[On the subject of nations as humane.]

Warning: This piece of writing contains some ideologically sensitive material. If you are easily offended, it is advised that you do not read this. However, in no way does this story reflect the personal opinions of the author him/herself. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: Ludwig Beilschmidt, or the personification of Germany, belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.


VII.

Helmut picks up a piece of paper off the floor.

He can tell it's been folded and re-folded many times; there are creases and rips in it, and it feels like it might fall apart in his hands if he is too rough with it. He wonders what's inside; perhaps Ludwig's deep, dark secrets, or the secret recipe for a cake, or a to-do list.

He's not sure if he's allowed to peek inside, but there is a strong sense of curiosity that takes the form of a voice in his head, urging him to open it.

Helmut looks around the room to make sure Ludwig is absent. He unfolds it with the eager expectations of a seven-year-old.

It reads:

"Ludwig Beilschmidt, I know you are a man of God. Please save my boy; he's three, he knows nothing of the world. My husband has been killed, and I am on the run, but I can't move quickly with a little boy to take care of. Don't let them kill him, even though he is Jewish! I beg of you to take him under your wing. You are my only hope left.. -SZ"

The boy tilts his head after reading it, his nose scrunching up and his eyebrows knitting together. He wonders when Ludwig ever took in another boy and why he has never seen him before.

A few hours later, at the dinner table, he stands up in his chair and leans his child body over, arm outsretched with the paper in his hand. Ludwig gives him a perplexed look and takes it; and in the moment that follows, Helmut watches the German's expression change.

The moment he takes it, Ludwig's eyebrows come together and the frown incited by Helmut standing on his chair deepens. The boy can see something else behind his eyes, too.

Fear.

It is something he has never seen Ludwig express before. The man has always been so stoic, too proud to show his feelings to anyone. He has been called strict, militaristic, and perfect by everyone - superiors, inferiors, civilians.

"An appeal to fear never finds an echo in German hearts," Ludwig tells him every night. Helmut always hears the note of pride in his voice.

And yet sitting at the table, handing the note over, had somehow caused Ludwig to fear something. Helmut can't possibly fathom what the note means to him, and at this point he doesn't really want to know, but he wants to break the awkward silence that has filled the air between them.

His tongue is thick in his mouth; he doesn't know what to say first. He inhales deeply and says, stuttering slightly, "S-so ... who's th-the boy? Why've I ne ... never seen him before?"

Ludwig looks up and gives the boy a look so pained that Helmut's bottom firmly plops back down in its chair. His hands find the cool metal of his fork and spoon, and he commences eating as if the question had never been posed.

His caretaker puts the note aside and finishes dinner without saying anything. He collects the dishware and stacks them in the sink for cleaning after Helmut goes to bed.

Helmut sits in his chair, looking down at his knees. Ludwig cranes his head over his shoulder to look at him and sighs. Turning around, he places two fingers on the bridge of his nose and squeezes firmly.

"You are," he grumbles.

The boy's head snaps back up; he waits for Ludwig to finish his sentence. He doesn't know that Ludwig has finished his sentence.

After another brief period of quiet, he pipes up, "I'm what?"

"...You're the boy. In that letter." He jerks a thumb at the folded paper; Helmut follows the direction of his thumb.

He says, "I don't understand."

Ludwig sighs. "I saved you that night."

"Huh?"

"1937. You were left on my doorstep. I ... I picked you up. I saved you."

"You mean I'm not your son?" Helmut's voice raises a little; Ludwig holds up a hand.

"Just because you aren't biologically mine - that means I didn't help make you - doesn't mean I love you any less. Helmut, I consider you nothing short of a wonderful son. And I admit, although I was reluctant to keep you at first, I've become attached to you."

Helmut folds his arms and draws his eyebrows together; his forehead creases and his breathing grows huffy. Ludwig realises that this is in direct imitation of him when he's upset.

He adds, "I'd never let you go at this point."

"But Ludwig, I don't get it. Why were you the letter ... er's ... only hope?"

"I don't know. I reckon I must know them from somewhere, but I don't recognise the handwriting. All I know is that whoever it is knows me."

Helmut thinks on this for a few moments, then shakes his head. "I don't believe it. I'm not a Jew. I'm a German!"

"You are a German Jew," replies Ludwig firmly.

"I refuse. I want to be German."

"You can't be German just because you want to."

"But I have to be!" The boy hops off of his chair and paces, another habit acquired from his caretaker. "Jews don't call each other Judensau, and they don't cheer when the trains pass! I'm not a Jewish pig; I'm not lazy! I celebrate Yuletide and I hail the Führer! What makes me not German?"

Ludwig, growing ever tired of the boy's vicious musing, snaps: "You are a Jew because you were born a Jew. There is absolutely nothing you can do to change that!"

And Helmut stops pacing, gives Ludwig a look of hurt and disbelief, and kicks at the floor before racing up the stairs to his room, leaving the German all alone in the kitchen.

The blonde stays still for a few moments; and then, with a snort of disgust, turns to the dishes.

'He'll come around. Nobody can escape their blood.'

Almost painfully, he is reminded of his brother again.

Ludwig waves away the memory and picks up the soap and sponge, running the water and watching as fluff-laced liquid streaks down the sides of the porcelain.

When he is finished, he dries his hands and goes upstairs to rest himself.