Title: Traveling Soldier
Genre: Romance/Drama
Rating: T
Summary: He had an hour until he left and thought sitting in the diner would be a good way to pass the time. She was too young to be dealing with a traveling soldier, but when he asked if he could write to her, she didn't hesitate to say yes.
Pairings: Austria/Hungary, slight Prussia/France
A/N: I got this idea while listening to the song "Traveling Soldier", by the Dixie Chicks. It's one of my old favorites and I thought it would work perfect with this pairing. The story somewhat follows the song, but of course with my own personal touches. The setting of this story is WWII and human names are used for all characters except one. I usually prefer to use the proper country names, but for the sake of the setting of this story, decided against it.
Please enjoy~
Extra Note: Is it Elizabeta or Elizaveta? Hetalia Wiki says Elizabeta, but this site says Elizaveta. I settled on Elizaveta in the end. Read what you will.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia and the song Traveling Soldier belongs to the Dixie Chicks and whatever label it was recorded on.
Traveling Soldier
"You boys have exactly one hour until we move out. I don't care if you want to go kiss your mother or screw your girl, but be back here in one hour." The commander fixed the small company with a steely look. "Anyone who is not back within that time period will be wishing that they were in the enemy's hands. Dismissed!" After saluting, the men slowly drifted off in their separate directions. Some took to the lake front, not knowing whether to throw themselves in or just watch the murky waters lap at the rocky coastline.
Others followed the commander's suggestion, skipping off to the nearest brothel, hands already fumbling with the belt buckle of their trousers as they ran.
"Hey, Roddy!" Roderich Edelstein winced at the nickname as he turned, wishing he had been among the first to depart and not linger in dazed idleness as he had.
"A few of us are going down to the Wood to smoke. Wanna come along?" Roderich couldn't quite remember the soldiers name but his type was common enough. Arrogant, naïve; the kind who thought war was an adventure and they the heroes of the dramatic tale. The kind who didn't think of the blood and the mess that came along with the story.
"Are you coming or not?" The man asked impatiently, causing Roderich to realize that his thoughts had wandered once more.
They tended to do that these days.
"No thank you." He said finally. "I'm going to go for a walk."
The soldier shrugged. "Suit yourself." He said. Roderich watched the group go—half wishing to call after them, tell them that he had changed his mind, but he stood his ground until the last green jacket had disappeared from view.
Roderich exhaled deeply, increasing the grip on his bag as he turned the opposite direction. An hour seemed like a lifetime, and there was nothing in the small town in which the company had been ordered to report to that appeared attractive enough to keep his attention for the duration of the time. As he reached the end of the street, he noticed a small diner a few blocks down to his left. There was nothing particularly special about the place—the architecture was old, the front sign chipping away and the once brilliant red brick faded to brown—but it seemed like a well enough place and maybe they would just let him sit down for a bit.
He shifted his bag again and made his way slowly towards the diner.
.
.
.
"Elizaveta! Psycho girl! I have two orders for the number eight. Table five. Get on it, sweetie."
"I'm not your sweetie, Gilbert. I've told you not to call me that." Elizaveta Hédeváry adjusted the flower in her hair as she addressed her co-worker and sometimes friend who only smirked in return.
"You keep saying that, sweetie, but one of these days you'll see how awesome I am." He said.
"And that will be the day when I leave this shithole and open a restaurant in Paris." Francis, the cook, chimed in from the back. "Now get those cute butts of yours moving. Order's up."
"It's always Paris with you Francis. Why Paris?" Gilbert asked as he picked up the plates.
"What's wrong with Paris?" Elizaveta asked, balancing her order in her hands. "I think it sounds like a lovely place."
"Yes, beautiful land, beautiful people. Heaven on earth." Francis sighed happily.
Gilbert snorted. "Why would you waste your time going somewhere boring like that?"
Elizaveta frowned. "And where would you go Gilbert? The Palace of Versailles so that you could look at yourself from every angle?"
