"You're Roderich von Wolffe?"
"Yes, that is my name. What, were you expecting a blond?"
Roderich could tell Gilbert was expecting a strong Aryan man to go with a strong Aryan name like Roderich von Wolffe. Who was Gilbert to judge appearances? The colonel was no perfect German either. Roderich didn't know if he'd ever made a mental image of Gilbert Beilschmidt – it surely wasn't what the man before him looked like. He oddly reminded Roderich of a pet rabbit with his white hair and red eyes, the storm grey of his uniform clashing with his pale skin. And the scars that ran across his face only made it worse.
"And how the hell did you get up there with the Führer?" Gilbert asked. "You look like a Jew."
Roderich's heart stopped. He looked over at Elizabeta, who turned away from him with her nose in the air. Had she said something to Gilbert, a subtle hint at who Roderich truly was? She was the wild card, after all, the one person Francis couldn't control. No one but Francis had been in contact with her since the divorce – plenty of time for her to rip apart the seams of Roderich's story.
It's only an insult, Roderich reminded himself. If he knew everything, he wouldn't be talking to me. He would've had me arrested a long time ago. I can't let him get to me this easily.
"He found me because I actually have talent," Roderich continued, his voice shakier and slightly higher than normal. "And I'm sure the Führer would love to hear about how one of his colonels called me a Jew. Tell me, are you more of a cyanide or arsenic person? Or maybe a firing squad fits your tastes?"
Gilbert clenched his hands into fists; it was a wonder he hadn't already turned to violence. Deep down, Roderich knew he shouldn't be sassing a man who could have him shot and write it off as an accident. Gilbert was slightly taller, much stronger, and had plenty of excuses. Elizabeta would surely back up any "accidents" with her stories about Roderich, leaving the musician with nothing more than his fists to defend himself.
"Did you come here to piss us off or do you actually have something you need done?" Gilbert asked, arms folded over his medallion covered chest.
"You have a prisoner by the name of Alfred Jones. I need to speak with him."
"Impossible. He's in solitary confinement right now, and even if he wasn't, I wouldn't let your sorry ass anywhere near him."
"May I remind you whose orders I'm under? The Führer doesn't like it when insignificant people get in his way. Colonels like you are replaceable, you know," Roderich said with a smile.
"Would you back off, Roderich? He said you can't talk with Alfred, and that's final. Now go back to Vienna and don't show your face here ever again," Elizabeta snapped.
It hurt to hear her call him by name. The piece of Roderich that was still madly in love with Elizabeta stabbed at his heart, making him feel guilty and worthless. For months now he'd wanted to hear that voice just one more time – he didn't imagine it would be so harsh.
Actually, their first meeting since the divorce wasn't going anywhere near like he'd planned it in his head. In his fantasy world, Elizabeta would see him again and realize what a mistake she'd made. They'd go back to Vienna as the happy couple they were five years ago and forget about Colonel Beilschmidt, living the life that was meant to be.
He'd forgotten that Elizabeta hated him.
Roderich forced thoughts of asking for Elizabeta to come back from his mind, keeping the same stern tone he was using with Gilbert. "On a first name basis again, are we? Well then, Elizabeta, stay out of my business."
"How dare you call me by my first name." Elizabeta stepped forward, grabbing Roderich by his tie. She pulled him in close, close than he'd been with her in a long time. He could smell the perfume on her wrist, sweet, sharp, expensive. Something Roderich would've had to save for months to buy. "I am Frau Beilschmidt to you, you alcoholic bastard."
"It's sad, really," Roderich said. "No matter how much I drink I can't ever forget how much I despise you."
"Why don't you drink yourself dead?"
"You'd love to find out I died, wouldn't you? Well, Frau Beilschmidt, I'm happy to inform you I won't be dying anytime soon."
Elizabeta smiled, pulling him in closer. "You could," she whispered. "I know everything, remember? I'm keeping quiet for now, but if you keep this up, I may feel compelled to tell Gilbert a detail or two. Maybe a mention of your last name." Her voice was smooth and cold as she spoke, her smile devilish.
"You wouldn't," Roderich said, pulling away from the woman. He hated that she had this much power over him – she could make him do anything she wanted. "We had a promise."
"And I can break that promise right now. Leave."
Roderich knew not to argue. He would be bargaining everything if he didn't turn around immediately and go home. And for the most part, he wanted to leave. However, there was always the wild side of him, the side that screamed "do it" in every potentially dangerous situation. This was the side that led to bar fights, rejections, broken bones, and what he did next.
"I'm not going until you let me see Alfred Jones," he said, standing tall even though he was about to have a panic attack. "I need to speak with that man. You can say whatever you want about me; I need to see Jones."
"You're risking everything for one lazy pilot?"
