Ch. 2

Disclaimer: I do not own BoB, it's a shame though. I hope y'all enjoyed the last chapter and are coming back for more. So without further ado…

Liebgott went home that day, stared at the place where he used to dwell. He couldn't believe it. After Camp Toccoa and combat, it seemed like a heaven. He actually laughed out loud when he collapsed onto his bed and sunk into the dingy mattress. He still had the same old wrinkled sheets that had been there since he left for the paratroopers. It was odd feeling this nostalgia in his own room, in his own apartment. Three years isn't that long. And yet it changed everything. For him and the world. He wished he could just fall asleep and wake up a kid again, a kid filled with innocence and faith in humanity. Playing soccer with crumpled up newspapers and pinching girls. Passing notes in class and cursing for the first time. Reading Dick Tracy and Flash Gordon with his buddies and laughing. Goddamn laughing at anything and everything your eye could see. Jesus, what had happened? Was he really that old? Was he really that hollow? He shook his head and walked around the rest of his apartment just to make sure this wasn't a dream. Unfuckin' believable. Even his goddamned towels were still on the kitchen table, crumpled up and laying still. No wind through the window he opened, no nothing. The flowers his mother had given him before he left were in a vase by the window sill. They were shriveled up, their bright and blissful tint now sagging and gray, half disintegrated, half on the precipice of falling. The water was gone and in place was a green coat of slime heavily covering the bottom of the vase where the flower stems were. If he was correct, his ma had given him edelweiss, he couldn't remember why of all the damn flowers in the world she picked those but she did. His ma always had a little green thumb in her. His parents were from Austria and he was goin' to fucking war with the Krauts. He didn't know and he didn't care. He left his apartment and dropped by his parents' house. To his luck, they were home. A great reunion ensued with all of his siblings and his parents as they all gathered around him and prayed to the Lord their thanks and blessings on Joe and their family. And, of course, his ma had a large feast sitting out for all of her children. Schnitzel and spaetzle with kielbasa. Carrots and cabbage and potatoes. It was more food than Joe had seen in France on leave. For dessert, Joe's mother brought out his favorite: apple strudel. It tasted just like it had as a kid. He joked with her that it tasted a little burnt and she whacked him with a towel as she scolded him in German.

"Ich habe dich Lieb, Ma" he told her.

And she smiled, cradling herself in the knowledge that her son was home and there to stay for good.

As the day waned and night crept onto Joe's shoulders, he dreaded going back to his apartment, alone and without support from his comrades. This time, he really was alone. Without anybody. No one understood what had happened and what was still going on in his head. He didn't think anyone ever would. He strolled down the familiar avenues of his neighborhood and stopped to say hello to several neighbors and shopkeepers whom he hadn't seen since before the war. They all were surprised and so happy to see him. The feeling was mutual. Darkness soon swallowed the skyline as the sun fell into ignorance of the sins and crimes of the night. Sometimes Joe felt like God was dead. He was raised Catholic and knew better, but that damn war. That damn war. Jesus Christ, people fucking turned into skeletons by another human's hand. He often wondered how it happened. He knew he shouldn't. shouldn't ponder on it, shouldn't think about it, shouldn't remember it- fuck, but how does a person forget something like that, huh? How does someone go from seeing his buddies mangled and blown into ashes to waving at all the red-lipped girls as the crowned kings of the 20th century? How does someone go from being an animal to a human again? How does someone leave death's sword and take up life's shield once more? How do you do it? Joe found himself in front of the Blue Owl, the local raunchy bar of shady characters and even shadier service. Neighborhood legend had it that one of the waitresses was serving a woman who took her man, got so enraged she filled her tequila glass with cyanide. The woman then got sick, waitress took her to the restroom, had a hole already under the toilet she had dug herself, dropped her body in there, sealed the toilet to the floor, and left. Never found, never convicted, never any evidence. And that was one of the stories. Joe had raised some hell around the place in his youth but he learned to hunker down eventually. He looked up and saw the flashing blue sign of a hooting owl staring out over the rooftops of Oakland. For the first time, he noticed it seemed to be calling for something or for someone. Joe walked in and sat down in his usual spot by the bar tender and ordered a straight whiskey. He was a simple man, always had been, probably always would be. He decided he was going to get rotten, stinkin' drunk that night so he could forget about Lea, about the war, the damned SS officer. Everything, forget it all. He pretended like this was the answer even though he knew it wasn't. Liebgott could lie to anyone so easily and effortlessly, it was an art really. Well, anyone except himself.

"Welcome home, Joe," the bar tender nodded at him and Joe nodded back.

He was about to give him a tip when the bartender shook his head and said, "You boys fighting over there is more of a tip than I'll ever need."

