-Elizabeta Héderváry-
The brunette Hungarian was walking back to work the next morning when a cold hand grabbed her shoulder. It didn't have Gilbert's familiar firmness to it and she flinched away from the touch. She was worried until the voice spoke.
"One fi—eight two oh seven oh!"
"Yessir?" Eliza mouthed as she turned to meet Ludwig's blue eyes. He pulled her behind a building and looked circumspectly around.
"All clear, Gil sent me. He couldn't come this morning without looking suspicious. Don't worry; nothing's wrong."
Eliza let out a sigh of relief. "Yes, Ludwig?"
"He just wanted me to give you this. He said you'd probably want something with some protein. They were finally giving a bit of it out in the mess hall this morning." Ludwig slipped a few strips of cold meat from his sleeve and into the Hungarian's hand.
"Bacon? How on earth did you get that in 1944! Ah never mind, thanks a bunch Ludwig."
The aforementioned German nodded staidly. He uttered a 'Wiedersehen' and turned to leave.
But Elizabeta was not so carefree. "What is that noise?"
"What noise?" Ludwig asked.
"Shh."
A low buzzing filled the air like the hum of a thousand locusts. Ludwig's head pricked up with recognition. The accusing noise manifested itself in the forms of dozens of avian-shaped shadows in the cirrus, slowly and steadily marching forward across the cerulean skies like an army of Death's vultures in tiny little V shapes.
"Americans," Ludwig hissed, as if the word was a curse. He glanced up at the shapes in the sky vehemently.
"Americans?" the Hungarian repeated, more out a want for elucidation than misunderstanding.
"B-17s, by the sound of it. The flying fortress," he clarified. But Elizabeta could care less as to whatever specific planes they were. She only cared of their intention.
"B….B as in Bomber?"
"Yes."
"They're going to bomb us?!" Elizabeta shrieked.
"No."
She cursed the German and his ambiguous one-word responses. "But… then what are they doing? They can't fly planes right over goddamned Auschwitz and not bomb it!"
"Sure they can. Watch them," Ludwig replied blithely, with the sureness gained from experience.
Eliza was silent for a moment as the silhouettes of the allied warplanes appeared in the sky directly above them. One eclipsed the sun, its shadow flashing like a ghost directly over her. Sure enough, not one of them dropped any of their deadly cargo on the camp. A complex fluttering of emotions flitted through her heart. She was ecstatic to see them. But enraged that they had become so blatantly close only to be ignored. She wanted the bombs to fall.
"What else could they possibly be aiming for?" she asked.
"The Monowitz oil refinery, ten kilometers from here. They want to starve out our oil supply."
"But…. certainly they …. They have to know what's going on in here! Everyone in here is a dead man anyway. Even the prisoners would want them to bomb! Or at least the railways leading in to camp can be taken out." Eliza stopped herself before she could continue, suddenly afraid of offending her most recent ally in her survival. Even though she might have wanted Auschwitz to be bombed to smithereens, chances were Ludwig didn't.
If the Nazi was bothered by her, he didn't let on. Like a kind teacher to a curious but slow pupil he began to explain.
"I can't know, what the allies know about this," he said, gesturing with his hand to the buildings around them. "But I know that bombing isn't very accurate. Maybe they have moral issues if they think prisoners will get hit. Or they don't think it's an efficient use of their resources if they could use them to hasten the end of the war by bombing our cities instead. Maybe they don't know exactly what it is we do here. Or maybe they do know, and they don't care."
They didn't care? They had to care. Elizabeta would not believe that. Sirens started to blare through the camp then, and Ludwig told her that he needed to leave, and she should get inside the nearest building.
-Gilbert Beilschmidt-
"That's impossible. I'll admit we have not exactly been friends through the ages, Roderich, but I always respected your levelheadedness." Gilbert said, looking over to his most recent companion. Roderich had caught him on the way from the soldier's barracks.
"I swear to it. What motive have I to lie?" the Austrian reasoned desperately.
"I don't think you're lying. I'm saying you just might have had one too many of your fancy Rieslings before work that day, that's all." the Prussian quipped with a slight snicker.
"I saw her. Or at least someone who looked just like her. And don't you talk to me about sobriety, Beilschmidt."
Gilbert narrowed his eyes in answer. "It is completely unfeasible to survive the chambers," Gilbert said. "Even if the machines malfunction the whole crew is either dead or alive. There's never just one that slips through. And even if one did survive they'd be burned alive if they were unconscious. Shot if they weren't. Are you sure she made it to the chambers?" Gilbert asked.
"Yes! That's why I am so confused. There's not exactly a way to escape once you have been written off. Multiple guards are constantly stationed around them since the prisoners expect what is coming to them and know that they're desperate."
"See? It's probably just some different Hungarian girl then. Southern wretches all look the same." Gilbert said, his voice layered with unconcern. He perfected the statement with an indifferent shrug.
"But she smiled at me. Like she knew me." Roderich pressed.
With an exasperated sigh, Gilbert shook his head and touched a dark-gloved hand to his brow. "Rod, you're so oblivious. Like a child. She probably just saw you and thought you were handsome or something and the little whore tried to catch your attention. Maybe she thought you'd give her some rations for sex. What do you want me to do about it?"
"Just tell me if you see someone who looks like her, alright?"
"Sure, sure. Will do. I'll let you know. You let me know if you see der Führer commit suicide instead of a noble death on the field of battle like he preaches to the Jugend. Or hell, if you see any giant bombs that make clouds shaped like happy little mushrooms. Yeah, and the guy's plane who drops the bomb is named after his mother, too!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Gilbert. I am being serious. Something could be dangerously wrong here." Roderich stated urgently.
"Fine, whatever. I'll let you know if I see the girl okay?"