"No, I'm not. I know you won't say anything. You have a heart, Frau Beilschmidt. You want to say something against me, you truly do. And you can't bring yourself to do it."
Roderich was riding everything on the hope that Elizabeta had a shred of compassion left. It was senseless, it was likely to get him arrested, and it could be the end. He thought he could hear it in the way she spoke – her words weren't the same as Gilbert's. They were softer, more compassionate. Like she had a part of her that wanted to protect Roderich. That or Elizabeta pulled Roderich right into a trap.
Elizabeta smiled again, twisting a stray strand of hair around her finger. "Gilbert, will you please let him see Alfred so I don't have to talk with him anymore?" she asked.
Roderich waited for her to add "oh, and Roderich's Jewish, his last name is actually Edelstein," but she didn't. Elizabeta was quiet. For once, she was staying true to her word.
"What do you even want with Alfred? He's not the smartest man around and I doubt he knows anything about music," Gilbert said, looking at Roderich and then Elizabeta. He too could see that there was something between them, a thin strand that hadn't snapped with the divorce. And he wasn't happy about it.
"That's none of your concern," Roderich answered. "Just let me talk to the man."
"Alright, let's go talk to Alfred!" Gilbert marched off towards a building surrounded by a fence, grumbling verdammts and scheisses.
Gilbert led Roderich past a pair of guards and into the building, muttering curses all the while. Down a flight of stairs, through another heavy door, and down a hall full of steel doors; every step was accompanied by a sentence laden with disgust towards Roderich. Gilbert stopped his profanities for a moment, pounding his fist on one of the doors. When there wasn't an immediate answer, he kicked the door a few times.
"Alfred F. Jones, get your ass up!" Gilbert shouted, kicking the door again.
"What do you want?" Alfred said. "I was having an important conversation with Toris."
Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Please, you're too dumb to hold an important conversation. You've got someone who wants to see you here. Don't you dare tackle me when I open the door."
"I have to practice for football, though. I might forget how to tackle. And besides, you make a great target."
"Practice with someone else. The electric fence would be a nice start."
"You have to take the fun out of everything," Alfred whined, sounding more like a teenager than a soldier. Roderich suspected Alfred wasn't a grey haired general.
"I do not," Gilbert said as he pulled a loop of what seemed to be a thousand keys from his pocket, shoving one into the lock.
"You know I hate to agree with Alfred, Herr Commandant," a different voice said. "However, you do ruin a lot of our fun."
"Laurinaitis, I…I don't have a good threat against you right now. I'll think of one," Gilbert muttered, pushing open the door. The young man sprawled out on the bed looked up, the dull blue of his RAF uniform matching his eyes.
"What's up, Eye…" His voice faded into the silence of solitary confinement as he realized the person with Gilbert wasn't whoever he thought it was. "You're not Artie." He studied Roderich for a moment, eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. "Is this one of your Nazi friends? Herr Commandant, what the hell are you bringing me Nazis for?"
"No, he's not a friend, and I don't know why he's here, to be honest. Listen, Herr von Wolffe, you got five minutes. And then you're out of here," Gilbert said, tapping his watch. "If you don't go when I tell you to go, you're a dead man."
"Let me talk to the boy."
Gilbert sighed, pulling the door shut. Roderich waited until the footsteps disappeared before he looked back at Alfred – he suddenly felt like he'd picked the wrong person to speak with. Alfred looked to be no older than fifteen, he was in the wrong uniform, and he wanted nothing to do with Roderich.
"What sort of Nazi propaganda do you have for us today, Herr von Wolffe?" Alfred asked. "Get ready, Toris, this is going to be good. He looks kind of like Himmler, too. Say, you wouldn't be Himmler's kid, would you?"
"His last name is von Wolffe, how could he be Himmler's son?" said the man in the other cell, Toris.
"He really does look like him, though. Only not so…Himmler-y."
"That isn't a real word."
"I'm not Himmler's son or a propaganda man," Roderich snapped. "I'm here to speak with you about music, and you are required to answer. First question – are you an American?"
"What sort of opening line is that? Hell yes I'm an American and proud," Alfred said. "I don't have a swastika on my arm and I don't got a stupid accent, what else could I be?"
"Don't have, Alfred. You don't have a stupid accent," Toris corrected. "And you do have a stupid accent, stop lying to yourself."
"My accent is adorable. All your Russian girls fall for cute Americans."
"If you're an American, why are you in RAF uniform?" Roderich asked, watching Alfred pull at a loose string on his jacket instead of make eye contact. From what Roderich knew of Americans, he certainly fit the stereotype.
"This is what I got captured in. You see, I was in LA when you Nazis went off and started a war. I wanted to be part of it. So I met up with this guy, Sweeny, and I go to Canada," Alfred explained in a painfully bored tone. "They send me to Paris to join the French Air Force. Paris was going to shit, wasn't no place for me. I make my way to London. The RAF says they can use spirited, foolish Americans like me. They give me a helluva nice Spitfire. Assigned me a squadron, gave me a uniform, all that. Set me up for success. First mission I go out on?" Alfred slammed his fist against the wall, talking in fast, angry English.
