"Good to see you've finally decided to come again," Francis leaned against the wooden table, his hair falling in waves, "And what a delightful place to have a first meeting. It was very gracious of your sister to offer."
"It was," Lars agreed, saying nothing else before taking a sip of his beer.
"It's his first time with other nations in months, frog, don't welcome him back by hitting on his sister," Arthur glared from his side of the table.
"Mon cher, it is called courting, although I'm not surprised you've never heard of it," Francis purred, leaning over to a point where Arthur, clearly uncomfortable by the proximity and loose enough from the alcohol, gave in and leaned back.
"It's called being creepy," Matthias butted into the conversation after calling the waitress for another mug.
"Excuse me," Emma called from the head of the table, "I'll be the judge of Francis' compliments, and they are just that; compliments. Albeit," Emma let out a smile, "Unwanted ones."
"You wound me!" Francis held a hand to his heart, and laughter could be heard throughout the table. Matthew, previously turning his head in tune to the argument, turned back to Lars to see how he was faring. To his surprise, the man was smiling along with the others on the table, and, supposing there was nothing else to do, Matthew laughed along with them.
Lars appeared at Matthew's door, for a change, with a bouquet of tulips in hand, arranged in different colours, types, and sizes. Striking reds sat next to calmer yellows, and a few giant tulips dwarfed the rest, giving them a quaint miniature look.
"Was the Queen a few dozen short?" Matthew asked, bemused, as he took in the arrangement and wondered how exactly one was to store them. He vaguely remembered Arthur teaching him and Alfred, but that was centuries ago.
"I suppose I should bring you something of my gratitude, as well," Lars held the bouquet, and where Matthew would expect Alfred to barge in, or Francis to ask for a kiss, or for Arthur to blush and look away, Lars just stood there, meeting Matthew's gaze as he stared.
"Thank you," Matthew took the flowers, "They mean a lot."
"So did your help," Lars' hands almost fidgeted, and that was the only sign Matthew had that, perhaps, Lars was just as nervous giving the flowers as Matthew felt receiving them.
"Trust me," Matthew said, seeing from the corner of his eye Lars' sceptic gaze, "The waffles will taste better this way." And with that, syrup began to pour out of its glass container and onto the waffles Lars had helped Matthew make. Lars cut off a piece with his fork and knife, then hesitantly took it to his mouth. Matthew watched his jaw as he chewed, and his eye when he swallowed.
Lars finally said, "Definitely worse."
"Hey," Matthew crossed his arms, though he didn't stop smiling, "They taste better after a few bites."
Lars shook his head, "This is one thing I can't trust you with."
"So your life is below your love for waffles?" Matthew asked, an eyebrow raised, but still setting aside a separate plate for Lars' syrupless waffles.
Lars nodded, sitting back down in the chair, watching with a close eye Matthew's pouring. Matthew knew his hands itched to help, but as a host, it was Matthew's duty to serve, even if it meant the blasphemy of doing so without syrup.
That night, Matthew awoke to a rumbling in his house. Armed only Kumachiyo and a stick, Monsieur Bâton, Matthew stumbled into his kitchen to see Lars, pouring maple syrup over a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
The bedside phone rung, and Matthew groaned, turning to the other side of his bed, looking at the telephone, and realising he didn't have the energy to listen to one of Alfred's crazy schemes again. He snuggled back up to Kumahiro, preparing to go back to sleep. Usually, when Alfred had a 'genius' plan in the middle of the night, he would try call Matthew, then Arthur, then Francis, and Matthew didn't even want to know how many people he got through before Berwald showed up one day at the world meeting, sleepless and grumbling about a robot made out of comic books.
But the phone rang again, and Matthew, even in his half asleep state, realised that maybe Alfred had a good reason this time, and, grudgingly, picked up the phone.
"Al?" he asked, stroking the fur on Kumamari's head in an attempt to calm the disturbed bear.
"Nee," Matthew heard a voice much deeper than his brother's on the other line, "Today is the anniversary. May 10th. Emma said I should have someone with me so I don't end up doing anything stupid."
"Lars?" Matthew asked, and heard an affirmative, "What time is it in the Netherlands?"
"Six in the morning," Lars answered, "I'm sorry if I woke you, I thought, since it was only midnight…"
"No," Matthew sighed, "No, it's okay. It's just, well, it is a long flight to the Netherlands."
"You could be here by around four; you don't need any reservations and I have extra clothes," Lars paused, and Matthew thought he could hear birds chirping in the background, just waking up for the day, "But, if it's too much trouble, I could just ask Arthur or Matthias."
