1962:

Papa didn't come home.

SS Untersturmführer Klaus Heydrich had waited and waited. The junior Heydrich had sworn to himself twenty years ago that he wouldn't wait by the window like he had as a worrisome nine-year-old ever again, no matter how late his father was.

The twenty-nine year old, however, couldn't help but pass by the window, making excuses every time he snuck a peek. Had the servants mown the lawn earlier? Was it cold outside? Gosh, he hadn't realized how wrinkled the swastika flag by the door was, he'd better spend about twenty minutes straightening it out, eyes fixed on the front driveway all the while.

But eventually he ran out of excuses and scurried to the TV, turning it on and flitting to the news. No sirens were blaring, no panicked newsman was flailing his arms and screaming that the all-important Oberstgruppenführer Heydrich had been shot/stabbed/beaten/thrown into a nuclear power plant/arrested.

Instead the newsman sat there, a bright, forced smile on his face as he babbled on in English. Klaus sighed, sat, and took the lack of panic at the newsroom to mean that his father was perfectly fine, just caught up with work. His worry swiftly turned into youthful agitation at his father for leaving him behind. Bad enough that he hadn't been willing to take him along on the mission (he hadn't even deigned it necessary to tell him why the hell they had to scurry to America, only that it involved the American Reichsprotektor, Obergruppenführer Smith), but he just had to leave him at their American house with squat to do except be reminded of the fact that he didn't know English.

Klaus grunted. He wouldn't be surprised if Papa purposely refused to keep any German books (except Mein Kampf, but that was only because he found the English translation unbearable) in their American house as a sly little jab at his son's inability to learn languages. Unlike his father, who was fluent in five languages (even though he evidently had an atrocious accent whenever he tried to speak French), Klaus only knew two, his native German and Czech, and he had only managed to pick up Czech by virtue of the fact that he had spent most of his childhood in Prague amongst the Slavs. It had been necessary to learn if he wanted to enlist any playmates from the nearby village for his and Heider's games.

It wasn't too much of a problem, though: unless he ever needed to go to the Japanese sector for any reason, he would never be in a place where German wasn't widely spoken.

He sunk down on his seat, fiddling with the various medals he had pinned to his SS uniform, the (to him) nonsensical English of the newscaster and wondering for the thousandth time why they were here. He hadn't bothered asking Papa-he rarely ever questioned what Papa said or did unless it involved leaving him behind. Then he had nothing but questions. "What do you mean stay home? Why? What if something bad happens? Don't you remember the Somalia Incident? What do you mean that doesn't count, you almost got your hand cut off!"

On and on until his father would relent and take him along. He was likely the only man alive that had the ability to change his father's mind: normally Reinhard Heydrich lived up to his nickname, the Man with the Iron Heart, and if he set his head to something Hitler himself couldn't have convinced him to act otherwise. He was always convinced that he knew best, and Klaus tended to agree except where it involved keeping him away.

Fortunately his father didn't tend to leave him behind too often: Klaus was his pride. He had made his young son his adjunct for a very good reason. Klaus was a good fighter, a strong man, and loved his father. He was likely the only man in the SS Reinhard could trust completely, and thus Klaus could usually expect that even if he didn't tell any of his other spies and soldiers of his plans, Reinhard would at the very least tell Klaus.

Except this time. This time was odd, in fact: Reinhard had actually invited Klaus along on this one and had been smiling all the while (very much not something he did when giving a typical mission), as though Klaus was eight years old once more and his father had a birthday present waiting in the other room. Yet in spite of how eager he had seemed to have Klaus come along, he hadn't said a word about what they would actually be doing once they hit the shores of America save for the fact that it involved Smith. For good or for ill Klaus didn't know, but he never asked those kinds of questions. He'd go along with what Father asked, as always. Even when it involved being bored out of his wits.

He leaned back, adjusting his gun as he did so and getting comfortable. He should have just gone upstairs and changed, went to bed. There was no real reason to sit there with his sheath digging into his side and the cheerful tone of the American newsman serving as an unorthodox lullaby, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to move. He almost smiled as he thought of what Papa would do when he got home. Likely roll his eyes and mock his son for sleeping by the door like some guard dog, though really it was a weighty feeling in Klaus' chest that kept him down, a strange sort of weight that often forced him to sit or lie down and not move.

Sleep consumed him. He dreamt of nothing in particular, or at least nothing memorable enough that, when the midnight hour had passed and a harsh noise woke him, he recalled what he had been dreaming of.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and pricked up his ears. At first he thought that the strange noise had only been in his dreams, but then he heard it again.

