Chapter 2: Enter the Door. Don't Look Back
"We're not looking to add anyone to the household staff," the man stated without looking up, his eyes fixed on the stack of papers that he was rifling through. Adelgiese stood at attention before his desk, faint morning light filtering through the nearby window and falling across the points of her red heels. She had dressed in a short, black dress that was modest enough and showcased her natural beauty, her hands delicately held before her as she tossed hair over her shoulder. The man, who was still denying her his attention, was obviously uninterested in her proposition, but if he'd bothered to look up, he would have seen the determined glint in her eyes and known that she would not settle for a simple dismissal.
"Herr Zissel," she began while taking her time to study the man. He was young—no more than twenty-five would be her guess—and his chocolate brown hair was combed to the side but for a few stubborn strands that dangled in his face. "Excuse my boldness, sir, but you haven't even looked at my resume." The man finally glanced up at her, impatience stamped on his face as she offered him a slight smile, the thought of her shoe flying at his head sorely tempting.
"Fraulein..." The man fumbled for her name while he shuffled his papers about. "Fraulein Hoffman, the colonel keeps a small staff and prefers it that way. We are not looking to hire anyone new, and quite frankly, I have more important business to attend to." You wish that you had more important business, Adelgiese mentally corrected him, for his position was all too clear to her. Young and ambitious, he was new and had yet to work his way up the ranks, hence why he was forced to deal with trivial matters like household staff.
"I traveled quite a distance to submit my application, sir," she said, forcing her tone to remain passive and pleasant. "You could at least show some consideration by looking at my papers. If, upon review, you find me lacking, I will trouble you no further, but surely the colonel would prefer a German maid to the French ones that came with the house." The man paused, undecided as Adelgiese encouraged him with a slight tilt of her head that revealed her long neck to the sunlight as she pretended to look out the window. With a huff that proclaimed his unwilling acquiescence, he finally turned to give her papers more attention, making her fight back a satisfied smile.
"Adelgiese?" the man asked, eyebrows furrowing together.
"An old name, I know," she easily responded. "I prefer to be called Del."
"I see." She followed the movement of his eyes as they scanned her papers, his brow furrowing further as he continued to look over her impressive resume. Hell, the man ought to be impressed considering the high ranking officers that she'd served, and she also came very highly recommended by the household managers that she'd worked under. If she didn't land this job, it would be Herr Zissel's mistake.
"I see that you come with the usual skills," the officer thoughtfully commented, one of his hands working to correct the hair that tickled his forehead. "You have experience working parties, and have handled secretarial duties...you're fluent in English and speak some French?"
"Yes, sir."
"How much French?"
"Enough to get by." The man nodded, seemingly distracted as he unconsciously lifted a pen and began tapping it against the desk. Adelgiese hoped that he didn't make a habit of that, because it was damn annoying. "Do you cook?" he asked.
"I only make the finest rolls in the world, sir."
"Just rolls?"
"Of course not, but that's my only strength in the kitchen." The man tossed her papers aside and leaned back, eyes scanning her body and finally coming to rest on her face, his eyes slightly narrowed as the pen continued to tap out a steady rhythm.
"You say that you traveled a long way to apply here, why?"
"My employers have moved out of Germany, and I am in need of money, sir," she frankly spoke. "I've been told that the colonel pays well, and after seeing the house, this seems an agreeable place to work. I must admit that I was looking for an excuse to visit France anyway." She'd decided that it was best to keep her explanations simple, direct, and as honest as possible, the approach having served her well over the years, and so she easily resorted to it now. Lies, after all, were difficult to keep up with once they began to build.
"You have heard of the colonel's...reputation?" Zissel asked.
"He serves the fatherland to the best of his abilities, sir," she answered. "I see no problem with that, and I am only a maid. It is not my place to pass judgement on men who are winning the war for us." Her answer seemed to please the man, for he smiled for the first time, suddenly much more amiable to her presence as he stood and straightened the cuffs of his uniform.
