I know what you're thinking: She's ALIVE!?
Yes, amazingly, although my writing attention span is like that of a college student learning Russian and trying to keep up with this epic new reality show called the 2016 Presidential Elections. You should watch it sometime – lots of throat-ripping and back-stabbing, it's great. ;)
ANYWHOO so I am in the long, slow process of rebuilding my stories so that they blend together better and are more historically accurate. This involves re-writing DITR so that it will flow better with the sequel, as well as throwing in little jewels that give some backstory. You can read this on its own and it will make perfect sense, but Swastikas and Ceilings serves as a prequel. (I feel like I'm writing an entire show here...ugh.)
This story is replacing Broken, and I apologize if that bothers you. But it was historically inaccurate and no longer fits in my headcanon universe. So without further ado... enjoy!
Don't Let Me Die
June 21, 1941
Berlin, Germany
Feliks looked up from his journal at the soft knock on his door. His heart fluttered, but it was soon replaced with dread. He heard what Prussia had screamed at her – the whole mansion did. As he stared at his closed door, he wished with all his might for it to be someone else.
The door was silent as it inched open – Feliks had oiled the hinges himself, along with every other damn hinge in this zoo. He heard the soft shift of fabric as she stepped in, the skirts of her dress swinging around her slim frame. She closed the door behind her, eyes downcast in the darkness. The moonlight shone on her hair in silver streaks.
Feliks stared at her and felt his throat clog up. Don't say it. God dammit, Lizzie, don't you dare freaking say it –
"I leave tomorrow."
The room was silent. Feliks could barely process the words even though he had known they were coming. The phrase hung in the air with a scent like death. His voice was low and trembling with emotion, "Don't let them control you."
Liz closed her eyes and took a breath.
"Run away. You have enough connections with the Resistance, you like, speak perfect Polish and German, you know all the inns and outs of this freaking Regime –"
"Feel."
"They're not the boss of you and they know it, why else would Prussia wave a freaking gun in your face, why else would Germany send you out there if he thought he could control you? You're badass, Lizzie, and they know that, and they're afraid of you, and you don't have to do this, y-you don't – "
"Please stop."
"You don't have to go out there, and, a-and like freaking freeze to death fighting a psychopath for a war you don't even believe in! What do you think they're going to do to your people when you're gone, Lizzie? You don't think Hitler had a say in this, you don't think he's behind this? He – he doesn't care if we die, he doesn't care, and you can't die, you CAN'T die!"
"Feliks!" She hissed, trying to get him to calm down.
He couldn't stop the hot tears that welled up in his eyes, his voice cracking as it turned into a plea. "Don't die! Please! P-please, you'll die out there, you can't go, you c-can't you have to run away, you h-have to –"
In three strides she crossed the room, and before he knew it he was breathing in the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the folds of her dress pressing against his face. He pulled her close, burying his fingers in silky strands of hair as his shoulders shook with sobs. He felt her in his arms – so warm, so real, so alive – and refused to believe that the most beautiful, courageous nation he had ever known was going to be used as cannon fodder.
"You have to be strong," she whispered into his hair.
"I – I c-can't, not without you, I can't – "
"Yes you can." She pulled away and looked him sternly in the eyes, the moonlight shimmering in tear tracks on her face. "You are Feliks Łukasiewicz, the Kingdom of Poland. You are a phoenix. Your people are hanging on, they are fighting back, and so are you. You're badass and they know it, and they are afraid of you. So don't you dare tell me that you can't do this, when you have been doing it this entire war."
She baffled him. Liz was leaving for the Eastern Front tomorrow – knowing that she would be helpless to defend her people, knowing that she might never come back – and yet somehow, she was more concerned for his well-being than her own. Nobody had ever sacrificed so much for him, and now he wasn't sure he could survive without her. Feliks gripped the fabric of her sleeves so tightly that his knuckles hurt. His voice was scratchy, barely able to speak past the pain clogging his throat. "They can't take you away from me. They can't do this to me."
