The Year Was 1939

by americanskeleton

(Historical!Hetalia) 1939. The German people are becoming a rising threat to the allied nations of France, England, and Poland. Of course, with the need for more land for their growing empire, more food, more, more, more... Germany needs Poland. (Invasion of Poland, WWII. Implied LietPol, violence, references to Nazis, and more violence.)

Lookie who's back! It's me!

Long time no see. Dreadfully sorry about that, loves.

Here I am with another story though, horribly depression. Historical!Hetalia based.

Title: The Year Was 1939

Word Count: 3010

Description: (Historical!Hetalia) 1939. The German people are becoming a rising threat to the allied nations of France, England, and Poland. Of course, with the need for more land for their growing empire, more food, more, more, more... Germany needs Poland. (Invasion of Poland, WWII. Implied LietPol, violence.)

Inspiration: watch?v=EfHMCpiZcyo

Warnings: Graphic violence, references to Hitler and the Nazis and all of that. If you don't like and/or will get offended by anything of that nature, please do not read! This is not meant to offend the people in the countries involved in any way, shape, or form, nor is it to encourage violence and war. This is based on history, so let history be history. Thank you.

Note: I did try to keep this as historically accurate as possible, but if you have a question, do ask me in your review! Or PM me, if you'd rather. And once more: THIS IS PURELY A FICTIONAL WRITING. THIS DOES NOT REFLECT POLITICAL VIEWS OF MYSELF OR OTHERS, NOR IS IT USED TO SOMEHOW ENCOURAGE PRACTICES MENTIONED. THE CHARACTERS ARE FICTIONAL. THE WRITING IS FICTIONAL. LET IT BE. (I just don't want to get in trouble with anybody. Sorry for all the rant-y-ness.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia at all. All of the writes belong to the original creator and all of that. And the companies involved, whatever!

Thank you once again.

The year was 1939.

It was the beginning of the end for Feliks Łukasiewicz, otherwise known as the nation of Poland. The blond wasn't expecting to have an unusual day by any means, but that would prove to be wrong. He had spent hours quarreling with Germany just the other day, unknowingly bringing his downfall. The (admittedly somewhat tougher) nation had wanted to cross through Poland and sign treaties and whatnot. There was, like, no way Feliks had agreed, though.

"So weird… Ludwig seemed really angry when I wouldn't give him permission to take troops across the border," Feliks muttered to himself as he paced his living room, thinking over the day's events. The lighting was ominously dim, only a few oil lamps lighting the room. He could have had normal electrical lights in the room if he wanted, and he did have them, he just didn't feel the need to use them. There was a fireplace in the corner of the room, giving off a cozy gloom in only the darkest corner of the room. The rest looked only as said before- dim and ominous. It wasn't meant to give off an unfriendly vibe, no, the room had been designed to be a very welcoming place, with lush furniture and bright colors. It was a nice room, by all means. It hadn't been used much in the past few days, though, with work going way over time and this whole mess with Germany. There had been more than one night when Feliks had returned home and went straight for his bed, his green eyes fluttering closed before his head could even hit the pillow. He didn't mind being busy, when it was helpful towards his people (or maybe when it was toward Liet, either).

Feliks couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Maybe it was just the way that Germany had looked at him after he had refused the offer, offer after offer. What was the offer really? Poland wondered. Germany was after one of his cities; Danzig. The blond haired, blue eyed nation's boss wanted to build a railroad connecting Germany and East Prussia, through the Polish corridor. There was totally no way that Feliks would let him do that. For one thing, Czechs had given into Germany's demands, and not all that long later had been completely annexed by Germany. Little to none of Poland's people trusted the German's after that, and neither did their nation. He wasn't about to put his own freedom and country at risk. If he gave up Danzig, who would stop Ludwig's boss from taking more and more of his land? He could quite possibly lose everything. That would be, like, bad.

Maybe it was the knowing smirk on the face of Germany's brother, the albino known as Prussia, when they had left that was causing all the nerves running around in his mind. Like, what if this? What if that?