"You're in luck, Fraulein Hoffman. The French maids are downright hostile if not inefficient, and since you come so highly recommended, I think that I can find a place for you. I've actually been looking for the right person to replace some of the garbage working here." He held out a hand to her, and she gladly accepted, her eyes maintaining enough contact with his to seem interested without overstepping her bounds.
"I am indeed lucky then," she agreed. "And so is the colonel. I imagine that having the enemy in your own home is not very enjoyable."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," the man softly laughed. "The colonel puts the fear of the Reich in them, so they never step out of line, but we are always guarding against spying. Just last week we executed a maid for stealing documents. The parlor didn't suffer any damage though." They had executed someone here, in the house? Adelgiese did not like the sound of that as she shook and released the officer's hand. The thought of Brigitte stumbling upon a dead maid was not her idea of a safe environment, but then she mentally slapped herself, knowing that bringing the girl here was a dangerous gamble from the start. Living under the same roof as one of the most hated Nazis in France would include many dangers, and she was certain that most of those dangers hadn't even occurred to her yet.
"I'll call Marlene," Zissel continued. "She's in charge of the staff, and you will report to her."
"Danke, Herr Zissel. I look forward to getting started." Adelgiese lifted the small suitcase beside her feet, and the man's face again adopted a serious expression.
"Bitte," he replied. "And if you hear anything suspicious..."
"I'll come directly to you, sir."
"Good. Be my eyes and ears among the staff, Fraulein, and I can assure you that you'll become an investment worth keeping." Well, apparently the young man had some cunning in him after all. Adelgiese hadn't expected to be involved in political activities, but she had few objections to merely using her ears among maids as Zissel rang for Marlene, and if eavesdropping earned her a permanent position, she would perform said duties. She idly wondered how closely the colonel watched his staff, or if the matter was entirely left in the hands of the man before her. Either way, she found herself pleased with this turn of events as she glanced out the window, the view overlooking a bustling street corner, and the chatter from a cafe drifting toward the window.
Brigitte was waiting to be brought into the house, sitting below, near that wall, likely clutching her bag tightly to her chest. Adelgiese again questioned her current course of action, but if she couldn't afford to keep the girl herself, something had to be done. Putting the child into an orphanage might have produced kind, adoptive parents, but in this atmosphere of war and Nazism, such a perfect Aryan child would likely be snatched up by pro-Hitler forces anyway, and then the indoctrination would start. At least Landa wasn't known to be active in the party, and yes, despite that, he might be just as distasteful in how he would raise a child, but still...Adelgiese withheld her consternation, knowing that at least this way she could watch over Brigitte's life. This war-torn world was too harsh to set a child adrift alone.
"Do you remember the man with blond hair, Brigitte?" she asked. "Did he frighten you?"
"No. I liked him. It was the other man that I didn't like—the one with the scar."
"Good, because what I'm about to tell you might be uncomfortable, but it has to be said. I'm taking you to France, where your real father lives. I don't think that he knows about you, but life will be easier for us if we go to him. We have to do this, Brigitte. We have to do this to survive, and I need you to be on your best behavior, especially with your father. But don't tell him about me. He might not want me being there, because I've done some things that he wouldn't like, but we can stick together if you're brave..."
"You called, sir?" The voice was rough and lower than Adelgiese would have expected for a woman, and she turned with interest to view the new arrival. Before her stood a woman with gray hair that was pulled back into a bun to reveal a face that could have been chiseled from stone with its square, hard jaw, and high forehead. The woman was of a bulkier build, but would have been of average appearance otherwise if not for her seemingly sour disposition. Hard, green eyes turned on Adelgiese, and from the slight sneer marring the woman's wide face to her stiff, unwelcoming posture, it was obvious that she disliked her new maid on sight.
Hello Frau Friendly, Adelgiese sarcastically thought, meeting the woman's cold stare with a warm smile. Nothing was worse than working for someone with temperament issues, and she imagined that her being German had a lot to do with the annoyed expression of her new overseer.
"This is Adelgiese Hoffman," Zissel was saying in French. "She'll be your new maid."
