A/N: It really didn't take me long to start writing this story after Numbers from Poland.
For those of you who are back from Numbers, don't worry, my style hasn't changed. Thankfully, this story isn't going to be so damn confusing all the time. It'll be pretty straightforward, or at least I hope you think it is. If you're totally new to my writing, welcome! I love to see new usernames! And I like to see familiar ones, too.
And please keep it in your wonderful hearts that a review is much appreciated from your panicky author. She's rather lonely and needs someone to fill her cold little heart.
PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING BEFORE CONTINUING AND SENDING ME YOUR OPINIONS. THANK YOU.
WARNING: This story is centered entirely on the Nazis and their culture. If this offends you, please don't read it. I'm not going to do that "constructive criticism only, please," thing, but seriously, don't send me history reports about why the Nazis were horrible or call me one myself. I'm really not cool with that. I've done my history research, I had relatives who fought for the Allies, I've cried watching The Boy in the Striped Pajamas and Naked Among Wolves, and I have never sympathized with Nazi anything.
To tie any loose ends up, I do NOT support any of the ideals I may have written down in this story. It is the author's job to show what the characters are thinking. If I personally was telling you about the Nazis, you'd all be in for a total anger rant. But this isn't me. This is the story of an alcoholic composer who becomes entangled with the wrong crowd.
Welcome to Air Raid Sirens in the Key of F Major.
[Edit 5/14: This story is now a year old. Enjoy dated writing. I promise new things will be coming soon.]
~Polski-Doodle
No one wanted an alcoholic composer, especially the Führer.
The trouble with writing music is almost always having no idea what to put down on the paper. It could take weeks, months, even years for the composer to find their inspiration and fire to put together a masterpiece. Unfortunately, Roderich's problem was quite the opposite. He could draw up pages and pages of music in one night, coming up with the most beautiful melodies the world had ever heard. To him, the sonatas and requiems he wrote down in those feverish nights were the works of God.
That is, until the morning afterwards. And suddenly the masterpieces became useless pages full of jumbled notes, ridiculous key changes, and clef signatures that looked like some odd hybrid between treble and bass, like he'd drawn one on top of the other.
Actually, now that Roderich was looking at the page, he had drawn the treble clef sloppily over the bass clef.
Roderich stared at the page for so long that the notes became even more tangled together – if that was even possible. He searched the child-like scribbles, looking for some sort of melody he could follow. Perhaps there was something hidden underneath the atrocity, a shred of that "beautiful" sonata Roderich vaguely remembered writing from the hazy night two days ago. When he was trying to sleep off his hangover the day before he started to think about it, hoping there really was something salvageable in the mess. But now that he'd looked over everything several times, he couldn't find a thing that even resembled music. It just looked like some drunken idiot had spilled ink all over the pricey composition book.
What was he going to do? He had a performance in ten days, and all he'd come up with was a bunch of inkblots, which were not going to help. Considering this concert was for Goebbels and a few of his propaganda men, Roderich had to make up something that put the Reich in a good light. But all he'd been able to think about lately was the evil and wicked in the world, resulting in a lot of angry drinking. This in turn produced angry pieces.
Containing his true fury rather well, Roderich tore out the ruined page and crumpled it up. He put it in the basket beginning to overflow with similar wads of paper, where he kept every page until he deemed it completely useless. This earned him the title of hoarder in his family, but what did he care?
He gently closed the book, realizing that it was running out of pages – the front and back covers were nearly touching. Did he have the money to buy a new one? His last piece wasn't one of his Führer's favourites. Thankfully, that SS man, Himmler, had secretly slipped Roderich a few extra bills, saying that he rather liked the performance. But still, it wasn't enough to cover one man living in a tiny house on the outskirts of Vienna. Once upon a time, even a single piece paid enough for him to survive with room for luxuries, but something had happened after Germany invaded Poland.
Mainly the war.
But along with war comes rations, and with rations comes less money, and with less money comes total panic from an Austrian composer who doesn't want to find himself in prison.
Pulling open a drawer in his desk, he removed the small fistful of bills and began counting them, adding up expenses for necessary things in his head and praying he would have enough for a new notebook. Roderich chewed on his lip, knowing all too well that one stupid composition book could be his downfall; he was really stretching his reichsmarks. But he needed this book. Without it, he wouldn't be able to write any more music, and without any new material he'd be shipped off to the Russian front. Music was the one thing that was keeping him out of the war.
I shouldn't waste my money on foolish things like beer, Roderich reminded himself, setting aside just enough of the bills to pay for his notebook – he was cutting it close, and that was if the Nazis were feeling generous at his next concert. Remember, alcohol doesn't solve anything. It's a temporary solution, not a permanent one.
Roderich got up from his desk, snatching up a white shirt from where he'd tossed it over the foot of his bed lazily. Grabbing a black tie, he walked downstairs and began preparing for what he hoped could be a productive day. Once he'd turned on the radio for some background noise in this lonely home, Roderich slowly started to make himself look presentable. This meant shaving, which made him realize that he was going to have to buy a new razor soon. And then there was combing his chaotic ebony hair into less of a disaster, and looking into his own eyes in the mirror and trying to assure himself that his life wasn't going to hell. He'd never been too good at lying.
