Chapter 3

Carousel Waltz

Every day was the same.

Endless monotony, ruthless ennui, and even though under any other circumstance Ludwig liked monotony and routine and order, this was not what he had had in mind when he had boarded that ship in Hamburg years ago, sailing up the Elbe with only a passport and a dream of the Statue of Liberty and a new life. He had been naïve, then, maybe, but, oh, the word on his tongue had sounded so strange and enticing back then; Manhattan. He had envisioned magnificent stone buildings, Broadway in its glory, a paradise across the ocean.

That had been five years ago. And now...

Now.

He hated this city.

He hated the smell of it; rancid and foul and damp, and the gutters were dark and ominous. The air was thick and all but impossible to breathe, heavy with years of smog. The only sight of plant life, apart from the small windowsill flowers and gardens, was out in the park, and even there the sky beheld that oily shimmer of pollution.

He hated the sound of it; never a moment of quiet. There was always the honking of taxis in the street, always the shouts of the pedestrians and the street thugs. Always the bleary lights of a police car, or the shrill cry of an ambulance. He could hear the rain when it fell, but only against the backdrop of a never sleeping city.

He hated the look of it; steel and iron all around, twisting on the skyline like an ugly forest. Style with no substance, ingenuity with no beauty. The windows were reflective, and always alight. In the day by the sun, at night by the lights from within. He had had to put a blanket over his bedroom window to block out the intrusive illumination, just to sleep. He could not see the stars over the haze.

More than anything he hated the feel of it; gloomy and so overwhelmingly dismal, and even though he was surrounded on every side by millions of people, he still felt so lonely. And it seemed that every day he awoke to the sounds of the bustling city outside, his childish dream of a better life was steadily slipping through his fingers like sand.

For all that happened here, it would perhaps have been more beneficial for him to have simply stayed in Germany. He had been too brash in his decision to cross the Atlantic. Too foolhardy. Too desperate to get away from bad memories.

Shoulda stayed home.

Maybe so, but how? How could he have stayed there?

Just the thought of it made him shudder down to his boots, and, as the sounds of the city alerted him to the start of another languid day, he pulled himself from his bed with a sigh, dragging his feet as he approached his closet. And even though he hated having to step outside and walk down those treacherous streets, he would do so dutifully, if only because it kept his mind off of the past.

That town.

Keep himself occupied.

Hated this place, but had accepted it. He would take the beatings and not say a word, because at least here the buildings (hideous though they were) were not full of ghosts and memories and that soul-numbing question of 'what if?'

What if he had just stayed home that day?

What if he hadn't looked?

Couldn't stand thinking about it. The lesser of two evils here, in a way.

He pulled on a tank top, and as he made to the door, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and paused, his dog waiting impatiently beside him, tail wagging away as he waited for Ludwig to open the door.

Staring at the mirror.

As usual. Because he just didn't get it. There were plenty of Americans that had blond hair and blue eyes and pale skin. Like his. And there were plenty of Americans that were tall and willowy. Like he was. How many Americans did he see walking down the street that had straight noses and strong jaws? As his were.

So what was it about him that stood out so? How did they pick him out from the crowd so effortlessly?

He didn't get it.

Maybe his hair was paler than the blond he usually saw here, and his skin was a bit paler too, and his eyes were a cooler blue. Maybe his legs were too long. Or maybe the bridge of his nose was too narrow. Or maybe it was just because he looked like the poster boy of every Aryan stereotype he had ever heard. But that wasn't fair, and how could he have known when he settled down on this street that he was not welcome?

It wasn't his fault. Who could help how they looked?

He had tried so hard to fit in. To be a good citizen. He didn't ever bother anyone. No one ever had to call the cops on him for noise complaints, like some of his neighbors. He never caused trouble. He left everyone alone. He paid his bills and went to work, like everyone else. He paid taxes. He had his passport. Had a visa. Had papers and documents.

But it didn't really seem to matter, and he had slowly come to realize that just his presence here was an annoyance, because in this land, Germans were just Nazis.