"What he's trying to say is that he was shot down and captured," Toris said. "And now he's here."
"Someday I'll come back for you Germans. I'll finally kill one of you," Alfred said, looking back at Roderich with fire in his sky blue eyes. "I promise. Who knows, I may even kill your daddy."
"For the last time, Himmler is not my father. Now, tell me everything you know about swing music," Roderich demanded.
"I'm sorry, tell you about what?" Alfred asked, his anger from earlier gone. "What does a Nazi want with swing music?"
"For the love of… answer the damn question, kid."
"You don't have to be rude." Alfred appeared to be slightly interested in what Roderich had to say now, going so far as to sit up straight. "What do you want to know about it?"
"Start with the technicalities."
"Um, so…swing's kind of like jazz, only not? It's a lot louder and faster. And you don't got any singers," Alfred said.
"Don't have! It's not that difficult to use proper grammar!" Toris sounded on the verge of a mental breakdown – how long had he been stuck with Alfred and his bad grammar? Roderich felt a twinge of guilt for the poor man.
"Whatever. And anyway, you have your main instruments – trumpet, clarinet, saxophones, trombones, drums, and sometimes a piano. There's usually a few soloists and stuff," Alfred added.
"What's the tempo like?" Roderich asked.
"You can have some fast songs, and you can also have slow, dance-y songs. I'm confused – isn't this kind of music illegal with you krauts?"
"I work for the Führer. He asked for swing music. Simple as that," Roderich said.
"You work for Hitler? You, Himmler's son, work for Hitler?" Alfred asked with a grin. "I want to ask my own questions, von Wolffe. How in the world did you end up with Hitler other than through your daddy?"
"Again, Himmler is not my father. I have talents that he found interesting."
Alfred crossed his arms, shaking his head in disbelief. "What sort of talents?"
"Absolute pitch, the ability to learn an instrument in a little less than three days, I've wrote entire symphonies in a week, those sorts of things."
"So you're like, a real composer? Like Mozart and those guys?" Alfred asked.
"If that's what you want to –"
"Your five minutes are up!" Gilbert announced, shoving the door open. He grabbed Roderich by the collar, dragging him away from Alfred.
"I wasn't done talking to him," Roderich said, taking Gilbert's hand from his collar. "And I don't appreciate being handled like an animal."
"Get out of here, Herr von Wolffe. Get the hell out of my camp and never come back. I don't care what you're doing for Hitler. You aren't welcome here," Gilbert growled in a venomous voice, his hand going to his pocket again.
There was nothing Roderich could say. Gilbert had been reasonably generous, considering the things Roderich said to him. And fighting would encourage Elizabeta to talk. Roderich looked back at Alfred, silently pleading for him to say something to buy more time.
Alfred smiled and stuck up his middle finger.
Of course the water was cold. What was Basch thinking? It was the middle of September, not June. He took a deep breath, following after Mathias. The Dane seemed to be fine with the frigid waters of the stream, humming a song to himself as he climbed over fallen trees and huge rocks. Basch vaguely remembered Mathias talking about swimming in the North Sea – he must've been conditioned to freezing water.
"What's taking you so long, Shorty?" Mathias called, glancing back at Basch. "You never been in a stream before?"
"Would you keep it down? Someone may be out here with us."
"Like who? Oh, no, there's a wild Gestapo man roaming through the woods, hope he doesn't hear us," Mathias said, chuckling at his own joke.
"Keep laughing. It'll be real damn funny when we get caught," Basch muttered.
Of all the things he did for the Underground, destruction missions were his least favourite. He loved watching things explode, but not setting up the explosives. There were ways to get out of every other sort of meet-up – he'd done it time and time again. Getting caught was part of the fun, as Basch turned out to be rather good at talking his way out of trouble. However, there was no way to explain carrying a bomb. If he got caught on one destruction mission, it was all over.
The dying sunset painted the forest in oranges and yellows, making strange shadows that didn't seem to belong to anything. Destructions were already bad enough, only now he was doing it at seven p.m. with the loudest human in Vienna. It was too light out, there wasn't any place to hide, several people lived nearby, and Mathias would not shut up.
They would've been wiring explosives under the cover of night, except Mathias had to work that night and Basch made the mistake of letting Roderich and Francis stay with Lilli. He didn't even want to think about what those three were doing – hopefully, there wouldn't be any injuries when he came home. Basch knew Francis was working on getting two families fake papers, and Roderich had been complaining about some music thing for the past few days, but that didn't mean they wouldn't try anything that guaranteed a trip to the hospital.