After buttoning up his shirt, he put on his tie with the little swastika pin placed right on the knot. Even though he was Hitler's favourite musician and nearly everyone knew it, he still had to show that he was a supporter of the Nazis. Personally, he didn't care for either side. Roderich's passion was music – not hailing some charismatic leader and thinking Jewish people were the root of all evil in the world. He really thought that the war was rather unnecessary.
But he could never say anything about his feelings to anyone. That would be like asking to be taken to Mauthausen. And, although he didn't have much to live for besides his piano and Stradivarius, Roderich still valued his life.
Roderich went into the kitchen, grabbing his beloved little tin of coffee beans and a cooking pot. After filling the pot with dirty water, he spilled a pile of the beans into his hand, counting out exactly sixty of them. If it worked for Beethoven, it could work for him. Tossing the coffee beans into the pot, he turned on the burner and sat down at the table, beginning the long process of waiting for the water to boil and then wishing he hadn't sold his coffee pot for beer money.
For a while he just sat there and started to think about the world. He thought of all the men fighting in Africa, of all the men fighting in Russia, of the poor souls who'd already died. And then he realized that he could easily become one of them. If he didn't finish a piece in time or had a poor performance, Hitler didn't tend to be an understanding man. Roderich would be just another soldier, no longer an acclaimed musician. He put his head down on the kitchen table, trying not to dwell on his future too much.
"The Russians have been defeated in Leningrad," the voice on the radio announced. "In just a matter of hours they surrounded the city, resulting in yet another victory for our glorious Reich. It is predicted that we will be able to conquer all of Russia in mere months."
Roderich gave a rare smile, running a hand through his hair. All of Russia, in months? He didn't have a doubt that Nazi Germany was a force to be reckoned with, but Russia, a country known for power and superiority? Who were they kidding? Even a child wouldn't believe something so outlandish.
"Our soldiers are making great progress in Africa, with Rommel leading our men to victory," the suave voice added, even though everyone knew he was lying. After Hitler decided to attack Russia, Africa just went straight out of the picture. No one even thought of it anymore. To Roderich, it was a total joke. Then again, everything was a joke to him – war, people, his life.
Roderich went to go turn the radio off – he'd never taken any liking to propaganda – but stopped short. He hadn't been paying any attention to the music playing in the background. Normally, it was Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, but today they'd changed it up.
It was his music.
He froze for a moment, listening intently to the song just to be sure it wasn't something that sounded similar to his own work. But sure enough, that was Roderich's own composition. Even worse, it seemed to be an actual recording of him performing it. Yes, it had to be, because he heard that slip-up where he'd twitched just a bit and the violin made a revolting noise that no one but Roderich seemed to hear. For weeks afterwards he'd worried about that one little mistake, wondering when the notice that he had been drafted was going to come – thankfully, it never did. He would never forget that error, as any mistake in front of Hitler himself was devastating.
Roderich thought over his performance for the Führer, never remembering any recording going on. Well, he didn't tend remember a lot of things, but he should have remembered something as big as a reel to reel machine and a microphone.
Unless, of course, they've done exactly what I think they've done, Roderich thought furiously, turning the radio off with much more force than he intended to. The box fell off of the table, hitting the floor with a loud slam. But Roderich was too caught up in his anger to notice anything else. They have hidden microphones. What, are they trying to prove me being disloyal? I was in front of Hitler! I would never say something to his face! Why, the nerve of those SS men! I'm as loyal as any damn German soldier they can find! How could they even think of suggesting I might plot something against the Führer!
Roderich took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He repeated this process a few times, clenching his hands into fists like he really could turn to violence. No, it's probably just a precaution. After all, I am just a stranger from Vienna, in the same room as the leader of the Nazi Party. They just want to make sure I'm not trying to kill him. Even though they should know that I'm not out to murder anyone.
But then again, I didn't give them permission to use my work! I should call the Führer!
Roderich grabbed the phone, about ready to ask the operator to connect him to Hitler's private line. Why, I'll tell him everything and…And what? Get killed? Oh, Roderich, you can't talk like that to the leader of all of Germany!
Roderich put the phone back and fell back in his chair, arms crossed like a child. He hated it when things went on behind his back – and this was no exception. Would they even pay him extra for publication rights? No, probably not. They were just going to use him until he was completely wasted and couldn't make anymore music for their "glorious Reich." And he knew what came next – Russia. He was bound to freeze to death on the snow covered streets of Moscow.
He got the horrible image of his own death in his mind, a blossom of red spreading out over the snow beneath him. Roderich could almost feel the sharp winds tearing into his grey uniform. Would anyone even bother to come and retrieve his body?
After all, no one wants an alcoholic composer.
But oh, will they use him.