Oh, Christ, he hated that word. They could call him anything they wanted except that, because he had seen. In the de-railed train car.

He'd seen.

Hated that word.

He shook his head to clear it of that godawful thought, and fled the room, grabbing up a comb as he went. Couldn't let that memory win, not now, not after he'd come so far, and as he hopped down the stairs, smoothing out his hair, he could swear that he felt the butt of a rifle in the middle of his back.

Like then.

The dog bolted down the stairs, hungry and excited as ever, and Ludwig followed him without thought.

A sudden noise brought Ludwig from his dream state, and he set his comb down on an end-table as he approached the kitchen warily. A constant state of wariness had been the norm for him lately. It was exhausting, to always expect the worst, but what else was there?

Nothing here had ever been good for him.

A shuffle from within.

As he crossed the threshold into his tiny kitchen, he realized from the smell that coffee was already made, and when he looked over, there was someone sitting at the table. Figured. A man, with messy brown hair and clothes that had probably never even seen an iron, let alone felt one, and he was making himself quite at home, leaning over a mug of coffee with bread in hand.

Ah.

Ludwig slumped for a weary second, and then the man turned around, and shot him a lopsided smile through a full mouth.

Ludwig could only shake his head in exasperation, and then he suddenly drew his arms over himself in sudden embarrassment when he realized that he stood in his kitchen in only boxers and a very flimsy shirt. The man before him was unfazed by his red cheeks and virtual nakedness, and Ludwig could only say, sternly, "Antonio! Remind me again why I've given you a key?"

"Becumf am gronmph," was the unintelligible response, as Antonio tried to speak through the bread he was eating, and Ludwig's nose crinkled in disgust.

After a second of noisy chewing, in which Ludwig poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back against the counter (refusing to be anywhere near the moist breadcrumbs Antonio was spewing all over the table), Antonio finally put the last of it back and rasped, "Because I make good coffee."

Oh. Yeah, actually. He did. He did make good coffee.

"And you," Antonio added, in that strangely accented German that Ludwig liked (how he trilled away those 'r's!), "make really good bread. See? We just help each other out, is all."

Snorting, Ludwig met Antonio's ever vibrant emerald eyes, and felt some of his anxiety evaporate. They did help each other, and it was with relief that he came home sometimes to find the cheerful Spaniard sitting on his couch, or raiding his kitchen, or even occasionally sleeping in his bed. And even though he was promptly kicked out, it was always with good humor.

Needed that boost, some days.

Needed a friend.

A symbiotic relationship, because Ludwig provided the English-inept Antonio with a helping hand in the sometimes frustrating world of job-searching and bill paying and even just eating out, and it had been he who had done all the paperwork for that apartment and those applications to the ESL classes when Antonio had been on the verge of tears of frustration. And Antonio provided Ludwig with...

Well.

Company. Friendship. A brief solace from the hell of the world outside, and, above all, Antonio gave him hope that not all of mankind was as hateful as the rest. Because Antonio had never cared that Ludwig was German, why would he, and that tiny bit of comfort was worth anything. Antonio had lived in Germany, spoke German, and Ludwig needed that sense of home.

"Where are we going today?"

"I am going to work, and you are going home."

Antonio smiled up at him from the table, crooning, "Can't I stay here?"

"Absolutely not."

"Don't you like having me around?"

"No," he lied, and Antonio's smile widened.

"Have I been replaced?"

"Hardly."

They met each others eyes, and Ludwig could see the fondness on Antonio's face. His love life (or decided lack thereof) had always been a topic of great interest. He supposed that his quiet solitude and social shyness was just something that adventurous, lively Antonio could simply not understand. Antonio had asked him, once, 'When can I meet your girlfriend?' and had looked absolutely flabbergasted when Ludwig had informed him quite coolly that he didn't have one.

He sat down at the table, wiping it neatly with a cloth, and Antonio leaned in, leering.

"Haven't seen you much, lately. Sure you're not sneaking out to meet someone? A date? Maybe?"

For a second, Ludwig's good mood foundered, as it usually did. He probably did have a date, alright, but it was not the kind that he would have looked forward to, and it seemed that that gang of tormentors had been growing steadily bolder.