"This is the bridge, right?" Mathias asked as they came around bend in the stream, motioning to the rusty bridge. "It looks like I could tear it down by climbing on it." He took off his backpack, handing a homemade time bomb and a roll of tape to Basch.
"You're getting much better with explosives," Basch said, examining the bomb like it was art. The wires were coiled perfectly, the black tape holding the sticks of dynamite perfectly horizontal. "This looks pretty professional."
"That's the one Lukas made. This is mine." He pulled another bomb from the bag, his nowhere near as impressive as Lukas'. Mathias had taped a cracked alarm clock to the bundle – actually, black tape made up most of the bomb – and the detonator wires were a snarled mess. Thankfully, bombs didn't have to be pretty if they worked.
Mathias slung the bag back over his shoulder, grabbing onto one of the supports under the bridge. It groaned as he pulled himself up, putting Basch on edge again. Mathias shouted a few curses in his native language, slamming a fist against the supports. How had someone not heard them yet?
Basch went over to the opposite side, pulling himself up into the various beams holding up the bridge. Mathias was right – the bridge was already weak enough to break with much less force than the bombs carried.
Balancing against a post, Basch began the delicate task of setting up a time bomb. First, he excessively taped it to an important looking beam; they couldn't risk having a good bomb fall in the water. Explosives were expensive, and the section of the black market that would serve resistance movements made sure of that. After making sure the bomb wasn't going anywhere, Basch shoved the tape back in his pocket and prepared himself for the next step.
Setting the timer was nerve-wracking. He'd done it hundreds of times before, and each time was just as bad as the last. There was always the chance for a fatal error, if the mechanism somehow slipped and the bomb went off before he could get away. The chance was larger with a homemade bomb – even though Lukas was very precise about his work, his main concern wasn't Basch's safety.
With a slightly trembling hand, Basch twisted the knob on the alarm to 11:32 – the exact time a convoy was to pass over the bridge, or at least according to Francis' calculations. Hopefully, everything would run smoothly and there wouldn't be some uncalled for delay. Francis gave the convoy a five-minute margin; after that, there would only be a missing bridge.
"Shorty, are you done yet?" Mathias asked, walking along the supports over to Basch.
"Yes, I'm almost done," Basch said. "And don't think I'll drag your body home if you fall." He took his hand away from the bomb, waiting for the explosion. For a minute, there was silence. Even Mathias stopped talking, watching the clump of dynamite. Another minute passed. Then another. The rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the alarm clock counted down the seconds to 11:32, working exactly as they'd hoped.
Basch survived another Lukas-made time bomb.
"Alright, we didn't die today!" Mathias cheered, swinging down from the support and landing in the stream. Basch jumped down from his perch, following after the Dane.
By the time they got back to the road, night had already swallowed everything up. There were no lights along the back road, no way to see what was in front of them. Basch kept a hand in his pocket, running his fingers over the barrel of his P38. Some people wrung their hands when they got nervous – Basch found a gun to hold.
"We ought to save some money and buy a car," Mathias said. "I know a guy who wants to desert. He has a real nice Kübelwagen we could buy."
"You can't drive a Kübelwagen in Vienna."
"Why not?" Mathias picked up a chunk of gravel, throwing it at the sign pointing to Vienna. It bounced off with a pleasing ding, disappearing into the shadows.
"Are you joking? Those cars are for military people, not losers like you," Basch said.
"I could get myself a uniform. I'd make a handsome soldier. General Andersen," he said in a deep voice. "I like that. And you could be my secretary, Private Zwingli."
Basch gave Mathias a shove with his free hand. "A private? I should be the general. And are you seriously considering the Kübelwagen?"
"Come on, Shorty, it's a great idea," Mathias said, putting an arm around Basch's shoulder. "Think about it; you, me, Lukas, a few beers, and a Kübelwagen! What could possibly go wrong?"
"Everything."
The seemingly endless road back to Vienna was less endless with Mathias. Usually, Basch walked home at three in the morning all by himself, cradling a gun and praying he wouldn't run into anyone. Mathias gave him a bit of excitement and humour, a little adventure. Even though Basch denied it, he rather appreciated the Dane's company.
Soon they were on the fringe of the city, Mathias walking along the edge of the curb, telling an animated story about his adventures with the black market. He was mocking voices and laughing and nearly lost his balance several times. Basch half listened, half watched as Mathias explained one of his first meet-ups. His smile was brighter under the lamplight, hands moving in over exaggerated gestures. And then his smile faded as the story came to a close, blue eyes looking over at Basch.
"What's going on with you, Basch? I've talked this whole time, and you haven't said anything. Is something bothering you?" he asked with the most sincerity Basch had ever heard out of his mouth.
"What makes you think that? I'm fine."
Mathias stepped away from the curb, coming back to Basch's side. He looked over the man for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. "It's the box again, isn't it?"