"While that is a very good suggestion," Gilbert said as they left the kitchens, "No. I'd go to America and run for President. Then everyone would have to acknowledge the awesome me."
Elizaveta rolled her eyes. "You're such an idiot. Do you even know if you're allowed to do that?" She delivered the plates to their appropriate tables, the smile she reserved for customers sliding into place and then sliding off just as fast as she joined Gilbert back at the kitchens.
"Of course I can be President, sweetie. Hey Francis!" He called through the kitchen window. "Don't you think I'd make a great American President?"
Francis glanced up from the stove, his wavy blond hair still in perfect condition despite the heat. "You? President? No, my love, you are much too pretty for a job like that." He winked at Elizaveta and she giggled softly behind her hand, understanding the unsaid words of the 'compliment.'
Before Gilbert could begin to protest, the bell at the front of the diner jangled harshly, alerting them of the arrival of another customer.
"Oh shit," Gilbert hissed. "Just what we need. I never get a break around here. Check who it is Elizaveta."
"Check yourself." She snapped, but still peeked around the corner to see who had come in.
A young man—he couldn't have been much older than twenty—wearing a neatly pressed uniformed that identified him as a soldier. Thin rimmed spectacles sat lowly on a rather aristocratic nose and as he stood warily by the doorway of the diner he pushed them back up to settle more comfortably on his face
"A soldier." Elizaveta said turning back to her coworkers. "Not like any I've seen before though."
"What's he look like?" Gilbert asked at the same time Francis said with a predatory smile, "Oh you know how I love a man in uniform."
"Like some young master who should be hosting afternoon luncheons instead of going off to fight a war." She said, almost amused at her own description.
"I want to see!" Francis squealed, already loosening the strings of his apron.
"You. Stay back there." Gilbert ordered. Sulking, Francis reluctantly obeyed. "And you," he turned to Elizaveta. "Use that pretty face for something useful and go deal with him."
She scoffed at this. "When did you become the boss? You do it." But Gilbert only shook his head.
"No way. I don't want to deal with some stuck up brat. Besides, someone's got to keep an eye on this one." He jutted his thumb at Francis, who was still attempting to lean out the kitchen window to get a glimpse of the soldier. "Can't have him harassing customers again."
"I do not harass!" Francis pouted.
Elizaveta sighed. "Fine. I'll deal with him. You two enjoy yourselves back here."
"And what do you mean by that?" Gilbert demanded, the tips of his ears turning pink.
"Oh, you know. You guys don't need to hide anything from me." She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively, ignoring Gilbert's comments of denial, before exiting the kitchen.
The soldier was still standing by the door as she approached. "Welcome, sir." She said cheerfully. He started slightly at her sudden appearance and nervously pushed up his glasses once more. She ignored this and continued, "You can have a seat wherever you would like and I can take your order when you're ready."
Up close he had a nice face, she decided, for a soldier. Pretty, but still handsome enough that he didn't look like a girl.
"I was wondering if I could just sit if that's alright." He said. "I actually don't have much of an appetite."
It was Elizaveta's turn to be startled. "Oh, well, I suppose there's nothing wrong with that. Just let me know if you change your mind."
He nodded and chose a nearby booth, depositing his bag on the seat opposite of him. Elizaveta watched him curiously for a few seconds, wondering exactly what to do next, when a customer called out for her attention. Letting the strange soldier slip from her thoughts, she quickly attended to her duties, remembering him only when she returned to the kitchen.
"So what did he order?" Gilbert asked as she dropped the used plates into their appropriate bins. One of his buttons had been undone and his face was more flushed than it had been when she left. Francis will probably be in a similar state, she thought slyly, although the cook was now bent over the stoves, his back to her.
Then she remembered the question. "Who?" She asked.
Gilbert rolled his eyes. "The soldier, sweetie."
She ignored the hated nickname. "Nothing, actually. It was really strange. He said he just wanted to sit down." Now that he was back in her thoughts, her curiosity about the man returned with full force.