More intent.

Before, he had encountered them only on the odd month, if that. Now, it seemed hardly a week passed before they ran into each other. Was it just terrible luck, or were they so bored that they had nothing better to do than to trail him, like dogs behind a fox?

What was it about him? They didn't do anyone else like that.

It was no doubt, he thought bitterly, thanks to that broad-shouldered, bespectacled, arrogant, egotistical, self-satisfied, loud-mouthed, all-American brat that seemed to be their official leader. Ha. Some leader! Letting the pack do his dirty work as he stood on the sidelines, shuffling his feet and looking about this way and that, smiling shiftily until he had been called into action.

What a guy.

The very first time it had happened, that first time, Ludwig had saw him shifting his weight oddly, and for a delirious moment thought that he was going to help. That he would at least call them off, maybe. That he would rein them in.

He didn't.

He kicked and punched as hard as the rest, albeit stiffly and maybe reluctantly.

Afraid to mess up his hands, no doubt, and maybe his reluctance was just cowardice at the chance of being chastised by the lethargic police officers that sat in their cars and barked orders from behind cups of coffee. God forbid someone try to tell that man something he didn't wanna hear. Because he hated Germans as much as the rest of them, didn't he, and him and his father were a perfect maleficent pair.

Those two.

Lately, Ludwig couldn't help but think that maybe it would one day be his fate to reside on the sidewalk, under the boots of the son, just as that old man across the street (poor old Dieter) had been under the boots of the father. Felt like an inevitability. Hell. If it was, then dwelling on it with a churning stomach wasn't going to change it, and he tried to come back from the dark when Antonio poked his shoulder, and he realized that he had been speaking the whole while.

"You listening?"

"Yeah," he muttered, and Antonio carried on.

"Anyway, like I was saying. Whatever happened to that sexy little Italian girl that you used to hang around?" He leered, and ran his hands down his waist enticingly as Ludwig rolled his eyes, adding, "You know! The one with the hips? Whew! What was her name? Ophelia? You and her used to go out all the time."

"Felicia," Ludwig muttered, and shook his head.

Ah, hell. Better not to think about her.

Oh, Felicia.

"Yeah! Why don't you just hook up with her? You two used to be so close! She was always running after you, remember? Saying your name!" Antonio tittered, and imitated in a high-pitched voice, "Ludovico! Ludovico! It was so cute. What happened?"

Aghast, Ludwig turned at his waist in his chair, meeting Antonio's dreamy eyes with a look of disbelief.

Really?

"Her brother came up behind me in the market and put a gun to the back of my head. How could you have possibly forgotten this?"

"Oh-ho-ho, yeah!" Antonio crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back, murmuring wistfully, "Luna Lovi! Must'a slipped my mind."

What? How?

"That's something that, I hope, would be hard to forget."

Especially since it had been Antonio who had knocked the gun away and nearly strangled Luna Lovi with his own tie. So surely he hadn't forgotten. It had been the angriest he had ever seen calm Antonio, and there were no more confrontations whenever Antonio was with him.

Actually, roles had been reversed; when Luna Lovi saw Antonio coming, he ran in the opposite direction.

Ludwig nearly scoffed at the thought of it.

Luna Lovi. That fuckin' guy.

The entire community knew full well that 'Luna Lovi' was just short for 'Lunatic Lovino', which was the street name of Lovino Vargas, a wannabe Mafioso that had his very own corner (and not much else), and he had had his crazy sights set on Ludwig ever since the first day pretty little Felicia had walked over to him. A shameless Germanophobe with a sailor's mouth and a foul temper, Luna Lovi did everything he could think of to make Ludwig's life a living hell (crank calls, threatening notes pinned with knives to his door, stalking, physical altercations, waving a gun in his face, slapping him in a crowded street, even going so far once as to try to set fire to his doorstep) until, finally, it was just too damn much.

Ludwig had been forced to sever all contact with Felicia, and he had hated it, more than anything, because that woman had been the first person on this side that had ever been nice to him. Loved her. Loved the feel of her hands, loved her eyes, loved her voice. Loved her, everything about her.

