Franz- Kugelmugel
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1938, Innsbruck, Austria
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They had very little time left.
"Hurry up," Érzsebét hissed, cradling her baby son in her arms and desperately trying to stop him from crying. He was wrapped up in a thick blanket, woollen hat stuffed on his head and covering a few tufts of fine, silvery hair. His mother also wore a woollen hat, sat at an awkward angle on her frazzled brunette hair and she wore a thick coat over her brown skirt and hiding a thick jumper, thrown on back-to-front in her haste to get dressed. Her tights were wrinkled and gloves abandoned. There was no time. A pair of battered suitcases stood at her feet: one for her and one for her husband.
"I'm almost finished," Roderich called back, standing hunched over a typewriter on his desk, fingers flying over the keys with ease, as if it were the piano he much preferred.
"We don't have time!" The baby in Érzsebét's arms was crying harder now, sensing her distress. His pudgy fists flailed about, wiggling free of the blanket and his face distorted as he wailed.
"It's fine, Franz," she cooed, "daddy's just being stubborn. Again." She smiled, but it was quickly replaced by a worried frown. She couldn't lose her family now, not after all the promises she'd made to them.
"I just need to finish this paragraph and we can go," Roderich called, "one more minute. Please. You know how important my work is."
"Fine," Érzsebét decided not to mention that it was because of his important work that they were in this mess. Roderich didn't care though, and would continue to write until the day he died.
Although, they decided, it would be much safer to write them from unoccupied France.
And Érzsebét would support him. She would help him fight his battle against the government that had annexed his country so suddenly and with little resistance. And she would protect her stubborn, journalist husband with her life.
She just wished Roderich would stop getting into so much trouble.
Even when his office had been smashed, he continued writing, trying to stir up resistance among his countrymen. When they threatened him and closed down his newspaper, he wrote in secret, distributing leaflets with the help of some co-workers. Now most of those co-workers had either fled or been rounded up in the middle of the night and taken away by the secret police.
And Roderich was next.
Well, he would be if they didn't leave tonight.
They weren't sure how exactly they could get across the boarder without being arrested, but they had to try. Roderich was an influential member of the press, so surely there would be a regular reader somewhere willing to help them. Then again, by going on the run, Roderich would become a wanted man, so there was the constant danger of someone turning them in, either out of fear or for personal gain.
Still, Érzsebét was certain she could protect her boys and get them to safety, though it would be helpful if they stopped making keeping themselves alive such a frustratingly difficult task. She shushed Franz once more and just as she was contemplating picking up Roderich and carrying him across the boarder, he gave a yell and jumped up.
"Finished!" Roderich ripped the sheet of paper from his typewriter and bounded over to her, "would you mind looking after this for me? You know easily how I lose things."
"Of course," Érzsebét stuffed the article in her hat, "but how exactly do you plan to publish it?" she asked, dragging him towards the door with Franz in one hand and her suitcase in the other.
Roderich managed to wriggle free in the hall long enough to grab his coat and scarf, attempting to put them on with one hand as the other was clutching his own suitcase. It was full of a few items of clothing and some food, despite his requests that he at least take a few music sheets. Music sheets weren't going to prevent him dying on the journey; Érzsebét had been firm about that.
"I have a friend who promised to distribute them as leaflets. I'm going to consider it my legacy."
"It might well be if we don't get out of the country tonight."
Just as she spoke those words, the trio were shaken by a thunderous knocking.
…
Okay, new fic. I know I say this a lot, and I know I'm adding to my already enormous workload but… you know that feeling when you have an au and you really want to start it because you can't think of anything else? Yeah, I hate that feeling but can never resist it.
So the pairings, as listed in the summary, are luxmold, ukrmona, aushun and robul. What isn't listed is some past-estukr too, so I'll just say it now. Chances are I won't add any more but in the rare chance that I do, you will be given plenty warning.
I wanted to write a story about journalists. There's not much more to it. It's a career path I'm considering, as surgeon seems a bit out of reach. It's a profession that kinda gets demonised by myself and others, so I just wanted to write about regular people who also happen to be journalists, not an irritating hindrance. Who knows, maybe my next fic will be about traffic wardens?
This fic will be set in the middle of the 20th century, and cover a range of events that occurred at that time, mainly the Iron Curtain. I'm not going for anything political, I just want to write about a group of people living on one side and a group of people living on the other, that's all.
Hope you enjoy this story, and please say if you do.