Gilbert looked equally confused. "Really? What a weirdo. Are you sure you didn't scare him or anything Elizaveta?"
"Shut up, you idiot!" She said angrily. "Or I'll bash your face in with one of these pans."
Gilbert cackled at the threat, infuriating her even further. "You see, this is why you'll never get married."
"You can go to hell." Elizaveta snarled before storming out of the kitchen.
"You really shouldn't tease her like that." Francis had finally turned away from the stove, his appearance as Elizaveta had guessed.
Gilbert raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly on the window ledge. "And when did you become the voice of moral reason?"
Francis waved a spatula at him. "You are an ass."
"Would you have me any other way?"
.
.
.
Roderich checked the time on his fob watch, surprised that he still had more than half an hour to spare. He wasn't particularly eager to leave, but waiting was even worse because he didn't know if he was waiting to live or waiting to die.
He wasn't sure if he was scared yet—the only feeling in his gut the churning sensation of anxiety and confusion. His parents had been dead for years, but had left him enough money that he could have easily avoided being pulled into this war.
So what was he doing?
Was he doing his duty to his country—going to war? Fighting battles for men he didn't know and ideologies he didn't believe in?
No, that wasn't it at all.
In a sense, he was worse than the soldier who had invited him to come along for a smoke. At least men like that had reasons. Even if it was for selfish glory, it was better than going simply because it was there—the war.
"Excuse me sir?" Startled for the second time since he had walked into the diner, Roderich quickly composed himself and looked up to see the waitress from before looking at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"It's a bit warm outside and if you would like a glass of water or something like that, it's on the house. No charge at all." She smiled then, a genuine smile, not like the false cheerfulness from before and Roderich noticed that she was very pretty—especially with that bright flower in her hair. Too pretty. The type of girl his parents—when they were alive—had hoped he would marry, but he never had the courage—or the care—to talk to. But now, with nothing except 30 minutes before his life became nothing more than a whirlwind of uncertainty, he felt something completely unfamiliar build up in his chest.
"Would you like to take a walk with me?" The question sounded strange as it left his lips, but he didn't regret it. There wasn't time for regret.
The girl stared for a long time and Roderich waited patiently for her answer. When it finally came, he had to admit that he was still surprised, despite the blunt manner in which he had asked the question.
"Give me five minutes? I can take a break then."
He nodded. "I will wait for you outside." Roderich stayed seated until she had gone back to the kitchen before he took his bag and left the booth. As he closed the diner door behind him, he wondered if it was too late to start running until he reached the company's designated meeting point. But in the end, he waited and five minutes later, true to her word, the girl stepped out of the diner—she as surprised to see him still there as he was to believe that she had actually come.
"Where would you like to go?" She asked when the silence stretched too long.
"I don't know the town."
"There's an empty dock—no boats there these days—a few ways down. Is that O.K.?"
Roderich adjusted the bag on his shoulder. "Yes."
They walked without speaking, neither understanding why they were there but both knowing that life—with its constant twists and turns—didn't often give you opportunities like this.
When they reached the dock, they walked all the way to the end before Roderich finally asked, "What is your name?"
"Elizaveta Hédeváry."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"That's very young."
Elizaveta crossed her arms. "And how old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"That's pretty young as well."
Roderich was silent so she spoke up again.
"Why did you ask me to come out here?"
The soldier looked at her and she almost flushed underneath that intense gaze. "Why did you agree?"
Elizaveta furrowed her brow. "I don't know actually. It's not safe at all, a young girl like me going off alone with a man—a soldier no less."
At this the soldier smiled. A small smile, but it was enough that she felt the corners of her mouth tilt upwards.
"You're very brave then." He said.
She smiled wider. "Or very stupid."
He could feel time ticking away and for the first time, Roderich wished it would stop.
"Forgive me for being forward and I'm sure you have a boyfriend, but you assumed correctly, I am a soldier and in 10 minutes I'm going away. I don't know if I'll ever come back or if I'll ever see you again, but I was wondering, would it be all right if I wrote to you? I have no one else."