Loved her smile.

She had kept him afloat maybe more than Antonio had, and distancing himself from her was agonizing. Just maybe not as agonizing as a bullet.

He had even put iron bars on his windows to prevent intrusion.

Enemies on all sides.

"Can you imagine havin' that guy as a brother-in-law?" Ludwig suddenly grumbled, and rested his chin in his palm as Antonio threw an arm around his shoulders.

"So Luna Lovi overreacted a little bit. Crazy in-laws shouldn't stand in the way of true love." He grinned, shaking Ludwig enthusiastically as though scrambling his brain enough would make him reconsider.

Yeah, right.

Loved Felicia, but not in the way Luna Lovi and Antonio had thought. Sure had tried, though, and damn hard. Just hadn't happened. Whether or not she loved him like that, he couldn't say, but he suspected she didn't. She loved him, he had no doubt, as much as he loved her, but they hadn't ever been romantic.

Unfortunately.

He had tried so hard to make himself fall in love with her.

Ludwig bowed his head in exasperation, grunting, "Overreacted? Christ, I never even kissed her and he nearly whacked me. Anyway, I think I'm better off by myself for now." After a moment, he amended, "Forever, actually."

He couldn't even settle himself, let alone attempt to be in a relationship. Hard enough keeping himself together, although Antonio meant well.

"Ah," Antonio threw back, nonchalantly, "Don't worry about it. Good things to those who wait and so forth and so on..."

A final firm shake of camaraderie from Antonio, and they fell silent.

Looking up at the clock, Ludwig saw with a pang that it was almost time to set out. He would have longed for nothing more than to bar the door and sit here with Antonio and never set foot outside again, but bills did not just go away.

A terrible fact of life that he had learned far too soon.

"I've got to go," he said, standing, and Antonio's face fell a little.

"Too bad."

"Sorry," he responded, as he set aside the cold coffee and quickly disappeared up the stairs.

Work, work, work. Here, everything was just work. No time for much else. Honestly, he hadn't really known it would be this hard. He'd been an idiot, through and through.

Too late now.

He sifted through his closet, and now his face fell as much as Antonio's.

Simple things weren't so simple anymore. When he picked out his clothes before, he used to wear his best; crisp whites and neatly ironed pants, looking to impress the world and himself. But now? He wore grey and black, because dirt and sweat and blood were harder to wash out of white than they were on black.

Every routine had become sinister.

From his bedroom, he passed into the bathroom, and set about morning routines; shaving, glossing his hair, brushing his teeth.

Mundane. Stifling.

When he was ready to go, he tromped down the stairs and headed to the front door, and Antonio called from behind, "Do you want me to come with you?"

That was a routine too. Antonio knew damn well what happened out there on the streets, although he had never seen it outright, and Ludwig knew that he longed to tag along and make himself useful, and oh God, how he would have loved to see Antonio strangle that American brat with the collar of his ugly leather jacket à la Luna Lovi.

Still.

"No, thanks."

"...alright. See you later."

The door shut, and Ludwig cast only a glance at the window, where the dog sat with chin on pane, watching him go with the sadness that only a dog could really feel. Ludwig gave him a wave, as always, and carried on.

The dog and Antonio; hard to say which one worried about him more.

Antonio's offer was always turned down, and even though Antonio might have assumed it was just stubborn bullheadedness and maybe a care of the well-being of someone other than himself, there was a simpler explanation:

Pride.

His pride was all he had left, and Christ almighty, how could he ever look Antonio in the eye again if he had seen him on one of those days?

Those days.

If he ever saw him pinned up against the wall of an alley, helpless and overwhelmed, held in place as he was beaten within a breath of consciousness. If he ever saw him doubled over, gasping for breath on the pavement, bloody and bruised and using his arms to defend his head. If he ever saw him after, as he walked home slowly and unsteadily, trying to keep his chin up as the girls saw his beaten appearance and giggled. If he saw him inside, lying on his side on the couch and burying his face in a pillow as he tried not to just give up all hope, even the licking on his hand hardly rousing him.