"My staff is full," the woman gruffly argued. "We already have two cleaners, a gardener, and a chef."
"I know," the man dismissively replied, irritation creeping into his voice. "Fire one of the cleaners." The woman's face darkened even further, if that was possible, and Adelgiese let her smile fall, intuition telling her that there would be no buttering up this stern woman. "Is that understood, Marlene?"
"Oui." Adelgiese wondered if Zissel always degraded the older woman by referring to her by first name, but as she looked at the increasingly annoyed man, she quickly decided yes. If she was going to butt heads with this woman as often as he apparently did, this was not going to be a pleasant job to work. And you were expecting what, exactly?
"Give Fraulein Hoffman a tour of the house."
"Oui. This way, Mädchen." Making the best of this situation might be more difficult than she'd anticipated.
*************
Hans Landa sat at his desk, one elbow propped on the tabletop with his head leaning against it, and the other using a pen to mark the large map of France that was spread out before him. The room smelled of tobacco and cedar—a combination that pleased the colonel as his sharp eyes darted across the map, his concentration uninterrupted despite the record playing in the background, which happened to be his favorite. The Nazis might have banned the playing of jazz, but it was a rule that Landa willfully ignored, and who was going to report him? His aide? The man wouldn't dare, and so Django Reinhardt's guitar continued to play, violins joining the smooth sound as a pen continued to mark x's on the suspected locations of Jewish runaways.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Ja, was?" Landa asked, sitting up straighter in his high-backed chair. His private study was beautifully furnished with wooden furniture polished to perfection, and bookshelves encircled the edges of the round room, being built directly into the wall as they were. A leather sofa sat facing french doors that opened onto a balcony, and the low table before it was covered with neatly stacked files, the most sensitive of which were not displayed but locked away in the cabinet opposite his desk. There was a small bar built into the cabinet, where sat a few glasses and a large bottle of red wine, its contents low due to the nightly drink that Landa indulged in before climbing into bed. Sparse, organized, but comfortable, it was his ideal setting.
"Entschuldigung, Herr Oberst. There is a situation."
"Enter." The aide entered the room in his gray, SS uniform, the man's cool demeanor making him perfect for working with Landa. The colonel could remember when the man had first taken on his duties, already hardened from battle against de Gaulle's Free French fighters, and recommended due to his proactive nature. The colonel had not been disappointed either, for the man carried out summary executions without hesitancy, and the only time Landa had ever seen him hesitate was when it came to children. That had been all too apparent when he'd gone to the farm to find the Dreyfus family, for his aide had hesitated in aiming at the floorboards. A flaw, surely, but Landa knew that duty would overcome the man's aversion.
"What seems to be the problem?" he asked.
"There is a visitor downstairs in the..."
"Ein Moment," Landa interrupted, a small smile gracing his face. The aide paused as his superior tilted his head toward the record player. "I love the beginning of 'Georgia on My Mind'. Although, I know that you don't have much appreciation for jazz, Major Schneider." Their conversation remained frozen as Landa waited for a minute or so, face calm as moody lyrics drifted over them before he suddenly snapped back to attention, leaning forward to rest his clasped hands on his desk.
"Now, as you were saying," he encouraged.
"A visitor arrived to see you, and judging by the looks of her, she's planning to stay." Stay? Landa hoped that it wasn't some foolish woman that he'd bedded, come to him out of need or some delusion that he wanted more to do with her than a single night. He had no tolerance for clingy women, as if any of them would want to be married to him once they realized what kind of man he was, but he supposed that his rank and prestige would keep them around regardless.
"Did this visitor say anything? Give a name?" Landa pressed.
"No, sir. She even hid behind the new maid that found her when I entered the room. I suggest that you meet with her, sir. You'll recognize her, and I think it best that you handle this personally." Now Landa was intrigued, his curious nature heightening as he mulled over this new information. And if the woman was shy, all the better, because shy women were so easy to flatter and lull into false security. Of all breeds of women, he liked them the least, but found them the most amusing to use.