When she was young and her mother was still alive, they had gone to church on Sunday mornings, singing and praising a god that Elizabeta wasn't even sure she believed in. But during these holy Sunday mornings she had learned about miracles and the angels that often came along with those moments.
Maybe this was one of those moments.
"You got a name, soldier?" She asked.
"Roderich."
"You got a last name Roderich?"
"Edelstein."
"Roderich Edelstein. I will write to you every day of my life until I die."
"Thank you."
.
.
.
So she wrote. Every day.
Sometimes it was only a few sentences.
'Gilbert was being an extra idiot today. He broke five plates and dumped a glass of water on Mrs. Hess. I bet it was on purpose too.'
Or,
'Today Francis told me about the Eiffel Tower in Paris. If you don't know, it's a big metal tower that you can ride in all the way to the very top. I think we should go there someday.'
And once,
'It rained today and we didn't get a single customer. I thought it would be relaxing, but it was actually pretty lonely.'
Other times she wrote him whole pages, pouring her heart out onto countless pieces of paper until she ran out of ink or her candle flickered out.
Each day she walked to the town's small post office. Most days alone, but sometimes Gilbert tagged along—to tease and annoy, other times Francis—to flirt with the young woman the postmistress had recently hired as an assistant. Some days they closed down the diner and the three of them walked the whole ten blocks to drop the clean white envelope into the mailbox.
There wasn't always a letter waiting for her in return, but when there was, Elizaveta took it with eager fingers from the postmistress and tucked it safely into her pocket, not to open until she was curled up in bed, the words barely visible in the dim light.
"…up until I enlisted in the army I played the piano. I'm sure you don't believe me, but it's true. When I'm here, I wish I had my piano with me. You're laughing now, I know it but at night when it gets all cold and silent, there's nothing more in the world that I would want to hear than Chopin…except maybe your voice…"
To this particularly letter she replied:
"I do believe that you played the piano and when you come home you'll play for me. Promise? You'll play and I'll sit next to you and try not to touch the keys because I've never played a piano in my life..."
.
.
.
In a small town news traveled fast and you could hear everything, even when folks thought they were being quiet.
"She's only 17 that girl. Much too young to be writing to some soldier."
"I think it's a bit romantic."
"You're a fool and so is she. The only thing out there is death. That girl is only setting herself up for heartbreak."
"Don't listen to those bastards, sweetie." Gilbert said when Elizaveta told him what she'd heard. "You might act like an angry psycho sometimes, but you're no fool. I'm awesome so you can take my word on that."
That had been the first time Elizaveta had every hugged Gilbert and when she had let him go, his face had been redder than when she had told him she had saw him kissing Francis.
One day one of the letters was shorter than usual, ending simply with:
"The Allies are gaining more and more ground. I don't know how much longer we can hold out here. Don't worry, but I don't think I'll be able to write for awhile."
Elizaveta hadn't talked to God since her mother had died, but that night she got on her knees and prayed until the sun came up that Roderich would come back. Come back to her.
Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring. Four seasons, 1 year. Then two, then three. The letters began to arrive less frequently—one always shorter than the last—until one day Elizaveta realized that it had been exactly three months since the postmistress had given her anything.
But she kept writing, everyday, even when the war ended and the news of loss came roaring into the tiny town.
"They say he killed himself in the end…Hitler." Gilbert blew a cloud of smoke at Elizaveta, which she swatted away angrily. They had closed the diner earlier than usual. Not many people were hungry when they had just been defeated. "Taking the easy way out. What a fucking coward."
"What now?' Francis asked, stealing the cigarette from Gilbert's lips.
"Now Roderich can come home." Elizaveta said softly.
Francis took a deep drag from the cigarette before dropping it on the floor, crushing the last sparks with the heel of his boot.
.
.
.