Saw him humiliated like that.

That Antonio would ever see him in such a state. Couldn't bear that thought. Of Antonio looking at him any differently.

His pride would probably kill him one day.

At least inside the little bakery where he worked, there was a world of calm and quiet. No one bothered him there. He was not even in public sight, spending his time in the back, kneading dough and tending the brick oven, his apron and clothes covered in flour. Ha. His boss raised a brow every time he came in, and always asked, with hand on hip, why he wore black clothes when he worked with flour. White would have been better.

He only smiled halfheartedly, and shrugged a shoulder.

They thought he was the 'weird one'. Maybe he was. Didn't speak much, didn't interact, didn't have any friends, aside from Felicia and Antonio. No one that would ever call him at home just to say 'hello'. He had no family here. He didn't have family anywhere.

He was alone.

Maybe that was why he was the most frequent target, because he always traveled alone, always walked alone, lived alone. He had no one who would back him up. Easy pickings.

Whenever he left work, he walked as fast as he could down the street, tense and aware of his surroundings. It was only a few blocks, but it always felt like an eternity. It was a shame, to not be able to walk outside without feeling so apprehensive. He looked over his shoulder frequently, always alert, and yet somehow they always snuck up on him.

Every single time. Couldn't figure it out.

Today, he realized, when the sun was low on the horizon and he was leaving the shop to go home for the night, would be no different, and he had barely gone three blocks before he heard the giggles from behind.

Damn.

Another day. Same old, same old.

Exhausting.

With a clench of his jaw, he steadied himself, lifted his head, and walked on. Either it would be taunting, or it would be physical. Either way, he wouldn't stop. Wouldn't look back. Wouldn't give them the time of day. Wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing him break composure. Hell! Maybe one of these days they might even get bored of him.

He could hope.

Like everything else, this was just another routine.

First came the names.

"Hey, there Kraut! Where ya goin'?"

Been there.

Then came the shoves.

"Why don't you just go back wherever ya came from, huh?"

Done that.

And then...

"Hey! Come'ere!"

A hand on his upper arm, one hard pull, a stumble into the alley, and he was pressed against the wall, and they stood around him on either side.

Like always.

It only took a second, and he couldn't really help but admire the way they had turned bullying into an art form; if they spent even half of the time thinking that they spent planning out their maps of warfare, they might have been rather successful by now. They certainly knew the streets, and even his routine, and they moved together like a school of fish, mimicking each other flawlessly.

Certainly a skill, if not a cruel one.

The dirty bricks of the alley wall were pressing into his shoulder blades.

A moment of silence, as he stood completely still before them, reluctant to provoke an early attack, and quickly looked both ways for an escape. But there was none, and as he looked at them, he realized their leader was absent. He almost snorted in amusement at the thought that they could think and function without being directed. Go figure. Well, the fewer the better. Jones somehow grated him the worst anyway.

Two of them were suddenly at his sides, grabbing his arms and pinning him in, and he braced his feet.

Someone leaned in next to him then and whispered, "You got a lot of nerve being here. My old man stormed Normandy and got shot by you fuckin' Jerry."

Normandy. Jerry. Yeah, yeah, he'd heard all this before. Think of something new.

He closed his eyes, and more than anything, he just felt lethargic. So tired.

Carry on. Just words.

"Not mine," came another voice. "My daddy shot down Nazis over London. Took out seventeen before the war was over."

"Mine was a paratrooper. Landed in France and wiped out a whole barn full of Jerry."

'So what?' he longed to retort. He had never killed anyone. He had never been behind a machinegun. He had never flown in the Blitzkrieg. He had never been in the bowels of a Panzer. He had never even held a damn gun, not even when it had been mandatory for every single citizen, even kids, to protect the country.

"Mine liberated a camp in Dachau."

Dachau.

The name shook him from his numb stupor, and he couldn't help but feel a jolt of panic. That memory had been long since buried. Dachau was all in the past, all of it was, and he couldn't let himself remember anything about it. The past. It was done. Over. It couldn't happen again. So long, so many years, trying to get over that. The war was over. Why didn't they get that?

