Chapter 8: The Red Cross doesn't bring much
This chapter contains mentions of a beating and fever, mentions of actual historical events, mentions of wartime terror, mentions of murder, mentions of genocide, a character using the "they/them" pronouns, a character discrediting a well-meaning association, and a character mislabelling another. Oh yes, and Hange generally acting bananas. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.
Before, Bertholdt would have never thought that someone who held such an unkempt appearance could hold so much authority. Hair held back in a messy ponytail, clothes that probably used to be good quality covered in questionable stains, and generally hot and sweaty (although the number of human beings capable of not being so seemed to be limited to a goddess and a genius), they wouldn't have impressed him more than the next person if they hadn't seemed so… well, mad. As soon as they let Christa take their coat and hang it on a hook next to his own, they blasted question after question at the unfortunate Armin, who seemed to be much less at ease than when they had been conversing between themselves earlier on.
He sighed, making his decision when pleading eyes locked with his own. All right, Armin. I owe you one anyway.
He cleared his throat once, and seeing that the bespectacled doctor hadn't heard him, he tried again, louder. He nearly regretted it when they snapped straight up, deranged grin which seemed to say I'm going to eat you not helping in the awkward silence which had settled. Swallowing his saliva, he looked around the kitchen, but unfortunately the only viable exit was blocked off by the threat.
"I promise that if you ever interrupt me again, you'll regret it. You won't get a third chance."
And they started up their one-sided conversation with Armin again. Once the initial shock passed, he thought back to what they had just said. Three tries… That means I had already interrupted her once before? When could have that been?
Christa then entered the room again, her presence even making Hange quiet down a little. They exchanged greetings and a few quiet words, before the little blonde came up to him and led him out into the cooler hallway.
"It's to give them some privacy. Hange wouldn't mind, but Armin is a little insecure about how frail he is," she said, before adding: "Please don't tell him that I said that. It's just so you would know, that's all."
Bertholdt nodded in understanding. His father was (had been, his traitorous mind added. He ignored it) a doctor, after all, and he knew how some patients could be a little twitchy. After all, he was just like them: he didn't really like taking his shirt off when it got too warm in the summer, and he knew that he would be even less agreeable to that now that he would have scars to show. Still, he was getting ahead of himself. He wouldn't have to do that in a long time, it was only just the end of autumn after all. But maybe he would never have to go through that decision. Maybe he wouldn't be…
"Bertholdt? Are you all right?" questioned a concerned-sounding Christa. He had been lost in his thoughts and staring off into space, he realised. Hardly polite.
He smiled down at her. "Yes. All right."
The small crease above her nose bridge didn't budge, but at least her eyes relaxed. Bertholdt was just starting to get cold, sweat that was meant to cool him now making him shiver, when the door unexpectedly slammed open and the doctor called "Next!"
"Fine, I… I'm fine," he said half-heartedly, unwilling to set foot into the beast's den without a fight (or a meagre protest, if ever there was one), but not liking the idea of provoking said beast further than was necessary by refusing.
"Nonsense! Last time I saw you, you were on your last legs, so please give me the pleasure of not having to sedate you again in order to get a look at your wounds, and come over here this instant!"
He didn't need to be told twice. With a horrified glance in Armin's direction, he entered the still-sweltering kitchen. Hange was sitting in a chair, looking through their huge black bag. A bundle of bandages were already laid on the table, as well as several other bottles of solutions that Bertholdt recognised easily.
That's disinfectant, and another, and is that..?
It was scary, because this was a person he didn't know, but the familiarity of it all was homely, in a strange way. His doubts came back again though, when he saw a very weary, very tired expression flit across the doctor's face for a second, before they regained a more business-like countenance. It wasn't uncommon for a medical practician to be overworked, but if his father was anyone to go by, like any other human being, they were far less patient and likely to snap at any given moment.
"Sit down and answer all my questions with a 'yes' or 'no'," they said, pulling out a clipboard and already scribbling something down on it. They then looked up at him, and in a way that contrasted violently with their earlier brusqueness, they said: "I'll also need some information on how you got these wounds in the first place."