"Aw, hell, that thing's always bothering me," Basch said. "Can't bring myself to get rid of it, though."
"You should. I…I could take it from you. Burn it. Drop it in the river," Mathias said, putting a supportive hand on Basch's shoulder. "No one deserves to hold onto something like that for so long."
"I've got to. When you make promises, you don't break 'em. And, ja, I know what happened, but I have a tiny shred of faith he made it out alright. I think the kid's still out there, because Francis said he wasn't reported in the capture papers. Maybe he'll find his way back to me."
Mathias looked down at the cracked pavement, his fingers burrowing into Basch's shoulder. He remembered. "Basch, he's…" He paused, glancing back up at Basch. "You're a good man. If you ever want the box off your hands, I'll take it. I promise I'll keep it safe for him."
"Feliks. His name was Feliks."
"I'll keep it safe for Feliks." Mathias ruffled Basch's hair like a loving father, his smile no longer cheery.
Basch kept repeating the boy's name in his head as he said his goodbyes to Mathias. The name dug deeper into his heart as he walked down the empty street to his home. He could see the shy boy on his doorstep, clutching a small bundle in his coat, hidden behind his mother. How old would Feliks be now? Surely in his twenties, a strong, blond, bubbly Pole. Too happy for his life, too caught up on a friend, too hopeful.
Now that bundle in Feliks' coat rested beneath the porch, a ghost from a past Basch didn't want to remember. He never opened the box Feliks trusted him with, figuring it was some long kept secret. A secret he handed over to Basch.
He could see the report now, its bold words forever ingrained into his memory.
Captured – Łukasiewicz, Fryderyk; Łukasiewicz, Cecylia. Hung for trying to escape. No further remarks.
Missing – Łukasiewicz, Feliks. Not armed. Wounded. Expected to be dead within a week. No further remarks.
Basch suddenly found himself in front of his house, the memories of the capture report disappearing like smoke into the air. The lights were still on, figures flitting back and forth over the curtains. What were they doing up so late? It was almost eleven, half an hour away from the "collapse" of a key bridge. He would've expected the lights to be out, not a soul in sight.
Did he even want to know what was going on inside?
He walked up to the front door, putting a hand on the knob. From inside, he could hear Roderich's muffled complaints, Francis' laughter, and…music? Basch sighed, pushing open the door.
The first thing he noticed was that his house now smelled of cigarettes, courtesy of Francis and Roderich. Smoke hung heavy over the kitchen table, which was completely covered in papers. The papers were full of sheet music, scratched out and ripped up. Roderich was slumped over the table, cigarette in hand, muttering curses. Francis wasn't doing much of anything, and Lilli was sorting through the illegal vinyl records. An English voice sang the background music for the disastrous scene, adding to the strangeness of it all.
"It doesn't make any sense," Roderich said, speaking for Basch.
"I'm sure it will soon, Herr von Wolffe." Lilli took a record from the pile, making another stack. "We have to keep trying. Oh, hello, Basch."
"Hello. What are you doing?" Basch asked, looking to Francis for an answer. He looked to be the only one in his right mind.
"We're helping Roderich write music. He sort of forgot he had to turn in work by Tuesday," Francis explained with a wave of his cigarette. "So far, we have nothing. I think it's going great."
"You have one day left to write a whole damn piece?"
"Unfortunately. I had two weeks to work on it, and that fell apart when you kidnapped me." Roderich scribbled another measure on the page he was working on, drawing little notes along the lines. "I figure I'll end up picking up the scraps and forcing them together into a piece."
"He'll be fine," Francis said. "And if he doesn't get it done, he'll be dead. Either way ends horribly."
"Thanks, Francis, that really lightens up the situation," Roderich groaned, pushing another paper away from him. He looked at the chaos for a long time, void of any expression. "I'm going home," he said in a pale voice, sounding almost unsure of his words. "If you don't see me tomorrow, sorry. I just…need some time to think about things."
"Please tell me you aren't going to do what I think you are," Francis said.
"No, I'm a responsible adult. I'll be fine. If you do happen to find me later on tonight, would you be a dear and take me home?"
The scarf was supposed to be white. Hints of the original colour were scattered about the scarf in splotches, like snowflakes on a field of pink wool. No matter how many times the scarf was thrown in the Volga or wrung out by rough hands, the pink wouldn't fade. As time wore on, the spots of white were disappearing faster and faster, replaced by pink. Eventually, the whole scarf would become the soft, powdery pink everyone associated with innocence and childhood, but never blood.
Ivan ran his thumb over the cursed pink, trying to remember what he was like when the scarf was still white. Childish and wishful and lost in a perfect world. As the scarf changed colours, Ivan changed. He was scared, alone, hopeless, and bleeding. Every day he bled and bled and bled. The scarf soaked up the red, which turned to pink when Ivan tried to wash it out. Years' worth of blood was held deep in the wool, reminding Ivan that he couldn't go back to the pure white of childhood.