The boys came home slowly. Some came without hands, others without a leg, and some in boxes. Wooden boxes that arrived on the train and were unloaded to the sound of mothers wailing and children curiously silent about fathers they had never known.
Elizaveta never went to the station. She never read the papers. She closed her eyes to the misery and covered her ears to block out the screams. The only thing she did was write.
Every day.
.
.
.
"Thank fucking God." Gilbert collapsed into a chair as the last customers closed the door behind them. "I thought they would never leave."
"And you didn't work very hard to hide it." Elizaveta scolded as she cleared the plates. "You were practically pushing them out the door."
Gilbert snorted. "Who cares? I'm exhausted. Francis, let's get out of here."
"We're going to that cinema they just opened. Wanna come along, psycho girl?" He asked as Francis sauntered out of the kitchen.
She shook her head. "No, not today. And when are you going to stop calling me that?"
"When you stop threatening to hit me with kitchen pans! What kind of sane person does that?"
"Perhaps if you weren't such an idiot all the time—"
"Enough you two," Francis finally cut in, "I've had enough screaming and noise today to last me a lifetime. Kiss, make up and let's close this place."
Elizaveta made a face. "I would rather kiss a donkey."
Gilbert pretended to look hurt. "She's so mean to me Francis. I don't know how much longer I can take it." He clutched his heart in mock pain.
Francis rolled his eyes before turning back to Elizaveta. "Are you sure you don't want to come along?"
"Yes," She answered, tossing her apron into the storage closet. "I…I was actually thinking of going to the dock today."
Gilbert stopped his false complaining and Francis frowned. They exchanged looks before turning to her.
"Want us to come along, sweetie?" Gilbert asked.
Elizaveta gave them a wide smile. "Nope. You two have fun. Let me know if the cinema is as great as they say it is." She saw the hesitation and concern still on their faces. "I mean it. I'll be fine. Go now. I can lock up."
Francis sighed. "If that's what you want. We'll see you tomorrow. You do remember what tomorrow is?"
"Of course I do. Who forgets their own birthday?"
"It'll be a night to remember." Gilbert said leaping up from his chair. "We'll go dancing and drinking until four in the morning. And then we'll keep drinking until we pass out."
"Sometimes I think you have a problem." Francis grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, dragging him towards the door. "Let's go."
Elizaveta waved to them until they turned the corner, the sight of them together—not for the first time—twisting her heart. But at the same time she was happy for them. Most people in town were very open about their negative opinions regarding the relationship, but those two could care less. They had to be the strangest pair ever—Gilbert was an arrogant idiot, Francis a shameless pervert—but there was something right about them.
Elizaveta let out a deep sigh as she locked the diner door behind her. Tomorrow she would be 21—an old maid in the eyes of a town where the people were always living in the past. Gilbert could talk about dancing and drinking, but she didn't need a party, or flowers and gifts.
What she wanted was white, square and smelled like gunpowder and aftershave.
"Anything for me today, Seychelles?" The postmistress' assistant was a young, dark skinned girl who had appeared in the town three years ago with nothing except the clothes on her back and the wish for a job. Not easy for a girl of that color. Elizaveta had almost asked her if she wanted to work at diner—despite her fears of what Francis would do to the girl—but the postmistress, who had been overwhelmed by the amount of war mail that had been pouring into the town, had taken up the girl first. For most of the town, the girl had become one of their own, something Elizaveta hoped meant that times were really changing.
"Not today, Miss Lizzy." Seychelles said sadly, the words all too familiar now.
Keeping the smile on her face, Elizaveta shrugged. "Well maybe tomorrow then."
"That would be the perfect birthday present, don't you think?"
"Yes it would. I'd be content with just that. You have a good day now Seychelles." With a small wave Elizaveta left the post office, unaware of the pained expression with which the girl watched her go.
.
.
.
She had meant to go to the dock, but Elizaveta never got there. She was just crossing the street from the post office when she heard her name being called. She turned to see a young boy—the son of one of the men who had come home in a box—running towards her.