Bertholdt shook his head. He did not want yet another person in on this. After all, it was something that he had to sort out himself, because he was the one who had landed himself in this situation in the first place.
They leaned in a little closer, too close, he judged, when a stray lock of their hair met his skin. From this angle, he could see the heavy bags under their eyes that were covered by the frames of their glasses, yet they were still as piercing and feral as they had been before. But maybe in a more dangerous way. And… were their eyebrows burned off?
"Today, I received a letter from the Red Cross," they breathed, and the sentence was so unexpected that he froze and didn't even try to inch away from them. "It was a refusal to use my design as a new symbol for their association. Said it didn't meet their standards. But I put so much thought into it!" they exclaimed, throwing their hands up into the air, and this time, Bertholdt did jump out of his chair.
"Sit down, please, I haven't finished," they said breathlessly. Bertholdt was now more or less certain that this person wasn't supposed to be roaming the streets. "Imagine a knightly blazon, like the one of King Arthur," they said, gesturing with their arm in an all-encompassing motion, "but not expressing the want for some saint relic. No. One which promises peace, one which, when seen approaching by people in need, is greeted with open arms."
They stopped for a moment, having seemingly finished their talk, but they yet again leaned in close to him, and this time, he could even see the little veins that zigzagged across their sclera.
"One which helps even those who are abandoned by everyone else."
His breath hitched. It had been said so deliberately that there was no room for doubt. They were now sitting back down in their chair as a normal person would, concentrating on cutting lengths of bandages.
"Did you know," they started again, and he tensed. "That there was a police raid in Paris. It was in July, and done by order of the Vichy regime. Obviously, not a single German soldier was present at the time, but that's beside the point."
"All these people, men, women, children, were held in a single place, the Vélodrome d'Hiver," she said, their French grating at his ears. "This place was not equipped to hold so many people, or not for so long, anyhow. The bathrooms were in a state, and people were not getting enough food and water. The Red Cross had set up a medical tent, but they were quickly overrun and couldn't deal with them all."
"The thing is, Bertholdt, that I don't see what these people did to deserve such treatment. Children, for goodness's sake. Not only that, but how could people do that to others and expect to be considered as human? What I don't understand, is why the Red Cross didn't do what any person would do, and smuggle some of them out? They had the possibility, Bertholdt, I can promise you that. But I can also promise you one other thing: they didn't do it. Why? Because the Red Cross is not what this world needs. It needs warriors, Bertholdt, it needs people ready to fight for the rights of others, it needs daring people with a sense of justice, it needs…"
Bertholdt stopped her with an open palm. Their speech had at first angered him, the way they spoke so lightly about a tragedy he didn't know of until then holding all his attention and sorrow. As they had continued talking, however, he had redirected that anger -which, as usual in his case, quickly died down under the weight of his own apathy anyway- to the organisation they had so seamlessly incorporated into the conversation. They might have gone a little off subject in the process, but he understood the general meaning behind their words; he actually found them promising, if not revolutionary. This person was obviously a genius, not in a way he had ever thought was possible, but he was ready to accept that. They were wild, but they were wise; not the kind of person anyone would mess with. And maybe, just maybe, even if it was only thanks to their job, they saw a little bit of his father in them. This was the decisive factor that allowed him to act as insanely as he did then, to confide for the first time a few of the most recent events of his life in someone.
"Now… I tell you me. My story."
And he did. Nothing from before, nothing that didn't happen on English soil, but enough so that they knew how he had gotten the cuts in the first place, and enough so that all the other, minor ones were explained as well. They didn't write anything down, just listened, sometimes making him repeat some sentences that didn't make sense.
It was by far the longest conversation he had ever had in English, but it wasn't too difficult, surprisingly. He was honest as well, something he had not been in a very long time.
"Hmm… you've been through a lot. What those people did was undoubtedly illegal in all kinds of different ways, but you're right, they'll get away with it. That kid will probably try and turn it against you as well, if she's as bad as you say she is. I can only wish you good luck for finding a job; you're probably on the same level of employability as Reiner, and that is not good, I can assure you."
There it was again, the hint that there was something not being said. "Why?"
"What, why?"
"Why Reiner has no job?"