There was no real reason to be nervous, he told himself. It was nothing. He would look back on this day and laugh at how nervous he was, right? Oh, how wrong that was. He may look back on this day, but never with the glint of laughter shining light green eyes. Never, not once.

"Don't be ridiculous, Prussia is totally always smirking at people," he said aloud, trying to calm his own nerves. His voice became only a faint echo in the house, dying as it sounded off the many walls. There were quite a few walls, it was a large house.

The Pole nearly jumped out of his own skin at the sound of a knock on the door. A knock on the door? What? Who would be calling at this late hour?

For some unknown reason, he wanted to be quiet. He crept over to his room, trying to make as little noise as possible, wincing at the sound of a footstep cutting through the silence. He reached the door in no time at all, opening it up only about an inch or so.

"Like, hello? Who's there?" He called through the crack, eyes widening when he saw just who his caller was. What- what was he doing here? "Germany? What are you doing here?"

And his next question went unasked; And can I shut the door in your face?

Apparently the answer was no, because before Poland could even try, a pale hand had thrust the door open the rest of the way, causing Feliks to stumble backwards out of it's way. "Hey, what the hell?" He scoffed, looking up.

Ludwig was kind of a terrifying looking nation. He was at least a foot and a half taller than Feliks with pale skin, bright blue eyes that were really kind of pretty when he was in a good mood, and slicked back blond hair. Feliks couldn't remember a time when Ludwig had worn his hair natural, worn it down. Maybe that just wasn't professional enough for him or whatever. His crisp uniform was extremely decorated, medals reflecting in the light from the oil lamps.

"Hallo, Poland," he said simply, looking down at Feliks.

"Um, hey," Feliks replied, nervously through his hair. "Like, what do you want? I already told you that you couldn't have Danzig, so-"

The German simply laughed. It was a dark, humorless laugh that kind of scared the hell out of the nation he was visiting. "This is not about Danzig."

"Then… What?"

"The German people are growing. More people, more land needed," he said shortly, his eyes scanning the room, lip curling into a cruel sneer that made Feliks gulp. "You were an obstacle in the way. Would you like to surrender and come quietly, ja?"

"No way!" Feliks cried, taking a step backwards.

The soldier only grinned. "I had a feeling you might say that. You will regret it."

"There is, like, no way that I would ever surrender to you," Feliks spat, hand itching towards the gun looped in his belt. "Especially not to you, a pathetic little puppet with a fucking insane insane creep for a-"

He was cut off as he was slammed into the ground, air whooshing from his lungs. His head smacked against the wooden floor, causing a moan of pain to escape from his lips. What the-

"Do not speak about me or my boss like that!" Germany shouted. He was pinning the other blond down, his face a foot away from Feliks'. "Do you have any idea of the struggle? Of the pain? The impossibly reparations, the devastation, complete war guilt for something we didn't even start? Do you have any idea? Answer me!"

Feliks remained silent.

"My country was dying. The people were dying. The economy was already dead. Everything was dead or dying! He brought us out of that! He is returning my people to their former glory!"

"Glory of what? Hate? Racism? Destruction? That isn't very glory worthy at all," Feliks snapped, earning him a knee in his ribcage. His insides exploded in pain, and he thought he heard something snap, a scream of agony threatening to escape from his lungs. Yet, he did not cry out.

Germany moved into a standing position, so that he was no longer holding Poland down. Yet, the Pole did not move.

"Say that again."

"It is not very glor-"

A kick in the side. A wave of agony.

Looking up at Ludwig, Feliks felt only despair. How could he get out of this one? How?

The phone. There was a phone in his parlor! If he could just make it there, he could call his allies! They would help him, right? Now, if only he could avert Germany's attention somehow… But what could he do? There was nothing. No one to function as a distraction, nothing to kick to make a noise. Or was there? Or was there? There was still a gun in Feliks' belt! If he could just get to it and fire a shot, he might be able to buy himself some time, or maybe even save himself.

His mind hand inched towards the pistol, his mouth spewing random words to get Ludwig's attention instead of the hand. "Well, like, um, the weather is like really bad for all the fighting and totally just…"

"What?" Confusion crossed over the man's face as he listened to the babble.