Then he scurried away to help the next customer, not giving Joe a chance to respond.

Why did everyone have to treat him like a fuckin' hero? He wasn't. He joined up because it was the right thing to do. And that was a rare thing for Joseph Liebgott to do.

He glanced around the old place, smiling at the painting of the naked lady with the purple feathers and raised his glass to her. As he swallowed the whiskey, he saw the regular geezers sitting in the corner, playing poker with Cuban cigars sticking out of their mouths. His mouth quirked up, being reminded of Bull's stub of a cigar being chewed on, even in combat. Several men played pool and craps as well as talking amongst themselves. A few of them nodded at him and raised their glasses towards him. Jesus. Further back, he could see red curtains drawn and knew the women that were back there. He hadn't actually known them like that physically but he knew them. As people, citizens, neighbors. Even acquaintances. Sally with the great gams and Florence who had twin boys and a Dalmatian. Maxine who had diabetes and Eva who had fled from Belgium before America had entered the war. He knew these women's stories and they knew his. He always gave him an extra tip even though he never asked for their services. God knew they needed the money more than he did. He took another swig of his whiskey and was about to ask for another when a man and a waitress caught his eye. the waitress was walking by holding a tray of glasses and plates, wearing her short little skirt and painted stocking lines. He reached out, squeezed her bottom, then spanked her, causing her to shriek and drop the platter, broken glass skidding everywhere. Some of the men laughed at her. Others sympathized but said nothing.

"Jesus Christ," Joe mumbled, setting his drink down.

He hadn't fought a war just to come home to see this.

He stood up and stalked over to where the man who had spanked her was.

"Is there a problem here, mister?" Joe asked as casual as his voice would allow him.

The man laughed.

"Woah, soldier boy, you gonna defend her rights just like you defended mine? Bah-what a wimp! I'm surprised your skinny ass was even accepted into the Army!"

"The paratroopers," Joe replied.

"What?" the intoxicated man slurred loudly.

Joe raised his voice, "I said the paratroopers."

"What are you gonna do? Strangle me with your parachute? Ooohh, I'm so scared." he laughed.

"You should be," Joe retorted.

The man scowled at him, stood up, and faced Joe. The guy must have been twice as heavy. Fuck, he was a paratrooper. Currahee.

Joe swung at him, knocking two of the guy's teeth out and causing a deep gash in his cheek and blood running down the corner of his mouth. The guy retaliated, punching Joe in the gut ad sent him sprawling across the floor, coughing and wheezing.

"You're on the bottom now, you little shit. Is that where you want her? On the bottom? Or do you want her to ride you like a dirty bitch would?" the man yelled, gaining the attention of the whole bar.

Joe tripped the man, then stood up on the man's back, jumping up and down while hearing the cracking his spine. He flipped him over, straddled him, and punched his face over and over and over again. The man swung at Joe and hit him in the eye and jaw, causing blood to spurt and bruises to form. The man tried to roll over but couldn't and instead punched Joe's shoulder blade. He gritted his teeth and took a shot at the guy's face again. He mangled the man's nose, probably breaking it, and beating both eyes to the point that they were swollen closed. As his finale, Joe dislocated both of his arms and punched his throat.

"Guess you wanted me to ride you instead," he seethed through his teeth before standing up.

Everyone in the bar stared at Joe, some cheering, some standing with their mouths open, others speechless. He walked over to where the waitress was and helped her pick up the broken glass, throwing it away with her in the back dump. He had gotten into fights many a time back there. A dent where his head had gotten mashed into the metal was still there.

"Thank you, sir, I- I'm glad you did that. I-Thank you." The woman said quietly, not turning to Joe in embarrassment.

"That wasn't the only fight I was ever in." he pointed out the imprint on the trash dump.

"I wouldn't be surprised."

He studied her for a second before speaking again.

"What's a nice girl like you do around here?" he asked, eyebrows raised through the blood and bruises of his battered face. She finally turned to face Joe and looked up at him.

"If you let me fix your face up, I'll tell you." She raised an eyebrow back at him.

"Fuck," he half muttered, half laughed.

"My shift's over anyways, I'll take you back to my apartment and clean you up." She almost pleaded.

What was this lady's deal? It's like she actually cared about him. Now, that was a first. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before agreeing to her first aid treatment to his face.

She led him through the dark streets of darker Oakland. This was truly the place not to go. Gangs, prostitutes, robbers, murderers, criminals of all kinds lurked about in that corner of the city. It broke his heart to see a sweet girl like this one stuck and surrounded by injustice and fear. She should be in a safe place, get an education, get married. Maybe even have kids and a home she could return to without being paranoid of monsters in human flesh lurking at her doorstep.