"Miss! Miss Elizaveta!" He called. "They're asking for you at the station! They say you got something there waiting for you!"
There are times in one's life when the body and the mind forget that they're connected and decide to do completely separate things. In her mind, Elizaveta was screaming, wanting to do nothing more than to run the other direction. In body, she stood immobile on the dirt road until the boy finally came to rest in front of her, panting as he tried to bring air back into those young lungs.
"You gotta come now Miss. They say it's mighty urgent." He gasped. When he saw that she still hadn't moved the boy was suddenly struck by a painful wave of nostalgia. That face that this woman was making was the same one that his mother had made all those weeks ago when the men had come to their house and told them that his daddy was dead. Eight was too young of an age to comprehend the gravity of loss. To an eight year old loss was when a toy was broken or the piece of candy you wanted was taken by someone else. What does someone so young know about death?
But this little boy—who looked so much like his father that his mother couldn't even look at him—understood enough that when Elizaveta still didn't move, he took her hand gently in his and began walking them both slowly to the station.
One step at a time.
When they finally arrived, Elizaveta was shaking so bad that the little boy felt the quivers all throughout his body.
"Miss Hédeváry?" The station master said as they approached him, "We've been looking for you all day. We have something here for you."
"No…please, no." The words came out in small gasps and Elizaveta—a girl who hadn't cried since she had watched her mother lowered into the cold earth—found her vision strangely blurred and her cheeks wet.
"It arrived this morning, Miss. We don't really know what it means." The station master gestured behind him to where five young men were struggling to unload a large wooden box from one of the train compartments.
A very large wooden box. Too big for a body.
Elizaveta quickly wiped the tears from her face. "I don't…I don't understand. What is that?"
"We were hoping you could answer that, Miss."
Confusion had replaced grief and Elizaveta stared at the large crate that was being slowly lowered to the floor of the station. "I have no idea. Have you looked inside?"
"We were going to but the letter specifically said not to until you arrived."
Elizaveta fixed the man with a sharp look. "Letter? What letter? Let me see it now." She demanded.
The station master pulled the slightly wrinkled envelope out of the pocket of his coat and she snatched it up quickly. This was no time to be secretive, to tuck the letter away until she was alone. The front of the envelope did indeed instruct that the crate was not to be opened until she was present. She reached into it with shaking fingers to pull out the paper that had already been read that morning. There were only two words on the whole white page.
Happy Birthday.
She read this at the same time there was a loud crack that reverberated throughout the entire station. The boys had finally gotten the lid of the crate open and stared at the contents inside in awe.
"It's a piano. A goddamn piano. Who sends a girl a piano?" One of the boys exclaimed.
But Elizaveta was still looking at the letter in her hand and the two words that were written in that neat script that she knew and loved so well.
"But I don't understand," She said softly, "I don't know how to play the piano."
"Then I'll just have to teach you."
He had stepped into the station just as suddenly as he had stepped into her life. He still had the look of a man who didn't really belong in the green army jacket of a soldier, which now hung more loosely off his body than when she had last seen him. There was something wrong with his leg. Maybe it had been crushed by falling timber in a bombed out building, maybe it had been hit by the bullet of an enemy, but that limp would be there forever. His face was untouched, even though she would have loved him even it had been scarred and burned.
The little boy at her side—who had still been holding her hand up until this moment—finally uncurled his fingers from hers. Maybe eight was too young to know about loss, but it seemed just the right moment to start learning about love. He would go home, run to his mother, and tell her that he loved her. And maybe she would finally stop crying and smile like the woman next to him was.
Because that was a beautiful smile.
.
.
.
There was nothing particularly special about that night, but for some reason all the people of that tiny town opened their windows or leaned against the frames of their doors, ears alert to sounds floating through the night.
It was Chopin, being played on a grand piano.
A/N: I was torn between an extremely depressing ending and a happy one. I chose the happy one XD Let me know what you think. I really enjoyed writing this, even though it was extremely tiring to do so.
with love
-dancer