She could almost pass for perfect, if it were not for the eyes. Her hair, her skin, everything else about her suggested that she was the perfect German. Except the eyes. They were the brown eyes of a Kommunist. Eyes that belonged to something he, as a German, had been taught to hate. But he could not hate them, not when they belonged to her. Liesel.
She found him on the cracked tarmac of a bomb-stricken street. "Rudy!" She screamed his name, not in anger or frustration as she usually did, but in horror, worry. Her knees met the asphalt, and her lips met his. Her kisses were chaste, yet desperate, and they awoke him; a twist on the fairytales Liesel was yet to read. The princess causes the prince to awake. He whispers her name.
Her tears drip down her face, spilling from her eyes and cascading down her porcelain, freckled skin, dripping off the edge of her jaw. Slowly, he feels himself sit up, and though his hand shakes it does it's best to wipe away the tears. She says his name again, an imploring sob, begging for consolation. The broken street is forgotten; the bombs, the corpses of their families, all drift away. She cries, kneeling by his side, and before he realises, his face is slick with tears too. The LSE men pick them up, handling Liesel too roughly, and they are bundled into a car, taken to hospital. Everyone is dead; it's just them. He's numb. She is too, but she still manages to choke out names between her sobs. Mama. Papa. God.
He holds her hand. An hour, a day, a week prior, this would have been a romantic gesture. Now it was just two broken teenagers clinging to each other for safety or familiarity. It's not a happy ending. But it's better than it could have been. She feels sick for thinking this; her family is dead. His family is dead. Himmel Street is dead. She remembers the night they went to kill the Führer, a bitter laugh resonates in her throat, never quite making it out of her mouth.
She looks at him; the lemon hair, the blue eyes that have seen more tragedy than they should have, the lips constantly begging for a kiss from a Saumensch. He looks at her; the dark and weary eyes, the hair that was a close enough brand of German blonde, the lips he longed to kiss, and the hands prone to thievery. Her right hand find it's way to his again, their fingers intertwining, knotting together. Her face is still tear streaked. She offers a slow, cautious smile that didn't reach her eyes. He returns it, and for the first time that night, he manages to say something that isn't monosyllabic. "Alles ist Scheiße," Everything is shit. She replies with a sentence of her own. "Ich weiß, Saukerl, ich weiß." I know that, bastard, I know. He grips her hand tighter.