The winter night was crisp, nippy enough that any exposed skin felt tight and raw. The wind wasn't too bad, but the clouds obscuring the stars over the mountain peaks to the northeast promised to change that. It was still, quiet; Aldo Raine could almost pretend he was in the foothills of the Smokies back home. Except Tennessee never got this cold, and Hirschberg wasn't there, jiggling his goddamn leg.
"Would you cut that shit out," Aldo hissed, finally snapping. Lord knew he cut these boys a lot of slack, drawing on reserves of patience he didn't know he had, but goddamn if he was going to listen to that steady thumping of Hirschberg's heel hitting the forest floor.
"Sorry, sir," Hirschberg muttered, a faint black outline to his left. "Fuckin' pins an' needles an' shit. It's cold as a nun's pussy out here. Can we go in yet, or what?"
Aldo heaved a long-suffering sigh, turning back to the house they were observing. It was supposedly a new rendezvous point with their resistance pals; his CO said something about a wealthy, disgruntled Swiss expat and promised fresh guns and ammunition. And food. And hopefully a nice glass of whiskey, too, he mused, though that might be a stretch.
He had to admit Hirschberg was right: it was freezing, and late- approaching midnight, if he had to wager. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys poking over the roofline of the large house, and a soft glow from two of the windows promised at least one person was awake. Expecting them, he hoped; the all-clear signal would be candles in two of the windows, and they had been here long enough to make sure nothing was amiss. No Nazi cars parked in front, no soldiers creeping on watch, no shouts or gunfire. Just a warm house on a cold night.
"Alright," he finally relented. "Wicki, Stiglitz, you go to the door. Give us a whistle if it checks out." He didn't receive an answer, but shadows detached and moved across the forest floor. He could feel a collective breath being held as the two soldiers approached the house, and the door swung open. Faint strains of an exchange were carried over by the wind and the stillness, but it was in German, and too distant to hear, anyways. When a quick two-note whistle that could have been a birdcall sounded, there was a group exhale, and they moved forwards quietly. Or in Hirschberg's case, shuffled along while muttering curses about his dead foot.
When he was coming up the steps of the wide porch, the Basterds hot on his heels, more than ready for some warmth and food, he was surprised to see a redheaded girl- woman, he corrected himself, once he got closer- standing in the door, faintly illuminated by the light spilling out from the doorframe. He could practically hear the boys perk up behind him, and gritted his teeth. Now he had to keep a sharp eye on them, make sure they didn't fool around with this Swiss bastard's daughter or wife or what-the-hell ever she was and jeopardize this contact- a situation that happened a few times before, thanks to Donowitz. When Wicki caught his eye, raising his eyebrows in his usual subtle manner, he didn't understand what the man was trying to get across. But when the ginger gave him a wide, toothy smile and sang out "My countrymen!" in a clear, sure-as-can-be American accent, his own eyebrows shot up into his hairline. I'll be damned, he thought.
Tromping up into the doorframe, he noticed the girl didn't seem at all intimidated by the ten men scattered on her front porch. In fact, she stuck her hand out, and greeted him with "Lieutenant Raine?"
"Who the fuck are you? And where's our goddamn contact?" He barked back, not taking her hand. He could hear one of the men snicker behind him, and would have turned around and boxed him behind the ear if he wasn't both horrified and intrigued by this sudden development of an American girl in the middle of an occupied country.
She simply took his irritation in stride, moving aside to let them into the house. "Don't worry. Your, um, contact is in the study, at the end of the hall and to the right. The kitchen's opposite, if you're hungry. And I'm Annie Haywood," she intoned, her smile firmly in place. He was glad she found this so damn amusing, he snorted as he stomped past her, only turning to snap "Donowitz!" when he heard a distinctive Boston accent drawl "Hey, sweetheart" behind him. But apparently the promise of food trumped the possibility of getting laid, because Utivich, bless his little virgin heart, practically sprinted past him into the kitchen, where a meaty smell drifted past. Venison, if he wasn't wrong.