He held the scarf over his broken nose, searching for the scent of home. Occasionally he could find it amongst the smoke and vodka and bad memories – a warm, tender sort of smell that didn't belong to anything. It made him wonder what his real house was like before sickness and death. Before anger crept in, before Ivan was thrown to the streets, before life went to hell.
Gently, Ivan took the scarf from his neck and placed it in a messy pile next to him. His fingers went to the scars on his neck, running over each one. He knew each by name, perfectly recalling when he got them.
One for lying, Ivan said to himself, tracing a scar that ran down his collarbone.
One for stealing.
One for breaking.
One for crying.
One for nothing.
One for being Ivan Braginsky.
Exactly six. In Russia, even numbers were considered unlucky. Sometimes, Ivan wondered if the six scars controlled him more than he thought. Perhaps if he added his own and made seven, his luck would change. Several times he'd almost put a knife to his neck and done it, made seven scars. And then he realized how foolish of an idea that was. What if his hand slipped and he ended up slitting his throat? Scars didn't control anything, even if they were unlucky.
Six unlucky scars, made with anger. Some nights, he could feel the hot pipe against his neck; burning, ruining, marking. Full of hate and pain. Breaking Ivan. Destroying a lonely young boy and making him into a cold man. Taking away his feelings and leaving Ivan scarred and hollow.
He wanted someone to fill that empty space. For years, he'd wandered eastern Europe looking for that person, cheating a few people and changing identities several times along the way. Ivan never found someone he felt he could trust with everything, someone who could take all the bad and turn it into good and fill the hollowness.
Until he met Toris.
Toris was the first person in years to know Ivan's real name. He was the first person to see who the real Ivan was, the shy man hiding behind different names and a pink scarf. He was the first person to talk to Ivan, to make him smile, to fill the void. It was supposed to last forever.
And now he couldn't bear to speak to Toris. He couldn't bring himself to say the man's name. Ivan wanted to talk to him so badly, to explain his feelings and maybe cry. He couldn't. The Gestapo men were right – Toris couldn't stand him. He'd played along with Ivan for six unlucky years, pretending to care for him. Maybe there was something in the first years, a real hint of friendship. But after that, it was Ivan ruining an innocent boy. Staining Toris' white scarf pink.
Tears stung at Ivan's eyes, old friends by now. He gave a shaky sigh, letting the tears fall down his bruised face. Crying himself to sleep was just as normal for Ivan as talking. In a way, it was almost comforting to know he had a real emotion left.
"Excuse me for asking, sir," Toris' gentle voice called out. "Why are you crying?"
Ivan clenched his good hand tight around the end of his scarf. He couldn't answer Toris, not when all he could think of was how he destroyed the man. Toris was still playing along with the game – why hadn't he given up already?
"It's fine if you don't want to answer. I understand. I can imagine everything's been a bit hard on you," Toris continued.
It has, Ivan wanted to say. More than you'll ever know. So, so much more.
"I know it's not much, but I truly am sorry for everything you were put through. I…I didn't think it was this bad, though. I thought you would've said something to me by now. You haven't said a word, and it's starting to scare me."
I can't bring myself to face you.
"Don't let whatever happened get to you. I know it was about us, because the commandant talked to me about it," Toris said. "He was a little surprised, to say the least. I don't know how anyone would ever think we're secret lovers or something. I'm too scared to do anything like that, and you, I don't think you're honestly in love with me like everyone else thinks."
At least one of us is smart enough to figure that out. I can't ever see myself loving you. You're too good for anyone to love.
"I could be wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things. Like Feliks. I keep making those figures for him and writing letters, and what if I come back and he's not even there? He's blond, sure, but he's a Pole. Blond hair doesn't protect you from everything. He's done a lot of bad in his life, more than you would think. He's a rebellious person, sir. He's probably with some partisan group. He's probably dead. And here I am, writing letters to a man who could very well be dead and telling myself he's fine."
I wish I could tell you he isn't dead. I don't know, though. You could be right.
"Maybe he'll be there when I come home," Toris said all too wishfully. "You should meet Feliks, sir. You'd love him. Oh, God, sorry, not in the sexual sense. I wasn't even thinking. You would like him. He's a nice person, one of those easy to talk to people. Kind of on the dumb side – other than that, he's wonderful."
He sounds perfect for you.
"I don't even know if you're awake anymore and I keep talking. I'm so hopeless. Ivan, if you can hear me, I don't have much against you. I honestly don't. You have your flaws, and so does Feliks. And I couldn't live without the both of you. So keep that in mind. Or don't, you know, if you're asleep and I'm just talking out loud. So, um, good night."