"Send her up then," he instructed, and the aide immediately moved toward the door. "Oh, and Major?"
"Yes, sir?"
"I was not informed that there was a new addition to the staff. I expect to be told such details. Pass the word along to Zissel and tell him that it'd better not happen again." After another 'yes, sir', Landa was again alone, and he stood to move toward the record player, his nimble fingers flicking the needle off of the track, even though the song wasn't finished. 'Tea for Two' was a better piece in his opinion—the perfect song for drinking scotch rather than tea, as it were, but he would wait to continue the music until after knowing who this mysterious visitor was.
He moved to the window and leaned against the frame, eyes casually sweeping across the city outside, and noted that there was no car waiting outside for this visitor. Either the person didn't have money or she really was planning on staying. He would need to speak to this new maid afterwards and find out where she'd found this visitor, for the mere fact that his aide had selected the word 'found' to describe the visitor's arrival had not gone unnoticed. Language was a lovely, nuanced thing in his opinion, and he read into the deepest subtleties of words with interest and pride, knowing that people selected their words unconsciously, which always revealed more than they intended.
Landa listened carefully as footsteps neared his study, but he only heard a single pair of feet, and judging by the familiar, heavy and swift steps, it had to be Schneider, but why would he be coming alone? Expecting a complication, Landa turned and assumed a more commanding stance, his eyes fixed on the doors as he ordered the person to enter before the knocking was even finished. It was only years of practice in schooling his features that prevented him from looking surprised by the sight that greeted him as those double doors swung, for Schneider had not returned alone. His companion's footsteps had merely been too soft to detect.
"Major," Landa began. "What is the meaning of this?"
"It's a child, sir."
"I can see that," he dryly returned, instantly recognizing the little girl that lingered behind his aide. She wore a simple green dress that's style had passed out of fashion months ago, and judging by its worn appearance, she'd likely acquired it secondhand. Her blond hair was as sleek as he remembered though, and it hung loosely about her face, her eyes downcast and her posture rigid as he studied her. So his guest was indeed a female from his past, but what the hell was she doing here?
"This is the visitor?" Landa asked.
"Yes, sir, and she was found alone. She brought this with her." The aide held aloft a small traveling bag, and held it out to the girl, who immediately shied away from him with her lower lip trembling.
"Give it here," Landa instructed, walking forward and taking the bag from his assistant. "You may go, major." He could tell that the girl didn't like the man, and he suddenly wondered if the child had been in the room when Schneider executed her mother. That would explain her agitated state, but not why she'd come to France, and surely a child would and could not undertake a journey like that alone. She'd gotten help from someone, and he would find out who that person was.
"You're a long way from home, Brigitte," he commented as Schneider exited the room, shutting the doors to leave Landa and the girl alone. She looked up at him with those blue eyes of hers, and his vision fell on the envelope that she held in her tiny hands. "What is an angel like you doing in France, my dear?"
"I had to come," the girl answered, reluctant and obviously nervous. This would not do if he wanted straight answers from her.
"Ah, but I'm hardly acting the proper host," he apologized with a smile, capturing the girl's eyes with his friendly expression. "You must be tired from the trip, and here I am making you stand. Please, have a seat on the couch with me. It will be more comfortable for us to talk that way." To encourage her, he walked forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, the gesture easily reassuring the child as he gently propelled her toward their intended destination. He could already see her spirits rising as he sat down and watched her climb onto the soft leather beside him, her bag sitting between them. He had more important matters to attend to over at his desk, but he sensed that there was more to this situation than met the eye, and that envelope likely held his answers.
"Besser, ja?" he asked her.
"Ja," she answered, tucking hair behind her ears. "That man isn't coming back, is he?"
"Wer? Major Schneider?" She nodded, giving Landa a probable answer to at least one of his questions. "He's my assistant, but don't you worry about him. Let's not ruin your visit by talking about someone who makes you nervous." He offered her his most winning smile, the grin and the resulting dimples lending his face a charm and warmth in which the girl could detect no deceit. Ah children, such trusting creatures, and Landa found it amusing that Schneider, who cared about children far more than himself, should be distrusted by the girl while he'd already gotten a small smile out of her. It was there: a slight curve of her lips, still reserved but opening up to his friendliness.