Stiglitz, Wicki, and Donowitz all followed him without him motioning to the end of the hall, giving him the time to glance around the house. Someone obviously wealthy lived here: hunting rifles and trophies up on the wall, lots of polished wood, wide glass windows and what looked like electric lights overhead- a rarity, out in the French boonies. Turning the corner into the study, his first impression was of the towering bookcases, floor-to-ceiling, so tall they needed one of those ridiculous rolling ladders to reach the top shelves. The heat of the fire practically slapped him, making his head snap to the desk across from it. He doubted his eyebrows could go any higher, but goddamn if they didn't try, because rising from the massive leather desk chair and the stacks of paper thrown across the desk was a tall, willowy, blonde woman, Hitler's wet dream if he ever saw one. Masses of curly blonde hair, high, elegant cheekbones, a dainty jaw, smoky brown eyes- he could feel his officer's eyes snap to her. She held their attention easily, giving them a small smile and an outstretched hand.
"Lieutenant Raine," she said, speaking with a crisp European accent not unlike Stiglitz's. Swiss, he realized, having never heard a Swiss accent before. "I'm so glad you've made it here intact," she finished, but was cut off by another snapped "Who the fuck are you? And are there any men in this goddamn house? 'Cause you sure as hell ain't named Heinrich Wolfflin." His drawl butchered the name, but he didn't really give a shit if this Nazi bride was offended. "No, she sure isn't," Donny said appreciatively, putting his hands on his hips and eyeing her up with a manic grin.
"Don't worry, he didn't shake my hand, either," Annie drawled, coming in to flop dramatically on one of the leather couches, immediately lighting a cigarette. He didn't spare the girl a glance, itching to take a snuff out of his box.
Blondie, much like her companion, didn't seem at all put off. "No, I'm not. I'm his daughter, Adriana Wolfflin," she said, amicably.
"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?" Aldo snapped, feeling peevish. Then he saw the photograph hanging above the fireplace, of a brawny blonde man, a waifish blonde woman, and a younger, chubbier version of the girl in front of him, posed around what looked like a dead lion somewhere grassy and flat. That explains the trophies, he thought, then felt like a fool, but he always stuck to his guns.
"Yes," Adriana answered simply, sitting back on the edge of her desk. "My family owns the Wolfflin firearms company," she continued, conversationally, as if she was used to hulking soldiers tramping through her house and vaguely menacing her. Although, all thing considered, she probably was. A glance over his shoulder to Wicki and Stiglitz confirmed this, as both gave him a nod. So a real company and a real family, apparently both real successful, judging by the air of old money the place and her manner conveyed. "I learned to shoot on a Wolfflin rifle when I was young," Wicki chimed in, a tad wistfully, as if he was reminiscing. A sharpish glare from Aldo shut him up, but Adriana beamed at him. "You see? They're good guns. The best, but I'm a bit biased," she said with another small smile, one that reeked of self-satisfaction.
"So where's daddy, then, princess?" Aldo intoned suspiciously, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to trust this Swiss bitch an inch. Adriana heaved a sigh, going over to a decanter on the desk, and to Aldo's great relief, poured out several glasses of whiskey, handing them around. Annie, watching the unfolding drama with mild curiosity, made a noise of protest that she didn't receive one, but was roundly ignored. Sipping from her glass, Aldo felt his irritation grow, noting that she shared the same relaxed approach to other people's time as Stiglitz, who could turn the lighting of a cigarette into a five-minute production before getting around to answering his commander's question.
Just when he was about to smack the glass straight out of her hand, she answered. "He's been missing in North Africa for just under a year," she said simply and without emotion, as if remarking on the weather. "I've been running the company. My mother is dead and I have no other siblings, so it falls on me," she continued, sipping from her glass and gazing at him evenly. Donny snorted, Wicki scoffed, and even Stiglitz cracked a smirk- the closest he ever got to a smile- and Aldo stared in disbelief.
"You been runnin' a company in your daddy's name for a year? What the hell you doin' helpin' out the resistance, then?" He spat out, eyebrows receiving another workout. He managed to take a sip of whiskey, and was pacified somewhat. Ahh, home-made liquor.
"Yes," she said again, simply. "I have been. The reason I am helping the resistance is because I dislike the Nazis. A fascist economy brings down the European economy. It's all a bit precarious. I refuse to hold any contracts with the German government, so," she shrugged here. "They don't like having money and power out of their grasp. I doubt they would invade, but Hitler is a dangerous neighbor, and I refuse to let my family's company fall into the hands of a fascist state," she finished, saying the final phrase with such a strong air of disdain that it practically fell on the floor.
Donny's smirk was wiped clean off of his face, though Stiglitz's only grew. "I studied economics," she supplied with an indifferent shrug.
"God Almighty," Aldo intoned, rolling his eyes heavenward and reaching for his snuff box.