Perfect.

Feliks whipped the gun off of his belt and spun onto his stomach, firing blindly behind himself in the general direction of Germany. He scrambled onto his feet, still firing, pulling the trigger back over and over. He could hear angry yells behind him as he ran towards the parlor. Feliks couldn't even tell if bullets were still being fired, he just kept pulling the trigger.

Reaching the parlor in a matter of seconds (although it felt like so much longer), the blond haired nation made a mad dash for the telephone on the wall. He tried to focus, tried to type in France or Britain's phone numbers, but his hands acted on their own, punching out the number of the person he wanted to speak to the most.

"Hello?"

"L-Liet?"

"Yes. Polska? Is everything alright?" Lithuania asked.

"Totally not! You've got to help me! He's here! In my house!" Feliks practically yelled into the phone, terror escaping into his voice. Yes, he was afraid. He didn't want to be invaded, who would?

"What?" Concern was tinged in Toris' voice. "What? Who-who's there?"

"Germany! Please, help me! You've got to call Britain or France or someone, have them mobilize their troops! Please, pleas-"

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" The accented voice made Poland's blood run cold. Slowly, he turned around.

Ludwig was not smirking anymore.

Toris was still on the phone, probably panicking. He panicked quite a lot, very easily.

Germany stalked forward, only a few feet remained between Feliks and him. His fist came out of nowhere, swinging to his Feliks' nose. The smaller nation crumbled, blood gushing.

He could see the sneer rather than see it, his eyes were watering at a rapid rate.

"Do you surrender now?"

"Never," he snarled in response. A kick in the side. Maybe he would just go numb. His ribs were probably broken, his side in pieces, his nose gushing blood. Still, he wouldn't give up. Never totally meant never, right?

"We'll see," Germany replied, his blue eyes showing no emotion at all.

A shadow. That's what Feliks saw out of the corner of his eye. Then, a tall body to go along with it. Then-

"Hello!"

Russian accent? That's who had come to his fabulous rescue? Ivan? His hope soared, panic subsiding. Ivan could totally kick Ludwig's ass!

"Russia!" He exclaimed, "You've got to, like, help me!"

"You're late," Germany said, voice tinged with annoyance.

Wait, what? Late?

"Oh god, please tell me that this is a cruel joke," Feliks muttered under his breath as Russia moved over to Germany's side, his silver hair shining in the light.

"I am sorry, I decided to wait until you beat him a little," the new arrival said. "I can see that you did. Has he surrendered to you yet?"

"No," the other answered, sneering in a superior way.

"Da, that is not good of you, little one," Ivan said, looking down at the battered man on the floor.

Feliks glared at him, spitting in disgust. Bloody silva spattered on the Russian's crisp and black militaristic style boots.

"Bad move," Ivan simply said, a sick and cheerful smile plastered on his face. Before Feliks could ask what that meant, Ivan pulled his foot back, slamming into Feliks' chest. This time, he couldn't stop the widening of his light green eyes, couldn't hold back the strangled yell of pain.

Ivan only smiled down at him. Such a cruel smile. How could such a childish smile hold such evil in it? It didn't make any sense.

"Now, let me have some time with little Poland, da? He will surrender soon enough," Russia said, mostly to Germany.

A muffled yell altered the three of the nations attention to the phone still clutched in Feliks' hand. He moved his fingers off the receiver. Toris' voice erupted from the phone. He sounded like he was sobbing, or begging, or both. The sound made Feliks want to sob himself.

"Please! No, Polska-" Germany ripped the phone out of Feliks' hand, ending the call. There was a cruel glint in his blue eyes. Poland missed the sound of Lithuania's voice already.

"Enough of that pesky little state," Germany muttered, tossing the phone aside.

His eyes narrowed at the German. "Don't you dare insult him, you little-"

"Watch it, Poland," Russia said cheerfully, pulling a knife out of his coat. Poland's pale skin became even lighter.

"Don't-don't even think about coming near me with that thing," he managed to say, terrified once again.