A knock at the door. Thud, thud, thud.

It was a noise that would have stopped the heart of anyone in the Reich, a noise that Klaus Heydrich and his father had inflicted upon other homes, but which he had never thought he would receive.

He stood swiftly, grabbing his wallet as he did so and shoving it into his pocket, taking stock of what he had. Enough ammo? A knife? Keys?

He had everything and once he had confirmed this, he inhaled and stepped up to the door, hoping that it was simply Father, that he'd simply forgotten his keys.

No such luck, of course. Three SS men stood on his porch, armed, the one in the middle vaguely familiar. It took Klaus a moment to recall the files he and Papa had gone over prior to landing in America and realize that the man was Erich Raeder, Smith's adjunct.

Raeder was smiling, quite friendly it seemed, and Klaus nodded, forcing his face into a welcoming expression.

"Sieg Heil, Untersturmführer Heydrich," said Raeder, raising his hand just enough for formality's sake but not enough to indicate that he was speaking to someone of great importance.

"Heil Hitler," replied Klaus. He could feel his heart throbbing in his chest, pumping blood so frantically that it hurt.

"Your father requests your presence," Raeder said. "He and Obergruppenführer Smith are waiting for you at the SS Headquarters."

"Ah, good, finally," laughed Klaus, praying that his acting skills were better now than they had been as a teen. "I've been waiting all night. Just give me a moment to get that file and I'll be right out."

Raeder's eyes glistened at the word 'file' and he nodded. He made a move as though he was about to step into the threshold of Klaus' home but the younger Heydrich hit him with a furious glare.

"Mind yourself, Raeder," snapped the young man, who had never been as good at striking terror into souls as his father was but had, fortunately, inherited his icy blue eyes. Raeder nodded and stepped back, waving for his men to back away from the door just a bit.

"Of course, Untersturmführer, forgive me," he said.

"No need. But this is…what's the expression? Beyond your station…paygrade? Both, in your case."

With that, the younger Heydrich confidently shut the door.

He had two minutes, he assumed, swiftly putting every one of the three different locks they had on the door in place and shoving a chair in front of the entrance to serve as an extra barrier before bolting to the back of the house. He could hear Raeder and his men shout and kick at the door even as he used a book to smash open a window.

He didn't climb through the window and bolt into the woods, however. Instead the youth swiftly treaded upstairs, into his father's office. He pulled a small key from his pocket and found their emergency hiding place. Father wasn't exactly a paranoid man, and Klaus had always suspected that it was more for his son's safety than his own that Reinhard even bothered having such places installed in his home. It wouldn't protect him forever, but they wouldn't find him for at least an hour, and an hour's head start was all he could ask for right then.

He used his key to unlock the hidden door, tucked in the corner of his father's office, and crawled in, shutting and locking it behind him. Klaus sat there, hugging his knees like a tot playing hide-and-go-seek.

Or like a Semite, he mused, pressing his ear to the soundproofed wall of his hiding place. Father had told him of all the resourceful ways the Semites had stayed hidden away during the War and even afterwards, during the high days of the Final Solution. Klaus had always wondered if the Führer had been inspired by tales of creative-if claustrophobic-hiding spots tucked in basements and attics and even in plain sight when he had ordered the construction of these little safety crevices.

Of course, such hiding places couldn't last for years, and thankfully Klaus only needed to wait in his hiding place for an hour. Once he had looked at his watch and confirmed that an hour had passed he unlocked the hidden door and crawled out, glancing out the window and confirming that Raeder and his men had left, having 'followed him' into the woods.

Thank heavens they didn't have dogs or I'd be a dead man, thought Klaus, carefully making his way down to the garage, noting the disorder his American home had been thrown into. Raeder and his men had evidently decided to stay behind just long enough to thoroughly search the place. Bookshelves had been thrown aside, books opened and left about, the couch disassembled. The only thing they hadn't touched had been the TV, which was still on, still broadcasting the news, still showcasing a cheerful English-speaker.

He might have kicked the TV if he weren't too frightened to do so. Instead he managed to make it to his car. The wheels had been slashed. He swore.

All right, he thought, slipping out into the night and glancing towards the glistening city. Well…I suppose I don't have much of a choice…

And with that, thanking whatever deity that might have existed for the starless night that would allow his black-garbed body to blend into the shadows, he set off towards the city.

Special thanks to 'Guest' for the review and to everyone who's reading! I'll be back!