"I know," she said, pulling him into another embrace. Her shuddering breaths were hot against his ear as she whispered, "I know."
June 24, 1941
Vilnius, Lithuania
An ear-splitting shatter pierced the house, shards of glass exploding in every direction. He cowered behind a table, hands covering his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the explosion. Splinters whizzed like tiny bullets into his skin, the heat of the blast burning clean through his uniform. His lungs were filled with smoke and he clutched his chest as he coughed, his bloodied hands clawing the floor for balance.
Glass crunched and he instantly felt the presence of another nation. Toris spat a glob of blood onto the floor. His throat burned as he rasped, "A grenade? That's cheap, even for you."
"Trying to kill me while your people look up to me as their liberator?" A boot sent a shard of glass skidding towards him. He winced as it struck the table, splintering into pieces."That's stupid, even for you."
Toris clenched his fists and tried to struggle to his feet, despite the ringing inside of his head from the blast. "You – you k-killed Feliks…"
"I kill a lot of people."
Toris was enraged at the indifference in Prussia's voice. He grunted as he pushed himself off the ground, but froze when he looked up straight into the barrel of a pistol. Two orbs of glittering scarlet jeered down at him, those disgusting lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Prussia's teeth were a startling white against the red – the red in the sky, the red in his eyes, the red staining his uniform. Toris was filled with a sickened horror. How many have looked into those eyes before breathing their last?
"I'm going to be a nice guy and lay out your options. One: You get your socialist ass out of here and onto the next convoy of POW's where you'll be transferred to Berlin. Two: I pull this trigger and you lose what little brains you have left, then you wake up with a hole in your head on a convoy to Berlin."
Toris's eyes widened, horrified at the thought of being shipped to another nation's house like a trophy. Prussia was right – he wanted to kill him – but that was for personal reasons. He had hoped along with his people that the Nazis would grant him autonomy.
Prussia must have seen the dismay in Toris's face. He smirked. "What, Russia never shot you before? You're such an annoying little gnat, you'd think he would have finished you off by now."
Toris trembled with so much anger that he could barely keep his balance. He glared up at his nemesis and growled in a low voice, "You promised independence."
Obnoxious laughter filled the air, a mocking cackle that sent chills down his spine. "KESESESE! He thinks – independence – HAHAHAHA!" Prussia was laughing so hard that he lowered the gun, bending over and struggling to breathe.
Toris felt something shatter inside of him. The fleeting hope he had been clinging to this entire war – that maybe, when the Germans came, he could finally be free of Russia's tyrannical rule – shriveled and died inside of him. With a jolt, Toris realized that negotiating was no longer an option. Divisions of his men were already organized and ready to fight for independence – he had to get out, he had to warn them! He sprung to his feet and lunged past Prussia, leaping over scorched furniture, lungs burning with every gasp for air. His eyes focused on the nearest window – it was his only way out.
BANG!
"AAH!"
Toris cried out as a bullet tore into his right shoulder. The impact sent him flying forward, but he caught himself with his hands and tried to scramble to his feet. A boot kicked him down, mashing his face against the broken glass. He could feel the shards puncture into his skin, his shoulder roaring with such pain that his vision flickered. "AH – ah – AHH!" Toris let out a strangled bellow as Prussia pressed his entire weight onto the wound. He writhed beneath the Prussian, but he knew there was no escape. Toris breathed hard through his mouth, scattering flecks of spit and blood. "Ne," he moaned, his voice cracking with the strain. His people, he had to get to his people!
At last the pressure was removed from his shoulder. Toris prepared to scramble away, but his muscles froze when he felt a cool circular ring press into the back of his head.
"Willkommen in dem Dritten Reich… Uselessuania."
BANG!
