down, hard. The sickening tang of blood filled his mouth and his face clenched in pain. But no, not hard enough. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to punish him for this, for any of this! Ludwig inhaled sharply and ground his teeth down harsher, welcoming the agony of it, welcoming the burning rage and grief in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such self-loathing.
"Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir leid. Bitte, verzeihen Sie mir…!"
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Please, forgive me.
Red blood dripped onto the wet pavement. In his pocket, the flower was crumbling.
Many years have passed since that time.
Ludwig tugged at his shirt collar, shielding his eyes with his hand to peer up the street. Venice was especially bustling today. The summer season brought tourists, good business, and a great deal of sunlight. He sighed and glanced down at his watch. Feliciano should be coming soon.
He decided he might as well take a little stroll; it had been a while since he'd visited Italy. The city was so very different from his Berlin. Longboats drifted along the wide canals, and the old buildings seemed to float atop the water's surface. There was color everywhere with rainbow fruit stands and embroidered clothing. Venice was beautiful, like a dream, and Ludwig knew that this city was Feliciano's pride and joy.
Immersed in his thoughts this way, Ludwig turned a corner and nearly ran into a group of young children. The kids squealed and swerved around him while he froze, startled. Three kids, two girls and one boy, chattering and shouting in rapid Italian, one of the girls had brunette hair, the other two had blonde...
"Attento! Voi ragazzi quasi urtato in quest'uomo!"came a scolding voice. A young woman turned the corner and glowered after the children. They just laughed and waved at her as they ran off. She sighed and looked at Ludwig, saying what seemed to be an apology. He blinked.
Blue eyes. Safe blue eyes. It couldn't be—
...No. No, it wasn't her. This woman's hair was a darker shade of blonde, and her blue eyes were tinted with hazel. It wasn't that little girl, his little Polish child, from long ago. Ludwig felt himself slump in disappointment. Why would he even think so? Why was he even holding onto the past like this?
"Tutto bene, signore?" (Are you all right, sir?)
"Eh? Um…" He blinked and fumbled for the right words. Feliciano had taught him a few Italian phrases and he had studied it himself. However, his fluency was another matter entirely. "Ah, sì, sto…sto bene. Grazie." (Yes, I'm fine, thank you.)
He winced at his weak pronunciation and the way his accent made the words heavy and clumsy. It was so unlike the bouncy lilt he'd always hear when Feliciano spoke, be it in another language or his own native tongue.
"Oh, bene, sono contento! Mi dispiace per i miei figli, a loro piace correre e essere cattivo molto," the woman said with a laugh. Ludwig frowned, his cheeks reddening because he'd understood extremely little of what she said.
"Er…" With a self-conscious cough, he averted his gaze, and it fell on a bunch of flowers. Oh… The Italian woman stood before a great array of bright flowers, all arranged in painted clay pots, wrapped in colored tissue paper. So she was a florist of some sort; she was tending to a bouquet of white lilies with a fond expression, humming as she worked. Ludwig's attention, however, was on something much less extravagant.
Gathered in a small blue vase were lavender flowers, their blossoms fresh and fragrant, so alive.
Ludwig swallowed hard, the memories flashing behind his eyes. The tiny sprig of lavender… It had crumbled away to dust not long after the encounter with the soldiers. The sight had pained him: that sort of symbolism had been too clear, too close to home. The self-contempt, the sense of personal failure, had eased with time but every now and then he would suddenly remember. The dirty alleyway, the soft heat of the bread, her cold fingers as he took the flower from her hand, his own hands bleeding and bitten. Vivid like it'd happened only yesterday.
He never found out what happened to her, that young Polish girl. Too many people had died in that war, often too many to keep track of. Sometimes the numbers even had to be estimated, the sheer magnitude of it so vast. Ludwig had been afraid to ask after the girl's fate, even long after the war ended. Even after the camps were shut down and prisoners rescued. Even after Poland's partitions were lifted and the Nation came out from hiding, battered and weary but proud. Triumphant.
Then, when Ludwig finally gathered his courage and asked Feliks if he might know what had happened to a young citizen of his — ten years old, female, with blonde hair and blue eyes — the Nation had just gazed at him. It was a long minute before at last Feliks smiled faintly and said,
"I had a lot of kids like that, y'know…"
That was all. Their conversation had ended there and Ludwig never brought the topic up again. And honestly, he knew he had no right to. He had no right to worry about one of Feliks' citizens, not when he had caused so much of their suffering. So he knew that no matter how much he dug around, looking and looking, he would never know the fate of that child.