"Do whatever you want, just leave him alive," Germany spat, looking at Russia in contempt.

"Da, I will," Russia replied, making his way over to Poland, grabbing a fistfull of blond hair, yanking him to his feet roughly. Feliks let out a high pitched cry, clawing at the Russian in vain. His fingers didn't even scratch the skin, all of it was covered by that horrible, long trenchcoat the nation had taken to wearing all the time.. It was a futile effort, but it did make him feel a bit better. Well, not much, with the severity of the pain assaulting him, but whatever.

Ivan's smile was a sight Feliks just couldn't stand, and he averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at the Russian. He was slammed against the wall, the pulled away and back again, yanked by his own hair. He cried out in pain, tears finally escaping from his eyes, dampening his cheeks. Russia only smiled wider.

"Surrender now, da?"

"Never."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ivan replied calmly, flicking the knife, slashing at Feliks. It tore through his side, a pathetic cry coming from his mouth.

"S-stop," he moaned, only standing upright because of the fist in his blond hair. He needed to stay strong, he had to! For his people. Where were his allies? Why was no one coming to help him? God, he missed Liet…

"But you will not surrender." The reply was a cruel truth, yet a sense of victory rushed through Poland. He wasn't a weakling, he was fighting back. He was strong, he was Poland. He needed to survive this, for his people, for himself. And to see Lithuania again.

"I never will, I never will, I never will," Feliks repeated, speaking more to himself than to Ivan. "I never will."

"We'll see about that," Germany muttered, his voice barely audible from the other side of the room. Poland scowled at him. It was so totally hard to keep hope with him in the background, completely backing up the sadistic Russia.

Said Russia let go of the hair abruptly, causing Feliks to sag to the floor rather pathetically. He took a shaky breath, looking up. The insanely tall nation was leering at him, the blade of the knife glinting in his hand. Feliks didn't even see the foot coming until it was flattening him to the ground, crushing his back. Another kick with the other foot, and another. And another. Another, another, another. A flick of the knife, another cut here or there. Pain, pain, pain. He could hear himself screaming, but it sounded detached, like it was another voice, not his own. More pain. That's the only thing he could feel now. In his side, his nose, his stomach, his legs, arms. His head was throbbing unbearably, the feeling of having his hair pulled remaining. Would it ever end?

"Surrender now?" It would be so easy, so easy to give up, to end the pain…

"Never."

He didn't even cry out as the knife slashed his cheek, cutting deep. His voice was hoarse and his throat was sore from screaming so much. He could barely make another sound without wanting to rip his own vocal chords out, claw at the pain in his throat.

Another kick to the side of his head, and it was over. Feliks had curled into a little ball, unable to do anything else. He was whimpering uncontrollably, his face wet with blood and tears. His dark green uniform was a mess, stained dark with blood, not all of it dry, but all of it his. He felt like his bones were on fire, his head was a bomb's explosion.

He was finished. He couldn't go on.

Germany and Russia both knew it, too. They could tell that Poland's vision was blurry, the corners of his sight fading into darkness. His breaths were shaky and scattered, little moans of pain accompanying each one of them. He was battered, beaten, and afraid. Utterly afraid. His eyes probably gave that away to them.

Feliks could barely make out Ludwig walking over to the phone and dialling a number before speaking. "Yes, Britain? Are you and France both there?"

He couldn't hear Arthur's reply.

"No, no, I just want you to listen. I've payed your friend Poland a visit… Yes, I had heard that you were allies, in fact. Just listen." Germany stalked over to Feliks and thrust out the phone. "Do you surrender? No answer means yes."

He couldn't speak. As hard as he tried, he couldn't. He tried, oh how he tried. Like, the words just wouldn't come out of his mind. His lips formed then, but his throat was too raw, he'd screamed his voice away. He had to say something, though. He couldn't just give up!

But it was too late.

He heard lots of shouting over the phone, only hearing a phrase or two of angry English. He lost consciousness then, lying in a pool of his own blood, curled up with his miniature cape covering his destroyed chest and torso. One word echoed in his mind over and over as the darkness engulfed him.

Never.