Just like that, he panicked.

Usually didn't, and couldn't really understand why he did that time, when he knew better than to struggle. The urge to flee was too great, and he suddenly pushed against them, breaking one arm free before he was forced back into place, and they sprung.

Knew better than that.

Stupid.

People walked by, but no one stopped. No one cared if a gang of American boys were beating up a German in an alleyway. He was only a German. He had no status here. No one cared. He'd learned that long ago.

'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.'

He'd memorized that line by heart, struggling to figure out the pronunciation and to remember the words, but he'd done it. He just hadn't known, back then, that there had been an unspoken line at the end of that hopeful proclamation.

'Unless they're German, then you can keep them.'

Ha! Dumb. He'd been so fuckin' dumb.

The best thing to do now was just to drift off, and ignore the pain. Think of something else. Anything.

They were relentless, tireless as always, but after long minutes the pummeling stopped, for just a moment, and, as he heaved to catch his breath, he could hear them shouting at someone.

"Jones!"

Of course. He would show up.

Ludwig looked up, squinting through the pain, and sure enough, on the other side of the street was the absent member of the group, walking briskly. He stopped at their cries, and looked over, and when he saw them he smiled and took a step forward, a bright look on his face.

"Come on!"

Then Jones suddenly stopped, dead cold in the street, and Ludwig could see that his smile had faded, as they locked eyes briefly.

Jones didn't move, then, no matter how hard the guys tried to wave him over. A short silence, and then, surprisingly, Jones backed away.

"Jones! Hey, Jones! Where are you going?"

"I'm late for something," was the too-quick response, and Ludwig watched with little less than disgust as he sped off, hands in his pockets, looking over his shoulder with a guarded expression. His friends waved him off with chides, and when Jones came to the end of the block, he went around it, and they looked away.

Ludwig didn't, and it was to his surprise when Jones suddenly poked his head around the corner, carefully, as though he were spying on something he should not.

A slap to his face broke Ludwig's stare for only a second, and when he looked back, he found himself locked into a pair of dark-blue eyes, and it was then that he realized absurdly that Jones had a black eye too. Street fighting, no doubt. His fingers gripped the edge of the building as he spied, and his stance seemed the same as always; confident and proud and sure.

There was something strange swirling behind those glasses, though, something that Ludwig couldn't quite put his finger on, and he was suddenly thrown back into that very first time, when he had foolishly thought that Jones would come to his aid. Because it looked as though he wanted to do something, but maybe that strange light was just the longing to join in.

But if he were really late, as he said, then why was he lingering?

Maybe...

Oh, god, let Jones step forward and help, intervene, distract them, call them away, shoo them off, anything! It would only lead to downfall and more bitterness than he already had, he was sure of it, but, oh, Ludwig longed to believe that Jones would suddenly cross the street and grab his friends and pull them away, and let him just go home, just this once.

Just once.

No go. Jones didn't move, frozen in place, and they stared at each other as though through a fog, and Ludwig could see the apprehension, even from across the street. Reluctance. Agitation. And something else.

Accusation? Almost as though—

It was absurd and foolish, and unfair, but he was certain that Jones looked at him with such a severe brow and such pursed lips because he was trying to say that this whole thing was...

The intense stare was broken when Jones suddenly turned away and rounded the corner, disappearing into the crowd and taking with him that small shard of hope, and Ludwig was thrust back into the dark, with only that strange, burning gaze left to keep his mind company as the fists assaulted his body.

That look.

He was almost too incredulous to feel the fist that landed in his stomach, almost too stunned with disbelief to feel the fingers digging into his arms, because he was certain now what Jones was trying to tell him.

...that it was his fault. That everything, that all of this, all of it, was somehow his fault.

Selfish. Ignorant.

It was his fault. Because he had had the nerve, the audacity, to have been born a German.

The ones layin' hands on him now didn't even matter then. Ludwig couldn't even focus on them anymore. Not then.

Jones.

Oh.

He hated that man.