"He's asthmatic; that never helps."
Frustrated, he motioned with his hand. "No. Something else."
They seemed to think for a second, looking him over once or twice, before answering him.
"He'll tell you when he thinks the time is right. Right now, we've got other tasks at hand. Take your shirt off, and answer my questions honestly."
So he did. The piece of fabric was dark grey with sweat, and it made the doctor stop immediately and look him up and down again, a little like before, but more in incomprehension rather than consideration.
"Bertholdt, when's the last time you bathed?"
He thought it through for a few seconds, but was interrupted when a hand grabbed his wrist and he was pulled harshly towards the door. "It's not a good sign if you have to think for that long about it."
They crashed through the door, interrupting the blondes' conversation and making both of them jump. "Christa, show me how to run a bath, I don't know if the plumbing here is as bad as where I live. Armin, get some extra clothes, use the curtains if you must, just go!"
Both of them shot up and ran to their respective tasks, unable, like most, to not obey the doctor's commanding voice. Bertholdt was dragged into a room where a claw foot bath was soon steaming, and a pile of linen sat waiting on a chair. The doctor left him, and thinking that maybe they was giving him some privacy, he began to undress.
To tell the truth, it had indeed been quite some time since he had last really cleaned up. He would sometimes get someone in the kitchens to hand him a bucketful of lukewarm water to sponge off with, but this wasn't the same thing. He was literally salivating, as if being presented with a delicious meal, at the sight of the warm bathtub. Just at the wrong moment, when his trousers were around his ankles, Hange slammed the door open in what he assumed was their usual manner of getting from one room to another and he yelped, tripped forward and squawked a number of meaningless words that had absolutely no effect on the doctor. They simply stepped into the room, threw their bag down on the nearest available flat surface and closed me the door behind themself.
"Stop moaning! I'm a doctor, for goodness's sake, do you think that I've never seen a naked man before? I need to make sure you don't scratch your scabs off or something stupid like that."
"Won't!" Bertholdt argued. He definitely didn't want this person in the same room as him when he was so defenceless, and definitely not anywhere near the marks on his back. He had humoured them long enough earlier on, and even offered up part of himself to them in exchange. But this went too far; he refused to be locked in a room with a potential maniac and take his eyes off them for a second. He had to revise his judgement though when they charged him like a bull and stood as tall and close as their smaller form would let them, furious, fogged glasses staring up at him.
"I've done nothing but try and help people my whole life, so don't you dare question my good intentions," they threatened. "You need medical help, and I'll force it down your neck if you refuse to be treated, I can assure you. I'll hunt you down and make sure you're unhurt if I have to. Now quit looking at me like I'm some flippin' moustached Austrian and get in that tub this instant."
That settled it clearly enough. Now trembling like a leaf in the steam-filled air, he quickly complied and submerged as far as he could into the blissful water. Even though he had to bend his legs and a good portion of them were left above the surface, he relaxed into the warmth as in a soft mattress. It can only be left to the imagination to one never having gone for long without cleaning how good it could feel. He soaked for a few minutes, left to his own devices as Doctor Hange stood guard. They did let a few words come after a while though, just as the water was beginning to get cool.
"You're taking another one. That water's more mud than anything else: there's no way that you've gotten much cleaner than before from that."
So he pulled himself out, making sure to grab the closest towel to wrap around his waist, even though for now the doctor hadn't made any moves towards him for an examination. They even turned their back respectfully when he clambered out onto the very cold floor, shivering partly from the temperature difference, partly from the many thoughts of whatever this person could do to him in the vulnerable state he was now in.
They beckoned him back into the water, which he gratefully did, letting a "Thank you, Ma'am" slip when they caught him when he slid on the bath's edge and nearly fell. They instantly stiffened, their grip on his arm tightening, and he wondered what he had done, a small worried thought striking through him, more out of habit than anything else, wondering how he would be punished for whatever he had done wrong. He shook his head, sinking back into the land of finger-pruning bliss. He wasn't with the Tenards anymore. He just had to pay his debt, and he would be free of their influence. It was something abstract, and to tell the truth, terrifying to think about. Freedom. Something that he didn't exactly appreciate. It was like he had the immensity of the Universe, the world's power, at his fingertips. Something too imposing for him. He liked to be guided, to have his horizon restrained somewhat. He hoped the people he had met would help him do so, rather than shrugging it off and offering the much-dreaded "do whatever you want".