"Do you mean it?" Ivan asked so suddenly he couldn't stop himself. "You don't hate me?"
"Oh, my God, you were awake?" Toris said, his voice much more unsteady than it was moments ago.
"You really don't hate me?"
"Everything I said was honest. I don't hate you," Toris replied. "I may get mad with you, but who doesn't get mad at you – I mean, who doesn't get mad at people? I w-w-wasn't trying to say th-th-that everyone gets mad at you, e-e-even though a lot of people do. Oh, that's n-n-not what I meant at all."
"I understand. Still, aren't you mad at me?" Ivan said. How could anyone forgive that?
"N-n-no! You haven't d-d-done anything wrong!"
"Toris, I sent your parents to the gulags."
Toris fell silent for a moment. Ivan cursed himself, knowing he'd brought up the wrong thing. If Toris didn't want him dead before, he wanted him dead now.
"Maybe i-i-it was meant to be. Th-th-the way I see it, everything happens f-f-for a reason. Who knows, my…m-m-my parents could've b-b-been involved in s-s-something else a-a-and you did save me. I'd heard them t-t-talking before about wars and things," Toris choked, sounding on the verge of tears. "Are y-y-you trying to make me mad at you?"
"You should hate me. You should," Ivan said. "I ruined everything for you! I basically murdered your parents! I held you against your will! I forced you into the military! For God's sake, I make you sleep with me! You should have tried to kill me already!"
"I s-s-should've. I can't do it, th-th-though. Th-th-there might be some g-g-good to come out of this."
"What good can you find in some gay, sex crazed demon?"
"I don't know," Toris said in a much calmer voice. "What I do know is that you aren't a gay, sex crazed demon, sir. You're kind and responsible and hilarious and occasionally irritating; who isn't? If you were the person the Gestapo made you out to be, you wouldn't have bothered with my family. You would've taken me away from my home. You would've kept me locked up somewhere, tied to a bed. Would've made me nothing more than a toy. Forced me into a lot more than just the army. Then I would have reason to hate you. And sure, we had a bit of a rough time –"
"This whole thing has been a 'rough time,'" Ivan interrupted.
"So what? We're both fine right now, and that's what matters. No one is dead, no one is dying, and we still have each other."
"Is this going to become an everyday thing? If so, I might as well make him his own room."
"I'm sorry, I honestly did try to take him home. But he has that Gestapo man living next to him. Something's not right about that one. And my house is no place for a drunk man."
"And mine is?"
"That's not what I was saying."
Lilli tied a red ribbon on the end of her braid, listening to Basch and Francis talk over each other. They always got into fights in the morning over just about anything. She could judge how secret an argument was by what language was being spoken – German was for petty fights, French was serious, and Italian meant no one except them should hear it. Very rarely did arguments reach Italian levels of importance. This one was in German, although it had switched to French a few times.
"Shut up for a second," she heard Basch say, although his tone was much more joking now. "Hey, Lilli, are you ready yet?" he called. "I need you to do me a favour before you go to school."
What is he talking about? Lilli thought as she got up. He never wants me to do anything. Did I do something wrong?
She took a final look in the broken mirror, wishing Basch hadn't gotten so angry and punched the glass. It was hard to make herself presentable looking into a spider web.
"Don't forget you have a Hell Child meeting today," Francis added. "Because God forbid you miss one of those."
"Since when do you care about Lilli's life?" Basch growled.
"I happened to look at the calendar and though she might need reminding. September 22nd, 1941. HC Meeting. "
"Don't worry, I remembered!" Lilli assured them, smoothing out the navy skirt of her Hell Child – otherwise known as Bund Deutscher Mädel – uniform.
Lilli wasn't allowed to voice her opinion about the uniform – no one was – but she absolutely detested it. The Bund Deutscher Mädel had very different ideas than Lilli, including their tastes in fashion. If she had a choice, she wouldn't be wearing their sailor-esque uniform to school. The Nazis must've realized girls like Lilli existed early on, as it was now required for every girl to be in the BDM, save for the few Untermensch.
Who are they to tell me what to do? I'm my own person. Say I don't want to grow up to have a bunch of German children like I'm supposed to? Can they make me get married?
Yes. They can make anyone do anything.
"Lilli? Are you coming?" Basch called again.
"Oh, sorry!" Lilli made a final check before turning away from the mirror. She didn't want to go back to school. She wanted to stay with Basch and help him with the plans for moving another family to Switzerland, not be told all the things she should be doing as a good German.
"Guten Morgen," Basch said, giving Lilli a tired smile. "Are you ready to go back to school?"
"I don't want to go."
"I know. If it were up to me, I'd keep you far away from that propaganda bullshit. All that would do would be give the Gestapo one more reason to arrest me."
"Don't you have a friend you miss?" Francis asked.