June 26, 1941
Eastern Front
It was the feeling of a dream slipping away. The faces of confusion, betrayal, fear… all followed by the widened, pale shock of death. Slumped into a ditch, herded onto a train…He could see their expressions, hear their screams, his heart hammered with theirs in fear… but it was all like a vision. There seemed to be a veil between him and his people, the same veil that had existed in his nightmares while he lived in Russia's mansion. He would try to comfort them, or stand between them and the barrels of the Lugers pointed to the backs of their heads. But no matter how far he reached, or how loud he screamed, he could not be heard. He was an invisible guardian, helpless as he watched his life force bleed onto the stained carpet of Europe.
"Zeilen… FEUER!"
BANG!
When Toris's eyes fluttered open, he saw grey. As his vision cleared, he saw that the tone swirled with darker shades, in and out of a colorless canvass…
It's the sky.
Toris coughed. A horrible pounding screeched through his head. He reached up to touch it, and the tips of his fingers roughed over a bandage. His first instinct was to assume that Russia had bashed his head again, but then why was he seeing the sky? And then for the first time Toris noticed a steady rumbling of an engine, and the way that his back bumped against a hard surface, metal rattling. And there were voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying…
He turned his head to the side and squinted to see a soldier. The man was young, with a forest green uniform, his round helmet thumping against his boots. His back leaned against what looked like the flatbed of a military vehicle, a muscular arm draped over one knee. Toris knew by his uniform that he definitely wasn't with the Soviet Army, nor was he Lithuanian.
"Where am I?"
Smokey eyes darted in his direction, and the soldier's hand snapped to his holster. Toris thought he recognized something about that face, but he couldn't place it. "Do – do you speak English?" The soldier didn't respond, his muscles tightening in a position where he could spring to his feet. "Вы говорите по русски?" Still no answer. "Polsku? Lietuviškai?"
At last the soldier seemed to understand. He relaxed slightly, leaning back onto the side of the vehicle. "Diese Sprachen werden dich nicht weiterbringen," he muttered, flicking out a cigarette.
Toris's eyes widened. "Deutsch…"
"Ja, Deutch. Erkennst du nicht die Uniform?"
"I-I'm sorry, I…" Toris's breathing became labored as he realized what had happened. "No… no, no, NO!" He sat up, but with a swift click a pistol was pointed at his head.
"Legen Sie sich hin, Ratte."
"Where am I, where are we going!? Wo – gehen…ich…"
"Berlin."
Toris fell back onto the flatbed, his eyes wide in horror. "Berlin…" he repeated. "No, that can't be, I – I'm supposed to be in Vilnius, with my people, I'm supposed to – Dieve…" How did this happen!? Then in a flash, Toris remembered a pair of blazing red eyes among the smoke and fire. He reached up to touch the bandage again. "Oh my god." Prussia had shot him. Prussia had shot him! And now he was being held prisoner on a convoy to Berlin! "No… no, no, no, this is all wrong! What – what about our independence, what about – "
The soldier growled another stream of German, pointing the pistol in his direction again. Toris didn't understand, but he knew when to shut up. With a grunt, he peered over the edge of the vehicle to look at the convoy. Several VW's and covered trucks rumbled along the dirt road, soldiers perched on the backs and making light conversation. He could make out the defeated faces of Soviet POW's and the bloody bandages of wounded Nazis. When he looked at the faces of the Germans, they seemed so… happy. Even the soldier in the back of this VW seemed at ease, gazing out across the countryside as he puffed smoke rings.
Toris wanted to scream. Didn't they understand? Didn't they realize what they had taken away from him, from his people? He had risked his life escaping the mansion to fight with the Nazis – and all for what? To be shipped off to another collection of subordinates?
"This can't be happening to me…They can't do this to me…" He pressed his bandaged head to his knees. It hurt, but he didn't want anyone to see the hot tears that fell from his eyes, rolling off his nose to soak into his uniform. "I'm sorry," he whispered, wishing that his people could hear him. "I'm so, so sorry."
June 28, 1941
Berlin, Germany
"Strip."
Toris gaped at the officer in front of him. "P-pardon?"
"You are to turn in all personal belongings, then shower." The officer slid a pile of folded clothes off the shelf and slammed them onto the desk. "This is your new uniform."