He glanced from where the water lapped his bare legs to look at Hange. They had seemed uncharacteristically unsettled, and he was slightly apprehensive when he saw that they had been staring at him.
They broke it off, sighed, took their glasses off to wipe the fog from them. For the first time, now that he saw them without the accessory, Bertholdt thought that maybe he had made some mistake. Maybe not a bad one, but one which would maybe hurt the person sitting on the blue-painted trunk in the corner of the room.
"Bertholdt, erm, you know…"
They coughed into her fist, a little ashen in the cheeks.
"Shit, it's always difficult. Alright, just, you know, don't be surprised or anything, but I'm not a woman." They looked up suddenly, seeing the confusion and shock on Bertholdt's face, his mouth hanging open in wait for the words to come. "And not a man either," they added quickly, before he could find the right words to ask the question hanging there.
"So..?" he asked hesitantly nonetheless. The concept sounded alien to him, in a world he had thought could only house male and female individuals. Yet again, he thought back: many years ago, when he was still very young, his father had quickly mentioned the subject in a conversation he had overheard. All he could drag up from the memory dredges he had was a pitying and condescending tone, no information that would likely help him comprehend the phenomena.
"How..?" he asked just as hesitantly as earlier on, seeing a hint of a soft smile tugging at… this person's features.
"Well, I'd prefer not to describe the specifics, if you don't mind. Maybe I will, one day, but not now. Just… try and think of me as someone in between. If you need to talk about me, use 'they' instead of 'her', and otherwise, just call me doctor Hange. I work well with that."
He looked at them for an instant, and even through the haze of the bathroom steam, he could see something so shockingly familiar in their eyes that he nearly balked. He saw himself. He saw himself in his moments of self-doubt, in those moments when he had to reveal anything that he thought other people could judge him by. He had often told people he understood them, but he didn't think he had ever done so as sincerely than in this instant. Hange was certainly different from him in oh so many ways, with their extrovert nature and completely off the wall and variable attitude, but they did have this one, well-used fear of being rejected for being themselves.
"All right, Doctor," he offered tentatively in his accent-muddied English, but encrusted with an openness unlike him. "Ich…I can… verstehe."
Their smile became more pronounced, something that suited them, along with the glasses now firmly seated back on the bridge of their nose. "Understand," they corrected, before offering another towel to wrap himself in.
"I think you're about finished now. Water looks better than before. Don't put clothes on yet, but you can keep the towel, unless you've got wounds that should be examined there as well."
"No," Bertholdt replied quickly, and followed the order with no side thoughts. The trunk where Hange had been seated earlier on looked welcoming enough, so he made his way over and sat on it. They pulled the plug in the bath, and the sound of whooshing water somehow settled his thoughts.
There was a certain amount of people in which he placed his trust, which of course he saw as a weakness, but that he desperately needed, as much for his well-being as for his sanity. He had always been a nervous wreck, and the events over the last few months had broken him beyond what could ever be repaired. But he was still there, even though he couldn't possibly see himself as the same person as the one he had grown up being. It was saddening, really.
"Done! Now turn around, I need better access to your back," came their voice, somewhat more chipper than it had seemed earlier on. He obliged, pulling the piece of furniture out a little so that he could slot his legs between the wall and the light wooden box. His nose coming face to face with a wall made him grimace slightly, reminding him of harder times, but he chased the thoughts away as soon as they invaded his head.
He felt a few prods and pokes, some of which made him flinch and hiss, although they were all relatively gentle. Cold fingers carefully applied ointment on his sores, but once they were finished, there was no expected presence of the end of a cotton bandage being shoved under his arm, nor any other dressing in fact.
"No, I saw some cuts on your torso earlier on. I'm not bandaging anything up until I get a closer look at those as well. Now turn around again."