"This is me," she pointed to a brick building with fading paint and broken windows.

"Jesus," he breathed.

"What?" she asked softly as she led him inside and up the stairs to her door.

"How do you go to sleep at night?"

She was silent for a moment as she jiggled the door with her key a few times to open it. Dust clouds puffed in their faces and she felt for the light.

"I don't."

The place was worse than he thought.

A scratched up table was used in what was considered the kitchen, although it was more like the size of an outhouse. No ice box, no stove, nothing. A single lightbulb lit the whole room, swinging by a few wires. There were two folding chairs, a pack of cards, and a small bowl of apples in the center of the table.

"Here, go sit down. I'll go get my things."

"Your things? You don't even have furniture."

"I manage."

"Jesus Christ, I may be poor but I don't live this badly," he cried, wiping blood from his lip.

"You're criticizing the person you just defended in a bar fight?" she asked snarkily, reaching high in a cabinet for something.

"Not criticizing. I'm telling the truth. We ain't in Brooklyn tenement apartments anymore."

She heaved a cloth bag over to the table and unzipped it. She took out iodine, bandages, and several other items Joe did not know. He could have chuckled over the concerned look on her face. It reminded him of Doc Roe.

"Sit back, tilt your face up to the light."

He did as she asked and winced when she dabbed at his wounds.

"These are gonna be some nasty bruises in the morning."

"I kinda figured."

"You're not a very amiable type, are you?" she squinted her eyes, getting a better look at his bruises.

"You could say that."

"Why did you fight him? I mean, why did you stand up for me?" she looked into his eyes when she said this.

Their gaze locked and her breath ceased. She never knew anyone could have such intense eyes. His hair in the ember of the light above looked highlighted in halos, it seemed he was her saint. That glorious hair, it looked so tousled and reckless, she supposed like his personality. It was a deep rich brown that engulfed the person who looked at it. His nose was straight and Greek god like. She'd bet her money that the rest of him covered with bruises and blood was just as beautiful. And the thing was, he was an actual living, breathing man. That's what she was so intrigued by. He didn't stand by in the crowd but he wasn't the leader. He didn't try to impress anyone but he didn't need to. He set out his flaws for the world to see and accepted it. Approval meant nothing to him if it wasn't his own. He did what he wanted when he wanted how he wanted and there were no other questions. He wasn't perfect. And she was so thankful for that. She wasn't either and she didn't have to try and impress him because he accepted her as she was. And that look he gave her, it was curiosity and wonder all wrapped up in sarcasm and snarkiness. She had never met anyone so alive.

" I thought you were going to tell me your story." His mouth quirked up in amusement.

She wiped the blood off of his lower lip and nodded.

"I was a nurse during the war. Not one of those ward nurses that sat on their asses filing their nails and reading magazines all day. I mean, a real nurse. My hands got bloody, men screamed in my ear and clawed at my uniform, begging me to save them, that they didn't want to die. I was on a hospital ship in the Pacific, it was horrible. You couldn't imagine the horrors." They locked eyes again.

You'd be surprised.

"I came back home here, couldn't find a decent job anywhere. I looked every place I could think of. So I landed at the Blue Owl. I get tips, not too bad. Usually, it's not as bad as it was tonight." She looked away from him as she applied more iodine to his bruises.

"Not as bad as tonight? What do you mean by that? You mean you- you TOLERATE THAT? On a DAILY BASIS?" he roared, jumping up from out of his chair.

"It's usually not as bad as-"

" I mean, Jesus, I knew there were prostitutes but for Christ's sake you're a waitress, dammit! This is unacceptable!" he shouted, kicking the chair down to the floor.

"Sit back down, sir. I'll finish cleaning you up and then you can go home." She said calmly.

After a long moment of silence with him sitting in the chair again and her cleaning him up, he said,

"My name's Joe, if you were wondering."

She gave a small smile.

"Mine's Christina. And now, you're all cleaned up. Do you know how to get back to your house from here?"

He stood up and nodded, thanking her for tending to his scratches. He had seen wounds in combat. These were cat scratches.

"Are you sure, Joe?" she asked timidly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, taking out a cigarette and sticking it in the corner of his mouth.

She turned her back on him to put her medical supplies away and as she was doing this, he noticed her wavy frame with soft curves and full hips, dark hair piled up on the top of her head in chaos, and her short height as she had to go on her toes to put her stuff back in the cabinet. He sucked on the tip of his cigarette and licked the corner of his lips.

"Goodnight, Miss Christina, I-I-pray that all goes well." He said in a strange voice.

That didn't sound like him at all.

"You didn't come across as a praying man to me," she said.

"I'm not." he answered back.

Translation : German- Ich habe dich Lieb, Ma English: I love you, Ma