"No," Matthew shook his head, sitting up and beginning to wake, "I can come. I'll see you in twelve or fourteen hours, I guess."
"Thank you."
"It's just what friends do, right?" Matthew smiled, yawning into his hand right after.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, before, "Yeah. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Matthew cut the line, and allowed himself a few minutes on his soft pillows, feeling Kumamiku's warmth acutely, now that it would soon be lost. He supposed it would be a couple of calls to his government, explaining that something had come up in the Netherlands, and maybe a visit to London, if his boss allowed him the time off. As he closed his eyes, Matthew saw a tired man with greasy hair and a weak smile, juxtaposed by another image of a Renaissance master, one towering above him, full of experience and soft words.
Perhaps he would pay a visit to Paris, too.
As things went, Matthew showed up at a sizable farmhouse right outside of Amsterdam at four in the afternoon, still slightly sleep deprived and ready for company that wasn't agitated at having to share the small body of an airplane for hours on end. Lars was at the door as soon as he knocked.
"How was the flight?" Lars asked, taking one of Matthew's suitcases and ushering him in.
"That entire bag," Matthew pointed to the suitcase in Lars' hands, "Is paperwork."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Matthew followed Lars in and collapsed on one of his wooden chairs, wishing Lars had led him to somewhere with a couch, or even a bed.
"Are you good to go out tonight?" Lars took in Matthew's appearance, rubbing at dark circles under his eyes.
"Yeah," Matthew nodded, removing his hands from his head, "I mean, that's the entire reason I took the flight. Plus, I could use a drink."
"Hm," Lars took out some bread, slicing it up with meat to create a makeshift lunch, "Are you going back after today?"
"No. I'm planning to go to Arthur's mansion outside of London, then to Francis' Paris mansion, where I think he'll be. You know," Matthew yawned, "It's much easier to visit people when they don't change their address every week."
Lars shrugged as he brought Matthew his sandwich, "If I bought these houses all over the country, I need to use them."
Matthew smiled into his lunch, hoping Lars couldn't see, "Do you want to join me?"
"There are still too many things to do at home," Lars shook his head.
The sky was completely clear as they went out in the evening, painted with broad strokes of reds and oranges. The buzz of the upcoming summer was audible, but just barely, on the country road.
"It feels like I have an obligation to my people to mourn with them," Lars broke the quiet, his voice thunder compared to the background, "And I do. Even though Emma and Elias are fine, the soldiers who fought and didn't come back- I felt their loss too."
"Yeah," Matthew saw the outline of buildings as they got closer to the small town, and farther away from the city, "It feels odd to compare the bonds between nations to the bonds between nations and their people, though."
"It's a messy comparison that needs to be made."
"I knew my people were dying, and it hurt, like part of me was dying, and it kept getting worse and worse," Lars took a deep breath, "And everything started to blur together. After the men who died in the invasion, it was the Jewish who died in the camps- even five hundred miles away, even when a thought of their country probably didn't even cross their minds, and in hate, if it did. They were still mine, and they were still dying."
Matthew looked around the establishment, and saw that everyone else was either in a similar state or trying to drink themselves to unconsciousness. He hoped no one would pay too much attention to the two men in a secluded corner.
"They're safe now," Matthew offered, "And that's all that matters, right? I mean, that's how we get over wars, or rather, that's how we have to."
"Yeah. But you know what the worst thing was? I began to worry, not about my people, but about Emma and Elias," Lars jerked his head to a man whose back was facing both of them, "I could tell if he died for me, I guess. I would feel it, but I wouldn't be able to tell it was him. I wouldn't be able to tell what he was like when he was too small, and didn't even know how to begin to speak any of his three languages, or when he was so upset that he couldn't protect his sister, because he hadn't understood what we were. I couldn't tell you anything other than the fact he was Dutch."
"It'd be hard to remember that about a few million people," Matthew replied.
"I think you should remember something about the people willing to die for you. Instead, it's just nations you remember," Lars sighed, "I know it's important, but-"
"It's funny," Matthew interrupted, "How being a nation so often makes you hate people so wholeheartedly, but then you still worry for them, once the hate disappears."
"I find it fucking awful," Lars replied, more than willing to change the subject. Matthew stifled a laugh, glancing the room again and feeling its oppressive nature. He glanced back at Lars, seeing the tears gathering in his eyes. He knew what it felt like; he had mourned before, and, though he wanted to slip in and join the country, it would do no good for both of them to wake up, tear stained cheeks pressed against the hard table at the first rays of dawn.