"Ah, ti piacciono quei fiori, signore?"
"Pardon? Oh, er… Scusi?" Ludwig started slightly, blinking and looking at the woman standing before him. She chuckled and pointed at the lavender bouquet.
"Sono molto carina, no? Se vuoi, posso dargli uno sconto su di essi," said the Italian woman, gesturing at the price tag looped around the vase, making a downwards motion and then pointing at Ludwig. The German frowned, struggling to translate her words in his head.
"Oh… Sì, per favore. Um... Quanto costano?" he asked. She smiled and named a reasonable price, and when Ludwig nodded she began wrapping the bouquet for him as he pulled out his wallet. She even tied a white ribbon around it, just laughing and waving off his protests. He sighed and thanked her, smiling weakly as he handed her a few bills. The florist accepted them with a cheery nod.
"Grazie, signore!"
"Mm, grazie. Ci vediamo." Ludwig waved as he continued walking on, the lavender flowers held protectively against his chest. Which turned out to be a good thing because in the next instant, something slammed into his back out of nowhere. "WHA—"
"Buongiorno, Germany! You're here!" piped a familiar, overly excited voice. Two slim arms were squeezing his middle. With a groan Ludwig looked over his shoulder (and down) to see tousled brown hair and a grinning face. Honestly, for a grandson of the great Rome he was too careless, by far!
"Feliciano! We can't address each other like that in public, you know that!" Like most of their kind, the two Nations spoke to one another in English. Some found it easier than trying to converse in each other's native languages.
"Ehh, Germa— Ludwig, you're hurting me!" Feliciano yelped softly as Ludwig rapped his knuckles against his forehead. His brown, gold-flecked eyes were hurt when he looked up at the taller man. Though that expression soon faded into enthusiasm as the Italian talked in that rapid way of his. "But aren't you happy to see me, Ludwig? I am, I finally found you and I cleaned up my house and made pasta all ready for you, and I was going to pick up some nice wine but then I saw a few pretty girls and I had to stop and chat—"
"None of that! If we can't get you to prepare dinner without slacking off, I shudder to think how you'd put up in a fight!"
"Huh?! No, Ludwig, I-I don't want to fight!" Feliciano seemed to remember something then. "Oh, is Prussia here, too? You said he was coming with you, right? I made a lot of food for him, too!"
"Gilbert. And yes, that's correct. Though where he's run off to now, I've no idea," Ludwig said with a sigh. Feliciano laughed and clung to his arm.
"Okay, so we have some free time now, don't we! Let's go pick up the wine and then go shopping for a little! Oh — did you buy flowers?" Ludwig suddenly remembered he was holding a bouquet. Feliciano took the lavender from his hands, his eyes brightening. "Wow, they're so pretty! Are they for me, Ludwig?"
"Wh— That's not it! I-I just saw them and thought they were nice, that's all!" Ludwig stammered, all of a sudden profoundly embarrassed. Fortunately Feliciano just laughed and held the flowers close, inhaling their fragrance happily.
"Veee, if you say so! Now let's go, let's go! I want to buy you this really pretty shirt I saw earlier!" The Italian grabbed Ludwig's hand and pulled him forward, trotting over the wooden walkway with a spring in his step. Ludwig groaned as he followed.
"Not again… I thought I told you I don't want anymore of your weird fashion!"
"Huh? No way, it's not weird at all! It looks good on you, Ludwig, even though your shoulders are very big and you usually end up stretching out the fabric a lot!" was the incredulous response. Ludwig just sighed this time, not even bothering to argue.
But as they jogged down the walkway, he heard a shriek of laughter behind him and looked back to see the florist's children running towards her. They had a grinning, dark-skinned man in tow. The florist smiled wide and rose up onto her toes to kiss him. The man laughed and held her around the waist, swinging her in a circle as their kids shouted and tugged on their clothes.
The little Polish girl came to mind again. No, he would never know what happened to her. He would never know if she died in a camp or in a battle, or if she lived through the war after all.
He could only hope that she survived. He could only hope that whatever happened, she survived and went on to live a happy life.
"Say, Germany, what kind of wine would you like?"
"Italy, I told you not to call me that!"
"Ehhh?! B-But you just—"
"Ack — just be quiet! And…I like white wine more than red, just so you know...!"
"Ah, okay!"
High over their heads, clouds drifted across the horizon, daisy-white and languid. The river canal continued to flow alongside them, like the passing of time. The sky above Venice was pressed blue flowers and hopes for tomorrow.