A loud whoop jolted Dieter out of his reminiscence. Well, he's finally gotten his wish. He's in France now. Has been here for four years, with only regrets to show for. But Fate, fickle and cruel as she was, never gave Dieter exactly what he wanted. This wasn't how he had envisioned France to be. He wasn't supposed to force himself to get used to the drunken disorderliness of soldiers in a mildewed basement tavern. He was supposed to meet movie stars at the Ritz, not listening to them play drinking games in said tavern.
He could of course go out and play a game with said actress, it would be something to brag about to other Majors. Playing a drinking game with an actress of von Hammersmark's calibre, and sitting close to her and drinking and probably chatting nonsense. But that would mean also tolerating the soldiers. No.
Dieter had just gotten used to a better part of his book when the woman soldier made a great deal out of the arrivals of several SS Officers. The universe must hate the thought of Dieter ever having a quiet, acceptable night out. He wondered if he should now try to make his accommodations less sparse and more enjoyable. Clearly taverns are not meant for quiet.
The newcomers turned out to be von Hammersmark's friends, he learnt. Officers who sounded rather smug, possibly newly appointed to their ranks (a Captain, was it?). They sounded as though had yet to learn the curses that came with middle-management.
To think that he was like that once, all those years ago, what seemed like a lifetime ago, someone else's lifetime.
Something else seemed wrong though, the easy festivity from before had all but disappeared. Usually he would thank them all for finally abandoning their lowbrow entertainment, finally leaving him in peace. However, the uneasy silence, punctuated by small, dampened excitement, bothered him. He discreetly signaled for Eric, under the pretense of a new glass of beer. He only hoped that he wouldn't be too drunk and made an arse of himself in front of the lesser people.
Eric did not come immediately to do his beck and call, however; ignoring Dieter in favour of Fraulein von Hammersmark's three friends. When he finally appeared with a new glass of beer, Dieter would find out that someone had beaten him to the drunken post. The new father. He should've guessed.
Or maybe he couldn't have guessed. His father had been drunk on the night he was born, he was told, but his father's drunkedness had nothing to do with a new son.
Old history, Dieter, he tried to remind himself. No sense in beating a horse long dead. And he's above beating a horse now. He's better now.
Eric placed a fresh glass on the table and Dieter immediately grabbed it and drank a good half of it. Well, maybe less than half. He wasn't such a brute, afterall.
"You need something, Herr Mayor?" Eric asked, his face was frozen between elation (of having good business in what should've been a slow mid-week night; and a well-known actress to boot) and fatigue (the night's over-excited patrons had worn him down, probably).
"Don't give that man any more alcohol. If he couldn't be bothered about his own reputation, at least the baby should be spared the embarrassment of having an ass for a father."
"Exactly so, Herr Mayor."
"Who exactly are Fraulein von Hammersmark's guests? Have they been here before?"
"I don't know. You Germans look the same," Eric replied, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"Sit, Eric," Dieter ordered, pointing at a low chair in the corner of his nook. "You look like you're about to have a migraine."
"Thank you, you're very kind," Eric complied without any fight.
"As if. You were making me ill, looking sick like that." Dieter made a point to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm merely making sure that the only person able to make them keep a civil tongue in this tavern will still be alive when I have need of him."
"As I said, you're very kind."
"And you're French," Dieter replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation, taking a sip of his beer and returning to his book.
By this time, his theory that new fathers should only be fed milk and undergo a five-week alcohol ban was about to be proven right. There must be a line drawn somewhere, really. Having a newborn could only buy one person so much license anyway, and none of it allowed for impoliteness.
But, scoff at decorum, the new father did, cutting into a conversation between an officer and a gentlewoman. Dieter half-wished one of those snot-nosed officers would give the Soldier a good slap in the face; as he imagined giving one to a certain Private back in Paris.
By the time the drunken soldier had made his request to the esteemed Fraulein von Hammersmark, Dieter finally heard, clearly heard one voice that chilled him straight to his bones: congratulating the new father of a name well-chosen.
Dieter wondered about the Fates and how unimaginative they could be. Always the same storyline, the repetition of things that threw him off his balance most of the time. The French had a word for it, though he didn't care to remember it just this moment.
Once, there was a bitter boy, exiled through the petty whims of a Grandfather he couldn't please. In his exile, he met with another boy with mad eyes. And they became friends. Now, even though one of them still played the role of the bitter exile, neither were boys anymore, and certainly they could not be friends in the traditional sense of the word anymore.
Ten, fifteen years or so ago, it seemed that they were on top of the world, fearless conquerors of their little corner of the world. They did everything together.
This time, their past seemed like a fairy tale, a grotesque urban legend. They're no longer on top of the world. Quite the opposite in fact, in a tavern at what could pass as the arse end of the world.
But only one thing stayed the same. They will always be together, that much he knew. He also knew that neither of them forgotten anything, their quirks, their obsessions, their codes and safe-words. Their game. Dieter also knew that by the time they played their last little game, they would find themselves in hell, with one and the same. Together.
Somehow, that thought comforted him. It was irrational, he knew, as he studiously ignored Eric's worried look. If only I could, if only I could be bothered to, then I would apologise for the mess I'll be causing here at your esteemed establishment. Ah, the poor unsuspecting people. They'd think that they're invited to the game, when really both he and Hugo could live without them gladly. He wondered idly what game they should play, Hugo and him. Dieter shrugged, he'd think of something.