Toris shuddered; this was much more systematic than his entries to Russia's house. Ivan always personally escorted them to his home and threw a large dinner party. As sick and ironic as it was, somehow it gave Toris more dignity than this. Here, he didn't feel like a subordinate – he felt like a prisoner of war.
"RAUS!" the officer barked, and Toris jumped before snatching the uniform off the desk. "J-jawohl."
He followed the signs to a room with rows of showers, the spay of water echoing as other prisoners washed themselves. There weren't any curtains, but at least a brick wall separated Toris from the others. He reached up to unbutton his uniform, then his fingers froze. He glanced down at the the yellow, green, and red badge of his flag sewn to his left arm. He had hidden the uniform in a closet when Russia came to get him, knowing that someday he would return to wear it again. But now he would have to hand it over to the Nazis.
Toris unbuttoned his jacket, working his fingers beneath the badge until he managed to rip it off. He set it on top of his new uniform, holding back tears as he shed the last proof of his national identity. His fingers curled around the uniform as he pressed it against his face. He breathed in the scent of his country – of wheat fields, salty sea, and pastries – not knowing when he might get to touch anything Lithuanian again. "I'll come back," he whispered. "I promise."
After showering, Toris pulled on the new uniform. It was stiff and had the crisp scent of newly pressed fabric. There was no history in it; Toris felt like he was wearing a name tag. Even his uniforms at Russia's house were his own; they smelled like vodka and soup, worn with years of use. That's because Ivan kept them, he thought bitterly. Toris remembered returning to the mansion, shocked to see that all of his old belongings were exactly as he had left them. It was as if those twenty years of independence never happened.
When Toris walked back to the front office, the officer waved him to a chair. "Wait here."
Toris lowered himself into a seat. When he looked up, he locked eyes with a photograph of Hitler hung on the opposite wall. Toris shuddered; a similar reaction to when he caught Stalin's eye at Russia's house or in official buildings. But instead of turning away as he did with Stalin, Toris looked back into the face of the Führer. His expression was hardened into a look of confident determination, leaned back in a military posture as he looked straight into the camera. It was different than Stalin, who's eyes wrinkled at the slight smile on his face. The "Great Leader" was always looking up and to the side, never directly at the painter. That was another difference: Hitler's picture was a black-and-white photograph, Stalin's portraits were usually painted with the bright Communist red adornments and medals on his uniform. "It matches them," Toris mused, imagining Russia or Germany posing for a portrait. Of course Ivan would smile and try to appear warm, while Germany would stand steely and strong.
Toris remembered the rants booming from Ivan's room as he would scream and curse Hitler's name. At the time Toris had been foolish enough to believe that the German dictator was his key to independence… but looking into those cold eyes, he saw that while different than Stalin, this man was one in the same. "Kurvosvaikas," he hissed under his breath, for once grateful that the Nazis couldn't understand his language.
Hours went by, and Toris was left with nothing to do but imagine what might happen to him. He had heard the horror stories of labor camps and discrimination against Jews. Ivan told him that Germany and Prussia had left Feliks to die in the blood of his own people. He shuddered, remembering the unhinged madness in Prussia's laugh. What if the other subordinates were being treated the same way? What if this place was no better than the Soviet Union?
Just then the door to the office opened. The officer at the desk jumped to his feet, raising his right arm in a salute. "Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler," came the bored response. Toris recognized that voice. He glanced sideways and was met with a sharp pair of indigo eyes behind black-wire glasses. Austria arched an eyebrow. "You aren't going to show respect to the Führer?"
"Ah – uhm – H-Heil Hitler," Toris stuttered, jolting to his feet and raising his arm in what he hoped was the proper salute. The greeting felt strange and poisonous on his tongue; he much preferred to insult the dictator than praise him.
"First mistakes on first days I can forgive. Tomorrow I will not be so merciful."
"Yes, sir."
Austria's eyes narrowed. "That will be 'Jawohl.' I assume you've lost whatever poor German you learned the last time you were here, judging by your painful pronunciation."