"Now, what brings you here, Brigitte?" Landa asked.
"Mutti is gone," she softly voiced, the smile that he'd almost won vanishing. "I had nowhere to go, and I'm supposed to give you this." She held out the envelope, and Landa eagerly took it, tearing open the end to find a handwritten message inside, although the letter was not in its entirety. The top section had been torn off, which prevented him from knowing to whom the letter had been addressed, but he did know who'd written it before he even glanced at the ending signature. Elfriede had always written in a very distinct, flourishing style due to calligraphy lessons, and his quick recognition stoked the pride that he took in his investigative skills. The ego stroke was, however, short lived, for displeasure quickly replaced self-congratulation as he read the letter's contents, which lambasted him as an immoral freak. It was the middle section that interested him most though, for it referred to a child born of a one-night stand between himself and Elfriede, and how that child had been passed off as belonging to the husband.
"Do you know why you were sent here, Brigitte?" he asked, tucking the letter inside of his uniform's jacket, and wrapping his mind around the concept of being this girl's father. Sometimes his work had unintended consequences, but he'd be damned if he'd ever expected a child to be dropped on his doorstep. It made little difference to his calculating mind though, for compared to most surprises, this was relatively minor and certainly not life-threatening.
"You're my father," Brigitte answered, staring at him with wide eyes, and he was amused to think that the child was studying his face and reaction much like he was watching hers. Now that he looked at her more closely, the shade of her blond hair was darker and richer than the mother's, resembling his more than Elfriede's, and there might be some of him in her face, but nothing distinct. Still, he had no reason to believe that Elfriede had fabricated this letter, for why would she since the letter was old and from a time when she'd wanted nothing to do with him? No, he did not doubt that this child was his as he considered the evidence, but he did wonder how the child had gotten the letter.
"Who gave you this?" he asked, holding the letter up. Brigitte remained silent, and so he reached out a hand and gently held her chin, a thumb softly brushing her cheek as he smiled. "Do you trust me, Brigitte? I know that we don't know each other very well, but a daughter should trust her father. You were sent to me because someone thinks that I'll take very good care of you." Oh, how those soft, blue eyes of hers held such hope, and there was that yearning within them that was so natural to all children. She wanted to be loved and to trust the man who was being so kind.
"But you weren't married to mutti," the girl argued, sounding confused.
"No, but sometimes children are born outside of marriage. Your mother and I were very close once upon a time." Okay, so that wasn't entirely accurate, but the truth wasn't always very expedient. "Would you like to have a father again?"
"Yes..." Her eyes were fixed on him, and Landa released her face, opting to softly stroke her hair to further calm her. All the while, his mind was on the move, pondering what he was going to do about having a child thrust into his life. How difficult could it be when he successfully maneuvered through hostile territory and forced or persuaded people to give him exactly what he wanted on a regular basis? "But you let that man kill mutti," the girl suddenly spoke, bringing his attention back to her.
"Your mother did something very bad, Brigitte," he explained, voice low to emphasize the seriousness of his words. "She did something that could have hurt many, many Germans, and she had to be stopped. When you did something wrong, I'm sure that your parents punished you. Well, sometimes adults also have to be punished, but I'm not talking about stealing sweets from the candy jar, Brigitte. I'm talking about wrongs that could wound all of Germany, and you wouldn't want the enemies to destroy our beloved country, would you?"
"...no...I guess not," she slowly decided, face scrunched in thought. The child was naturally conflicted, but Landa knew that such obstacles could be overcome with time and proper care. She was young, after all, and he needn't fear her trying to slip into his room to murder him in the night. The thought was actually rather comical.
"I know that you're sad about your mother, but you'll feel better soon," he told her. "You're here now, and I'm going to show you to your room in just a few moments, but first, I need to know who gave you this letter and brought you to France. Then we can get to this business of knowing each other. I tell you what, I'll even have the cooks make whatever you want for dinner." The girl perked up at that, but when her eyes shifted back to the letter, she thoughtfully frowned.