"Lars," Matthew finally said, unsure whether or not to ask the next question, "Did your sister really tell you to find someone tonight?"
Lars looked up, his cheeks pink, although he didn't seem to notice, "No. I'm sorry I lied to you, but I would do it again."
"You don't need to."
There was silence, but the night was young, and Matthew was intent on listening to Lars if he needed to vent. He stood to go to the counter and bring another drink, and he could feel Lars' eyes on him as he left. They weren't accusatory, or lecherous, or condescending. It was a welcome relief, that when he turned back, Lars was simply pensive.
Matthew left Lars' cottage much in the same way Lars had left Arthur's mansion; he left a glass of water and a letter, saying in two lines where he would be and that he would be willing to come again for another night of drinking, especially under less miserable circumstances.
He started the walk to Amsterdam with the intention of finding a phone booth and calling parliament to book him a ticket to Rouen, deciding to visit Francis first after Lars had let it slip, in quite a grand comedy, where he was. Relations between them, still growing and recovering after everything that had happened, aside, Matthew was fully intent on teasing his grand frère about getting caught in the act, by Alfred of all people.
"The cathedral is still beautiful, isn't it?" Francis asked, arm around Matthew in a way he had become unused to since being handed over to Arthur.
"It is," Matthew appreciated the looming face, grand, yet delicate and detailed, and he could imagine why so many photographers were from France. He turned back to his guest for the umpteentht time that day. It was another little check that a voice in his head insisted that he had to do. No matter how poetic Francis was, or how confidant he acted, Matthew was still scared to turn around and see blank eyes on his face.
"You seem anxious," Francis ushered Matthew to the side of the road, into a more secluded and quiet area, "There is much history and many sights to see in Rouen, beautiful and tragic, but I've taken you to see most of them before. We could just spend time at my home, how do you say, eh?"
Matthew smiled at Francis' attempt, and then back at the streets. Francis was right, they had both toured the city before, and Matthew knew almost everything about it up to the Renaissance from Francis' stories. He could learn about the last four hundred years some other time, when his feet weren't aching, or when the memory of the occupation wasn't as fresh.
"That seems like a good idea," Matthew nodded, and Francis began to talk about the food he would prepare. He asked if Matthew could still taste it after being subjected to England's cuisine, and Matthew just rolled his eyes in response.
"Are you planning to stay for a couple of weeks, mon petit ours?" Francis asked over the soup he had made.
"A day or two more, maybe, before I'll visit London. Mon grande coq," Matthew answered.
"Point taken," Francis chuckled, "But what will you do in London?"
"I suppose the question is really what will I do to keep myself from going back to my office," Matthew sighed, "Arthur is always willing to drag any of his former colonies on a day trip somewhere. After that, I might visit Emma, or maybe Alistair."
"Ah. Although it would be nice if you could stay," Francis took a sip with his silver spoon. "I would have yelled at you for going to England when you were small, do you remember? How times have changed."
"You would have yelled at me a couple of years ago," Matthew raised a brow.
"Ah, I suppose if I could," Francis waved his hand dismissively, and Matthew couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit hurt that that was all the separation warranted. "But anyway, you should come visit more often. Lots of things to see, and I like showing you around."
Matthew smiled tightly as he remembered the same exact words he had said to Francis hundreds of years ago. A million things wanted to rush out of his mouth, but in the end, it was only a strangled, "Yeah."
Francis,
It's been a pleasure seeing you, and I hope to come again. I'm off to London, I guess, but you can come to Canada any time. I'd like to repay the favour.
Matthew
In a habit that Matthew thought he was indulging in much too often, he left before Francis awoke.
"Mattie?" Alfred's voice came through the phone at Arthur's house. Surprising, considering Matthew hadn't even told his brother where he would be.
"Yes?" Matthew asked, glancing over to Arthur who was trying, and failing, to make a meal.
"Where are you now?"
"London?" Matthew answered.
"Mind coming to Vienna?"
"Yes."
"Oh, come on, Mattie, Feli said I could visit for pasta when I was around the country. I just need you there for a couple of hours," Alfred spoke, and Matthew could hear a faint grumbling in the background.
"Why do you need me?"
"Arthur will kill me if he finds out," Alfred whispered, though in his voice, it was still too loud,
"Arthur's in the same room as me, making breakfast," Matthew pointed out.