"Yes, s – Jawohl."
Austria looked him up and down. There was not a drop of pity in those eyes – only cold indifference. Toris felt as though the Austrian was inspecting a fly he wanted to swat. Toris remembered him as being the proud, haughty head of the Hapsburg Empire. His rule had been stripped of him since the Great War, but it was clear that the Austrian hadn't lost a drop of his dignity… nor his distain for subordinates. His black uniform and blood-red arm band added a darkness to his appearance, exaggerating his already pale complexion. "When the matter is urgent, you will understand. In the meantime I suggest you acquire a dictionary." He flicked a hand. "Kommen sie mit."
Toris followed Austria out of the office and to the curb where a slick black car was waiting. He ducked into the passage's seat, too nervous to ask any questions as Austria took the wheel. The engine started with very little noise – this was a car of luxury. Toris ran his fingers along the leather seats, noting how even Ivan's car wasn't nearly this nice. He half expected Austria to brag about the vehicle, but as he glanced over he saw the same blank expression of before. It was obvious that Austria had done this many times, and saw no value in Toris whatsoever.
Trying not to become angry at his new master's indifference, Toris turned his attention to the city. Steeples and shops slid by the window, Germans making their way through the streets as they went about their daily errands. Toris couldn't help but notice the same isolation he had seen on the streets of Moscow – eyes downcast, walking quickly. It was the life of a people terrified of getting caught. Strange, he thought. I thought people only looked like this in the Soviet Union.
The drive continued in silence. Soon the city of Berlin thinned out into scattered houses. Toris saw a particularly large one out the window. There must have been at least five chimneys, and a black iron fence twisted along its border. As the house grew larger in the window, he saw a red banner with a swastika hanging from the front windows. Toris's eyes widened as he realized who's residence this was. "It's huge," he breathed. Until now, he had never seen a nation's home larger than Russia's mansion.
"Most of Europe lives in that madhouse," Austria said as he pulled through the gate. Toris glanced over to see that his face had fallen, lines of stress carved into his forehead and cheekbones. He looked... tired.
"Are you here alone?"
"My cousins are out spilling blood and they've taken my wife with them." Austria's expression had hardened into a scowl. Toris couldn't help but wonder if the former empire even agreed with the Nazi's policies. It seemed he was stuck with a job he would rather not have. "But that does not mean this house isn't run with the same precision and discipline as it would be if Ludwig were here." Cold eyes slid in Toris's direction, and a chill shot down his spine. "Is that clear, Litauen?"
Toris knew all too well the challenges of running a nation household. Punishments were severe and meant to scare the other subordinates into submission. His eyes fell into his lap, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. "Jawohl."
Gravel crunched beneath Toris's boots as he stepped out of the car. He followed Austria to the front door, taking note of the elaborate landscaping. He heard some rustling, and glanced over to see a scruffy head of blonde hair. A tall man stood up and wiped his brow, a pair of clippers in one hand. An exhausted face broke into a twisted grin. "Hey, look what the cat brought in!"
Toris blinked. "Denmark?"
There was more rustling, and a smaller man with brown hair emerged from the bushes, twigs and leaves stuck in his hair. He was much thinner than Denmark, dark circles under his eyes. He looked up at Toris with a type of horror. "Die Invasion arbeitete…"
Austria snapped something in German and the smaller nation shot him a dark look before returning to work. Denmark winked at Toris. "Welcome to the hell house, kid."
Madhouse… hell house… what kind of place was this? The door opened soundlessly, and Austria stepped in. Toris took a shaky breath, knowing that he was entering a prison.
"Follow me," Austria said.
"I… have a question."
Sharp eyes told Toris that it had better not be a stupid question.
"Denmark seemed so healthy… but that smaller nation, he looked…"
"Starved?"
Toris nodded.
A darkness fell over Austria's face, his voice becoming low. "Denmark is Aryan. And there are more Jews in Slovakia." He turned without a word and continued walking through the halls.