Dieter straightened his back, had the first genuine smile on his face. Eric would've sworn the Major looked years younger, shedding off stress and resentment in mere minutes. "It will just be like the old times," Dieter told Eric, who in turn merely looked confused.
When Aldo Raines declared that a British loo-tenant would be coming to "strengthen the numbers, so to speak", Hugo didn't put much thought into it. The American loved to recruit people to his merry Nazi-scalping band, mismatched nationalities all for a common cause. One irrational moment, he even thought that the Brit would be one of those people who trained the Czech agents who went after Heydrich. This kind of person, he would definitely be able to tolerate, he thought.
A few seconds later, he turned his hope down a notch. Maybe this guy wouldn't be so highly accomplished. But, beggars had never been able to choose. Really, he'd accept any kind of help, gladly.
Except...
Never would he have guessed that a ponce would be walking through the doors of their hideout, strutting like a peacock and noisier than a murder of fucking magpies. One glance at Raines and another one at Utivich, confirmed that he wasn't the only one dreaming of various entertaining ways of shutting up this pompous git. This bastard would be the end of them.
"It's not as if things could be any worse," Wicki stage-whispered. Everyone within hearing range rolled their eyes and the Brit ("supposedly very observant," Raines had told them prior to the eyesore's arrival) didn't even notice he was being talked about (or maybe it was just a superior display of a 'stiff upper lip'; sometimes it's difficult to tell).
Any worse, indeed. Stiglitz swore he would never listen to Wicki's words of wisdom ever again.
As evening marched steadily forward, everyone had exhausted themselves groaning and laughing at the Brit and his basement bar plan. Hugo found himself putting as much distance as possible between himself and Hicox, not because he was afraid of the man, but because he was afraid he would lose his temper and murder the insufferable git. Then, everyone would be pissed at him for fucking up their mission. But after that, everyone would probably thank him for fucking up their mission. Although, theoretically, he could end up dead in the hands of friendlies, because the replacement for a theoretically dead, stupid Brit was another even stupider and even arsier Brit.
He glanced at Raines and saw that the American was probably also contemplating the same. He looked around the room and saw similar things. Maybe he could go ahead with his murder after all. Actually, theoretically it wouldn't be murder. It would be mercy killing. Hugo would do it quick and painless. Other people would probably torture the bastard first.
The door opened and let the chill from the outside world seep through, cutting his murder fantasy short. Just when it's about to get to the good part, too. He looked up at the small clock on the wall and growled at it. There's still forty minutes left to wait. He swore it was forty minutes, half an hour ago.
It was Donowitz who walked in, grinning as he sometimes did when he managed to think up something clever as he pissed. Donowitz pissed a lot, even though Hugo barely saw him drink. Hugo often wondered whether it was a good idea to ask Donowitz to get his plumbing checked. But he never did. Because Donowitz was often most entertaining after a good piss.
"So, here we go," Donowitz said as he leaned against a wall. It was difficult to find an empty space in this small room. And the Brit was taking up valuable space by demanding a corner just for his things.
"Cigarette?" Omar cut in, ready to throw their last cigarette at the man who was slowly sliding down the wall, trying to find a comfortable spot.
"Later," Raines interrupted. "Let's hear if he's got anything good to tell us. That's our last one, and I'm going to have him earn it."
"Fuck you, Chief," Donowitz said, grinning, snatching the cigarette from Omar's outstretched hand. "It's a walking-into-a-bar joke."
Wicki dutifully provided the flame, and Donowitz mumbled a "fanks" as blue-white smoke wafted up, all the cigarette-addicts in the room sighed wistfully. Donowitz smiled impishly, sparing a glance at each of them.
"You'll love it," Donowitz said to the leader of their merry little bloodthirsty-band.
Hugo watched both men and wondered if there wasn't just some friendly camaraderie between them. He wanted to ask, to confirm his suspicions, not just because he had a wonderfully vivid imagination, but also (and maybe most unfortunately) he might just had the same thing all those years ago.
He didn't pay much attention to Donowitz's story, joke, whatever. He was busy playing what-ifs with himself, building compelling things with his imagination, even though he knew he had lost the right to question anything that Fate made him do. He was a soldier now. Obeying orders was what he should do.
Resigning himself to second-hand smoking, he convinced himself that he had no regrets, because indeed, he had none.
They had finally left the dingy room, crossing over to the deathtrap of a rendezvous point. The cool night air had even managed to shut the Brit up, at least for the moment. The streets were quiet and the crescent moon floated lazily above them. Maybe we won't die tonight.
What was it again, something about feelings too hastily decided upon? They were often wrong. More often than not. He should've known the silence of the streets was less of an easy one marking a piece-of-cake mission but more of the calm before the almighty storm. He should've known the crescent moon wasn't so much as a lazy bastard as it was actually smiling at their untimely and possibly gruesome demise in the very near future.
As they descended the spiral staircase, the noise of a drunken revelry rose up to meet them. And there was no mistaking the language either. That sure as hell ain't French. It amused Hugo that his conscience sounded like Raines. Rough, uncultured Americanism. Hugo felt like he was a traitor even more, though he actually felt good about it.
Stepping off the final step onto worn stone floors, Stiglitz had the sinking feeling that they would never leave this place alive.
"A British spy, a German traitor and an Austrian Jew walk into a French basement bar. Inside they meet a German actress turned spy..."