"Shhhh. Just come to Vienna and I'll forgive you for making me sit your killing machine."
"I already did what you wanted and gave you food," Matthew sighed, "Just get me something from Italy and we'll be even."
"Deal. Just go to the airport, I've already bought you the tickets," before Matthew could respond, Alfred had hung up.
Matthew sat in a chair in the lounge as Austria played a sonata, one he was sure someone had forced him to listen to when he was young, but Matthew couldn't remember who it was who played it to him, nor the name of the piece. Nonetheless, it was beautiful, if sad.
As the song continued, and then another began, Matthew began to drift off in the chair, nothing to do. He understood why Alfred would rather leave to Italy than stay in Austria, but the view of the alps, framed by the large and ornate window, combined with the soothing notes and the soft cushion of the chair-
The music stopped, in the middle of what Matthew could tell was a measure.
"Austria?" Matthew asked, reopening his eyes and sitting up to the scene of the musician grasping at his midsection, "What's wrong?"
"The hunger," he replied. Matthew stood up and walked over to the man, helping Roderich onto the chair. Matthew then sat at the piano, knowing that food wouldn't help if the population was starving, and the only way to help was to distract. He ran through his mind to think of any melodies he knew, finally settling on Chopsticks as the only one he could play correctly. His fingers tried to find the correct notes, although they went on too long, and the rhythm, although it faltered at moments, and Matthew found himself wondering how long it was since he was forced to take the piano lessons.
"Please stop," Austria croaked, "It hurts more than the hunger- the possibility that you could break my piano."
"I, I mean, I wasn't going to break it," Matthew protested, although he did get up and leave the piano, "I'm sorry."
"No," Austria sighed, "At least you weren't trying to break it. Just get me the painkillers."
"I'm sorry," Matthew sat down on one of the other chairs, which seemed to be much less used and soft, "You ran out."
"Do you think I care? Go buy me more, then." Austria snapped.
"It's not like painkillers are easy to find when people are fighting for basic food," Matthew reminded the man, who faltered for a second.
"I need them," Austria replied, much quieter, almost begging.
"It's not going to help in the long term."
"Neither is the occupation, or the food shortage, or the monopoly Russia is holding," Austria looked up, and Matthew could see that it was taking effort to even be angry, "Why aren't you doing something about that?"
"I'm sorry, okay? But we have so many things to finish, and-"
"Your apologies won't help either," Austria interrupted.
The room lapsed into quiet, and Matthew missed the sweet and slow piano music.
"Do you want help to get to the bedroom?" Matthew finally asked.
"I used to be an empire," Austria said, his voice hollow, "I'm sure I can make it down the hall."
He stood, hobbling to the hall that led out of the lounge, and Matthew walked behind him, resisting the urge to help him along as he leaned against the wall.
Matthew knocked on the door of the cottage, hoping Lars was still there. Thankfully, he opened the door, and Matthew held up a bag of nut brittle.
"Alfred also brought spaghetti back," Matthew said, noticing Lars' raised brow, "But it didn't last the trip."
"That brings up more questions than it answers," Lars said, but he let Matthew in regardless.
"I went to France, and then to Austria at Al's request, because he wanted to go to Italy. He brought food back."
"Bad visits?"
Matthew nodded, putting the packet on the table and sighing, "And you were the closest person who I was sure would agree to a night out."
"This isn't what I meant when I said a night out," Matthew ripped off a piece of bread anyway.
"Alfred and Arthur liked it," Lars shrugged, throwing a piece of bread to the harlequin ducks in the pond.
"It's not bad," Matthew shrugged, throwing another piece. The bread sailed through the air, before promptly hitting the duck straight on the beak. "Sorry."
"The duck will eat it anyway," Lars shrugged, and, true to his word, the duck dived for the soggy bread. "How were your trips?"
"I called Francis a cock and Austria almost keeled over from hunger."
"Hmm," Lars looked out at the faint twilight reflected on the pond, "Your visits here are never that eventful."
"Be thankful they aren't," Matthew tossed another piece of bread, this time, not causing any duck-related injuries. "The trip to France could have been worse, I guess, I mean, I got a bit worried and we had to stop the sight-seeing short, but it's not like the art museums were my main focus in Paris."
"What was?" Lars prompted. A lot of things could be said about Lars' conversation skills, but his listening, at least, was a strong point.
"Francis, I guess. But I didn't know how to start with him. Like, 'I'm sorry you lost me in a war to your greatest rival and called me a few desolate acres of snow, but I'm willing to make up?"