Bertholdt did as he was told, complying with a familiarity that he thought had died the day his father probably did. He remembered, every time he came back with bruised knees or other minor childhood injuries, he would take on the well-meaning and clinical persona that seemed to be common to all those treating the wounds of other people. Over the years, he had seen most patients go limp and offer themselves up without resistance, leaving to another the responsibility of their health, scared to do any worst by treating themselves unknowingly.
Hange at that instant lightly brushed their nails over one of his own pieces of handiwork, a stitch he had had to sew himself after a particularly rough day. It had fortunately only needed two stitches, and the gash hadn't bothered him at all since he had taken them out. The doctor's brow was furrowed though, and they looked up at them with a puzzled expression.
"Did you meet a doctor before you got here, Bertholdt? I mean, recently. I'm supposing you've stayed at least a month or so in England, from your accent, and assuming that you didn't learn much during your stay. Also, most of these scars are older, so I'm thinking that you only received them before you got here," they said subtly, not bringing up the long nights of running from hounds and men that had caused the slashes on his legs. "But this one… farming equipment? I've seen plenty before, and I don't see why people who would patch you up for a scratch wouldn't also do so if you were bleeding out." Not so subtle, this time, then.
He was a little confused, but was overwhelmed by the fact that yet again, Reiner had not lied when he had described them as observant. "Why… you know?" he asked, unsure of if the sentence conveyed the question he wanted.
"Oh, well, a few weeks ago the borders on the other side of the channel have been more or less completely cut off, so you would have come over before then. Also, your hair looks lighter on the left side of your head, which can only mean that…"
"No," he cut them off, before they got too carried away in their explanations. "Why you want… know."
They had started wrapping his torso, and didn't glance up as they worked. "Well, it turns out I'm overworked. Too many people, the distances are too long, and the first nurse for miles around is in Wellington. And she's old. Please, tell me where I can find this person. All the people with medical knowledge have been snapped up by the army here, and I'm the only one left dealing with all the grumpy veterans and such."
They straightened up, and he saw the glint in their eye that signalled an incoming comment that would either make no sense to him, or would give him yet another reason to doubt Hange's very approximative sanity. He wasn't disappointed.
"I can't zap rats anymore, Bertholdt, I spend my nights doing that, I'm not a bat, I need my Sundays," they said, shaking his shoulders in a way that made him feel slightly queasy. Yet again, the red making their eyes bloodshot jumped out at him, and he had the same feeling of fear earlier on, the one related to irritated people of the medical spheres.
"I don't cook anymore, I my house is a mess, and not even an organised mess, an actual mess, and…"
"I did," he interrupted, trying to wedge in a word, a sentence, anything to calm them down. He was getting scared for both their and his own well-being at this stage. He regretted it instantly though, as they looked at him with mouth wide open and dumbfound eyes.
Crap.
They're going to eat me.
"Y…you did?" they whispered nearly inaudibly, in a way that spelled out doom to him.
He nodded nonetheless.
"And… do you know how to do anything else?.. Like, injections?"
He nodded again.
"Wow, um, yes, please, look, urg…"
"No."
"Why?"
"Ich… I can't."
"Look, I can teach you if you wish, you already have the basics, so…"
"I… can't."
He couldn't let himself be swayed. He couldn't live off their back.
"I'll give you a room! Pay off your debts! Give you a decent salary! Name it! I. JUST. NEED. SLEEP!"
He jumped away from them when they shouted the last few words, but it wasn't him that was targeted. He turned back to face them, and saw the doctor pulling at their hair hard enough to damage the roots. They had tears brimming over their eyes, but they didn't spill.
"All I wanted was for people around me to be healthy, happy. I don't care if they're all a bunch of whiny suicidal brats, I just don't want them to suffer. But I can't do this anymore. I can't leave them without a person to patch them up after they've had a playground fight. Please. I need help."
The whispered monologue touched him deeper than any of the other words that the doctor had said; even the ones where they mentioned his people and the similarities they had hadn't quite moved him this much. There weren't any doubts to be had anymore.
He set a hand on their shoulder, tossing all cautions to the wind, all doubts he had over his capacities, and said the words which would put an end to the torment he had dealt with for far too long:
"I'll do it."