For a moment Toris was barely able to process what Austria had said. Aryan? More Jews? Was that the only difference? Denmark was thinner than he remembered, but that was nothing compared to the haunted look he had seen in Slovakia's eyes. Toris shuddered and hugged himself as he quickened his pace to catch up with Austria. He tried to think of how many Jews lived in Lithuania. A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? A dark feeling twisted in his stomach. There was something very, very wrong about this place.
As they passed the rooms, Toris noticed other nations at work. Some he couldn't recognize, others he knew. He caught sight of the Netherlands arranging flowers, France sweeping the floor, Belgium polishing dishes. After so long of living at Russia's mansion, Toris knew he should be used to seeing nations doing housework. But there was something disturbing about so many of them, some of whom he had never imagined could be enslaved like this. But then, he himself had once been a great empire, and now his role as subordinate seemed almost expected…
As they entered a dining room, Toris heard the steady sound of scrubbing. He saw the back of someone hunched over, the dining table concealing most of their body. As Toris continued to walk, he stood on his toes to try and get a better look. The frame was small, and he caught sight of blonde hair. It was faded and brittle, hanging on either side of the nation's face. The uniform hung off of a frame so thin, Toris wondered how the arms even managed to scrub the floor. He could see the knobs of vertebrae poking from the back of the uniform. Whoever this was, they were in much worse condition than any of the nations he had seen. He stepped to the side, trying to get a look at the nation's face…
Toris lost his breath.
The cheekbones were so pronounced, and the skin so pale, that he was barely able to recognize the thin sweeping eyebrows and small, pointed nose. But underneath all of that, it was the same face. Toris's mouth opened and closed, but he could not find the breath, could not find the words. Austria turned around and marched back towards him. "I do not recall ordering you to go sight-seeing!"
But Toris didn't hear. At last he managed to regain the ability to speak, his voice a disbelieving gasp. "Feliks?"
The scrubbing stopped. The figure rose, then turned around. One eye was purple and swollen shut, the other outlined with dark circles. Angry red gashes sliced the side of his head, and his cheekbones protruded out from his face. His nose seemed crooked as though broken, and his lip was swollen and red. Staring straight at Toris was one bright green eye.
Toris gasped, his entire body jolting from the shock. "F… Feliks…"
"Litauen! You are disobeying a direct order!"
Toris felt the entire world fall away from his feet. He saw nothing, heard nothing, except for the broken face of the nation staring at him. His entire body shook with a violent sob, then he ran forward and fell at his best friend's feet. He could hardly speak, could hardly even see past the hot tears streaming from his eyes as his lungs rattled and he clung to the uniform of the nation he had thought to be dead.
"I – I – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, please, p-please forgive me, I'm sorry! Oh my god! Oh-o-oh my go-od! Oh my god, I – I th-thought you were dead, I thought you were dead, I'm so sorry-y-y-y!"
"LITAUEN!"
Toris looked up and took Feliks's face in his hands. The skin was cold, but it was there… he was here, he was here, and alive! He could barely think, his hands shook so badly that he was afraid of hurting him more. "Oh my god, you're alive… you're alive…"
Feliks said nothing. That one green eye stared back at him, wide but without any tears. "Please… please, F-Feliks… please say something. Say something, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Oh my god, please forgive me, I'm sorry!"
There was a slight whoosh and Toris was blinded by a flash of pain in his head. He cried out, breaking away from Feliks to press a hand to his forehead. Warm blood seeped from the hit. Another whip came down on his shoulder and he instinctively curled up into a ball on the ground, head tucked inside of his knees. "Are you quite finished with the melodramatics?" Austria snapped.
Toris was unable to answer, panting through his mouth. His entire body trembled. Feliks is alive. Feliks is alive! He's alive! He's alive!
A firm hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet. Toris winced when he felt the familiar brush of a riding crop beneath his chin. He forced himself to look into flaming indigo eyes.