"If you hated him so much, you wouldn't have visited."
"Yeah," Matthew absentmindedly moulded the bread in his hands, "I mean, it was a war, I guess, and he had no choice. It's just, what do you say when the man who you've looked up to for a couple hundred years is hit harder than you are?"
"In my experience, you stop looking up to them. You're taller than him, anyway."
"Do you, o lofty one, look down on everyone, then?"
Lars nodded, throwing another piece of bread, the barest hint of a smile on his face.
"It's a bit of a downer to end the history tour on, I know," Matthew looked back to Lars, tearing his eyes from the war memorial, "But it's an important part of my history, nonetheless."
"I see," Lars answered, staring at the monument, the black soldiers stationed on it and the overreaching arch, "It's important to remember, yes."
"Je me souviens. It's the motto of Quebec."
"I'm guessing it's in French?"
"I remember," Matthew laughed, "Sorry."
"Oh," Lars turned away from the memorial, and Matthew followed. Though the monument was striking, both aesthetically and emotionally, this was supposed to be a light trip, and Matthew thought there was enough talk about the wars past and the ones to come with his fellow nations.
"I guess that brings us up to date," Matthew stopped to the side of the street and opened his map so Lars could see, "Now we have the next four days to look at the nature, maybe, or just the culture. You're a bit too early for the Ex, but the Stampede's happening now. It's a long way west, though."
Matthew looked back at Lars to make sure he understood, and saw Lar's eyes wandering around the map.
"It'll take a while to get there, a few hours by plane and a few days by car, so maybe we should just stay here. You could visit around the west coast, or the maritime provinces, or the plains, next time."
"I feel like we could get my entire country done, with a lot more to do, in one of these trips," Lars stepped into the shade, "We could spend a month on the history alone."
"Nothing to do, I guess," Matthew shrugged, "Everything here's a bit spaced out. We could go down and visit Al's east coast, if you want. He's always willing to show people around."
"No," Lars shook his head, "Some quiet would be nice."
"Is that your way of telling me to stop talking?" Matthew grinned, and then elbowed Lars when he wouldn't answer.
"Come on, we can go to a cafe somewhere around here, if you want."
Sat down at a table for two at a quaint coffee shop, Matthew opened his map once more, nudging aside his pastry and ice tea.
"I guess, since we've run out of history, we could just go hiking," Matthew offered.
"In this heat?" Lars took another sip of his coffee, "Where's all of your ice and snow gone?"
"It migrates north for the summer, like geese," Matthew answered.
"How nice," Lars leaned on his elbows to get a better view of the table, "Couldn't we go to one of your museums?"
"There's the national currency museum," Matthew offered.
"That'll be first on our list," Lars nodded.
Lars yawned as he collapsed on the couch, watching as Matthew took out two bowls and a tub of ice cream.
"Have you watched The Great Dictator?" Matthew asked, "A theatre nearby plays it again once in a while, and I think they're showing it tonight."
"I've heard of it," Lars leaned his head on the cushions of the sofa, closing his eyes.
"Do you want to see it?" Matthew came closer to the living room table, setting one of the bowls down in front of his guest. Lars didn't answer. "It's always good to laugh at history, you know? It takes away some of the pain."
"It's based around a caricature of the man who haunted my country for five years," Lars barely opened his eyes, "It's too soon, don't you think?"
"It'll always be too soon, if you think about it like that."
Three or four hours later, Lars and Matthew stumbled back into the property, too tired to stay out any longer and too awake to go to sleep. So, much like Matthew had spent most of his sleepless nights as far as he could remember, he led Lars to two chairs in front of the fireplace. Matthew sighed as he sank into the cushions, leather moulding around his body. His eyes closed, but his foot still tapped on the hardwood floor.
"I feel like I don't have much to show you around here," Matthew frowned, his eyes slits as they stared at Lars, "I'm sorry, but I don't really know much about what it was like before Arthur or Francis showed up, and even then, they'd probably be able to tell it more eloquently. History's kind of a blank before that."
"Emma or I couldn't tell you much of what happened before Romulus came," Lars answered, voice even lower and more relaxed than it usually was, "Everyone I can think of was governed at the hands of another nation for their first few years. In fact, I'm hard pressed to think about anyone today who was brought up by their people, instead of another nation.."
"China," Matthew said.
"Ask him, and I'm sure he can point to someone who raised him," Lars grinned, "And then he'll spend days on end telling you what it was like, and what all the Kingdoms and Empires were."