"Can I have chocolate pudding?" she probed.
"Natürlich," Landa smiled, highly amused that this girl was negotiating with him. A child making a deal with the Jew Hunter—now there was something that made a chuckle work its way up his throat, making him think that maybe there was more of him in the child than he'd originally thought. He also idly wondered how he would keep her out from underfoot or make this benefit him. He would likely ship her back to Germany to attend school lest she become a liability, but he would take his time in reaching a conclusion concerning this unexpected parenthood. The idea itself was still sinking in, delayed only by his preoccupation with details.
"Chocolate pudding..." the girl repeated, sounding quite pensive for such a silly subject. "I was sent to relatives," she then said, fidgeting. "They gave me the envelope and sent me here. I...I don't think that they liked me very much." Her eyes were downcast, refusing to look at him, which he would not allow. Eye contact had such power over people, whether it be for intimidation, assurance, or expressing any range of nonverbal commands, and so downcast eyes simply would not do.
"Brigitte," he chided, waving a reprimanding finger back and forth in front of her face. "You should look at people when you're talking to them. Good girl. Now, did these relatives send you here all by yourself?"
"Yes."
"Yes?" he disbelieving questioned.
"No," she changed her mind.
"Which one is it: yes or no?"
"Someone came with me, but he left when we got here." There was definitely more to the story than that, but perhaps she would be more forthcoming once she settled in. He would need a few days to deliberate this surprise anyway, and the maid's story would tell him more for the time being. "Can I have some chocolate pudding right now?" Brigitte asked.
"After dinner. We wouldn't want to ruin your appetite. Come and I'll show you your new room." He began leading her out of the study, his pace slowed so that she could keep up with his longer strides, and her travel bag in his hands. Either the relatives had been poor or very stingy to give the child so little, but than again, he didn't believe her story. The Hoffman family that she came from had been exceptionally wealthy, and any close relatives would have had plenty to lavish on the child, some of the leading family figures being key members in the military and even the SS.
"Are you really going to take care of me?" a tiny voice interjected as he stopped in front of the door at the end of the hallway. Looking down, he found the child staring up at him with eyes that nearly overflowed with longing, Brigitte's intense and honest emotion giving Landa pause.
"I wouldn't dream of doing anything else," and he opened the door for her, revealing a room well-suited to a little girl with its smaller size and markedly feminine design. The walls were cream while the bed and curtains were purple, and a miniature vanity sat between two large windows along the opposite wall, the crystals that dangled from several sconces scattering small rainbows across the walls as the sunlight played off of them. The Jewish family that had once owned the home had long since been removed, and their young daughter had called this space her own. How fitting that it should now house a German daughter—the daughter of the family's enemies, but the spoils of war went to the victor.
"This is mine?" Brigitte asked in wonder, removing her shoes to sink toes into the thick carpet, and her fingers grasping the silky material of the bed. "Danke."
"A maid will come to help you get settled in," Landa stated. "Tell her what you'd like the chef to make tonight, and be downstairs at seven pm sharp for dinner. I have work to do, but we can talk later, if you'd like." The girl nodded, preoccupied with walking around her room. "Welcome to your new home, Brigitte."
*************
Please read and review. Also, this story will be about Landa/Adelgiese as much as the relationship between Landa and his daughter. Some might find the pacing of the story a little slow, but I don't like to rush, because plot and characters tend to get unrealistic or flimsy when that happens. I'd rather take time to layer the characters and give context to their interactions rather than suddenly making people attracted to one another or Landa giving a genuine damn about his kid. So please bear with the slow beginning. Every story has to start somewhere, and I don't believe in giving away too much about my OC's at one time. You'll just have to learn more about them and their pasts as the story progresses.
Final Note: If you've never heard Django Reinhardt, shame on you. Go to youtube this instant and listen to 'Georgia on my Mind' as performed by the master of gypsy jazz. Oh yeah!