"The first and foremost rule in this house is to obey orders, without question or hesitation. And the second is that you are NOT to speak your native languages, under ANY circumstances. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Toris had to swallow the mucus in the back of his throat before he could answer. Until now, he hadn't even realized that he had been speaking Polish. "J-Jawohl."
"Consider this a warning. Now, follow me."
Toris took a shaky step forward to fall in line behind Austria. He looked back to see Feliks staring at the ground with an unreadable expression. Then the Pole slowly turned around, picked put the brush, and continued cleaning the floor.
TSH-ch, TSH-ch, TSH-ch.
As the scrubbing faded down the hall, Toris listened for any other sound – crying, talking, anything. But all that he heard was the steady scratch of suds as the brush moved across the tile.
The dark figure of Austria blurred in front of him as his eyes heated up with tears. Toris didn't know what was more terrifying: The possibility that Feliks had been brainwashed and didn't recognize him or care that it was him…
Or the possibility that Feliks was perfectly lucid, knew exactly who he was and why he was here, and did not forgive him for what he had done. As Toris walked deeper and deeper into the Nazi household, his greatest fear was not for his people, or for his health, or even his independence. His greatest fear was that his best friend in the entire world still hated him.
History Notes
Hungary:
After the dissolution of the Hapsburg Empire and a series of small wars following WWI, the Treaty of Trianon drew new borders for Hungary that took away more than two-thirds of its previous territory. A third of Hungarians found themselves outside of their country, and the majority of its natural resources were gone. This left them helpless during the Great Depression of the 30's, leading to a heavy reliance on Germany for resources and funding. Hitler appealed to the people's desire to expand the borders, and Hungary officially became part of the Axis Powers in 1940.
Hungary declared war on the Soviet Union June 26, 1941 after a Soviet bombing, which may have been staged by the Nazis to encourage them to join the war. While the Hungarian army had successes at first, they were devastated by the Red Army during the Battle of Stalingrad. The survivors tried to flee, but were captured by the Soviets. There were over 100,000 casualties.
During the 1939 Invasion of Poland, Hitler wanted to send German troops through Hungary to speed up the process. But Hungary refused, allowing tens of thousands of Polish military personnel to escape into Hungary and Romania, where they later joined up with Allied forces. Throughout the war, Allied couriers used Hungarian routes for intelligence to and from Poland.
Lithuania:
Following the invasion of Poland, the Soviet Union pressured Lithuania into signing a treaty that stationed 20,000 Soviet Troops in Lithuania. On June 14, 1940 they delivered an ultimatum, demanding the presence of more troops and the establishment of a Soviet government. With already so many troops within their borders, Lithuania had no choice but to accept. The standard of living plummeted, all Lithuanian cultural establishments were banned, and 12,600 people were deported.
Lithuania was invaded by the Nazis on July 22, 1941. The Lithuanians had hoped that the Germans would liberate them from the Soviets, and so many fought alongside them or broke into insurgent groups. They declared their independence for a time, only to be taken over completely by the Nazis. More than 4,000 civilians were killed just in the first stages of the invasion.
Austria:
One of the Nazi's goals was to unite all Germanic peoples. A unification of Austria and Germany was banned by the Treaty of Versailles, but Germany relied heavily on Austrian resources during the depression. In 1938, the Nazis pressured the Austrians through terrorist attacks and pro-Nazi propaganda. A rigged referendum was held, resulting in 99% favor of annexation. After Nazi troops entered Austra, Jews were immediately persecuted. Some Austrians celebrated the Nazi takeover while others mourned.
Denmark:
Because of their Aryan heritage and other economic and diplomatic reasons, the Danish government remained largely untouched by the Nazis. When it was announced that all Jews would be arrested in 1943, the government gave them warning and 7,500 of them fled to Sweden. Only 500 Jews were deported to a concentration camp.
AN: Some of you may have recognized the second section. This is because it's from the second draft of DITR – similar to the first, but slightly more dramatic. It's probably going to be a looong time before I finish that project, so I thought I might as well throw it in.
I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! This one should be short (I promise) – only one more chapter to go. :) Please leave a review and let me know what you think!