"I take it you made the mistake yourself?"
"I asked Kiku, well, Japan, which I'd almost say was a worst mistake."
"Hm," Matthew stretched out his legs, feeling the warm embrace of sleep coming on, but not wanting to leave his seat, "I almost feel bad for him in a way. It must hurt to live that long."
"History has its horrors, like a few years ago, but there are brighter times, too. I wouldn't want to go back to them, but there are things I miss," Lars replied, "I don't much want to be here, now, either, but I'm sure the future is brighter. It always is."
"I don't mean as a nation," Matthew tried to shake his head, but in the end, it stopped halfway through, one pink cheek facing the air and the other pressed against the sofa. "I mean, as people. It's pretty hard."
"Yeah," Lars' eyes were closed and his hair mussed against the back of the sofa, "But we've already seen we can't die."
The day Matthew saw Lars off at the airport, he walked back to his house, laid his body down on the grass, and looked up to the tree shading his view. The wind blowing through his hair and his face towards the green canopy, Matthew could almost pretend that he was waiting for the next group of merchants or traders to come in so he could listen to the stories they told, or that Francis or Arthur were back in the house, taking care of his paperwork and citizen's complaints so he could walk around and appreciate the city.
Then again, neither of his brothers were running a country in Canada; rather, they were running a colony.
"We never managed to take a trip to Wales," Arthur complained, hands possessively around the handle of his mug, "The sheepshagger got mad. He was looking forward to someone else visiting, apparently."
"Are you sure he isn't mad because you called him a sheepshagger?" Matthew teased.
"It's said with the utmost affection."
"Ah, this is why you are so alone, mon lapin," Francis shook his head, "Almost two millennia old and still so lacking in culture."
"Shut it, frog."
"Someone's sensitive," Matthias grinned, before Lukas glared at him in a way that Matthew was sure must have physically hurt.
"Matthieu has a point, does he not?"
"Huh?" Matthew looked away from his conversation with Emma and Lars. For once, he thought he could have just gone unnoticed from the fight between his brothers. Just his luck that was the only time he couldn't disappear.
"Eh, not you," Francis said, before his realising what his words sounded like, "Though I'm sure you have many great points within you, mon ours."
"Smooth," Emma commented from behind Matthew.
"Now who's lacking in culture?" Arthur prodded the embarrassed man.
"Just get me another wine," Francis sighed, turning to Romano, who held the burden of hosting. After a few choice words, the Italian complied, leaving the table.
"Uh, guys," Alfred called from his place next to Matthias, "Be careful with the drinking. You know, we have some important things to talk about tomorrow."
The banter in the table stopped, even Arthur and Francis turning away from each other at the reminder.
"That's hours from now, though," Matthias grinned, waving the matter away with his hand, "Drinks on me, everyone!"
And with that, the table continued. Matthew took one last sweeping glance at the table; the various nations bickering and teasing each other, some interested but silent, others silent in sleep, and he couldn't remember a night out that wasn't as rowdy as the one in front of him. Truly, he couldn't imagine a night out that wouldn't be as rowdy.
A/N: Thanks again for reading, and, as always, reviews are appreciated! Now, for even longer explanations.
Translations
Monsieur Bâton- Mister Stick (French)
Nee- No (Dutch)
Grand frère- Big brother (French)
Mon petit ours- My little bear (French)
Mon grande coq- My big rooster
Mon lapin- My rabbit (French)
Notes
May 10th is the day Nazi Germany invaded the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg.
On a lighter note, if you're wondering why exactly Matthew decided on 'mon grande coq', the national animal of France is the Gallic Rooster.
The reason Austria isn't faring very well is that it was split up between all the Allies, none of which gave the Austrians more than the bare minimum of food, which was understandable, as they themselves had to work hard to recover and keep everyone fed. As for the monopoly, the USSR held a lot of the factories in their partition of Austria, and the companies were working more to the benefit of the USSR than Austria.
A few desolate acres of snow- from Voltaire, a french enlightenment writer, who had some less than flattering opinions of French North America, including Canada. I think, though Francis wouldn't call him anything like that, the fact that some french people had that opinion would hurt a young Canada.
The Ex and the Stampede are festivals, I guess you would call them, in Edmonton and Calgary, Alberta.
The Great Dictator is a film made by Charlie Chaplin right before the Second World War picked up, making caricatures of both Adolph Hitler and Benito Mussolini.