Lilli thought for a moment, trying to come up with at least one person she wanted to talk to. "No. I hate everyone."
"Mon Dieu, she sounds like you, Basch," Francis said with a hint of laughter. His French accent was much thicker than usual, slurring his words together. "What have you been teaching this girl?"
"The right things, obviously. So, Lilli, I've got a challenge for you. I have a package that needs to be taken to Mathias. I want you to take Roderich with you." Basch was surprisingly calm as he spoke. "Of course, this means you have to wake Roderich up."
It took Lilli a second to register everything Basch said. He wanted Lilli to actually do something dangerous? What happened to protecting her at all costs? Not that Lilli was complaining – she loved that Basch cared so much about her – however, he never let her deliver plans.
"Are you serious?" was the one thing Lilli could ask.
"Absolutely. You're fourteen, old enough to make your own decisions. I can't keep you safe forever. And besides, the plans are coded in both English code and Italian. The Gestapo can't crack that," Basch added, his voice giving away how afraid he really was. "Just be careful. Don't go looking for trouble."
Lilli didn't know how to respond. Basch was finally trusting her – what was there to say? She went over to her big brother, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thank you, thank you so much."
"Don't get too excited. It's only a test run for you two. If you do good, I might consider letting you run some more stuff for me," he said with a grin. "You better hurry up if you want to get to school on time. Roderich isn't going to be easy to wake up."
"What do you mean by waking him up? Do you want me to go to his house?"
"He's here, in the living room," Francis said before Basch could. "I brought him to your house last night. Be gentle when you wake him up, alright?"
"What's wrong with him?" Lilli asked.
"He's hungover and probably not in a cooperative mood," Basch muttered. "Serves him right."
"Basch, please –" Francis started.
"Francis, please. I am not doing this every damn time he decides to go drink himself senseless. He's got to learn."
"Learn what? You can't make an alcoholic stop drinking like that," Francis said, snapping his fingers to emphasize "that".
Basch put a hand in his jacket, pulling out a pistol and examining it. "I have my ways."
"We are not going to hold him at gunpoint," Francis snapped. "We can work this out in a better way than violence."
"Travailler sur vos divorces sans violence n'a pas si bien passé, il a? Que faites-vous maintenant, sept?" Basch asked, tucking the gun back in his pocket.
"Il est seulement six, salaud."
The two slipped into fast French, leaving Lilli clueless. She knew it had to do with Francis' divorces, but she couldn't understand much more. Lilli left the two to fight it out, going into the living room that served as Basch's office. Instead of the typical furnishings, the room held a desk, file cabinets, and plenty of gun parts in boxes along the walls. And just as Francis said, Roderich was asleep on the couch with an old blanket draped over him.
"Herr von Wolffe, you need to get up now," Lilli said in a soft voice, giving Roderich a few encouraging nudges. "You have to help me with some underground things and take me to school."
Roderich turned away from Lilli, pulling the blanket closer. This was going to be tougher than she thought.
"Please get up. My brother isn't very happy with you this morning. He's already said he was going to hold you at gunpoint," she said.
"Let him," Roderich mumbled. "I feel dead anyway."
"Don't make me take the blanket from you."
"What, are you my parent now? I'm the adult here."
"You're not acting like it," Lilli said, crossing her arms. "Be an adult and get up."
Roderich looked back at Lilli with bloodshot indigo eyes. "You know what? I'm not acting like an adult. I don't care because I'm hungover and wish I was dead. If I want to act like I'm seven, who cares?"
"Herr von Wolffe…"
"You don't understand how bad this feels. You're what, thirteen? Walk to school by yourself. Gute Nacht, Lilli."
Lilli sighed – she had hoped she wouldn't have to turn to her last resort. She went over to the window, grabbing the edge of the curtain. "Herr von Wolffe, you have three seconds to get up before I open the windows."
"Don't you dare," Roderich snarled, pulling the blanket over his head.
"One."
"I swear to God, Lilli –"
"Two."
"I'll kill you –"
"Two and a half." Lilli pulled back the curtains enough that a sliver of light poured through the dirty glass.
"Fine! I'm up!" Roderich sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. "Don't open the curtains, please."
"Thank you."
"You're a twisted girl. I thought you were a good one," Roderich growled, grabbing his glasses from the end table. "Is that what the Nazis are teaching you in school, to torture innocent musicians?"
"I'm simply using my resources," Lilli said, going out into the kitchen. "Come on, we have work to do."
"I see you're feeling well," Basch said as Roderich stumbled into the kitchen and sank into one of the chairs.
"Thanks for kidnapping me again," Roderich muttered, putting his head down on the table. "I needed that in my life. Why don't you actually take me back to my own damn house?"
"Gestapo," Francis answered. He wasn't as lighthearted as he was earlier – Basch must've won the divorce argument.
"Why don't you let them arrest me?"
"You may have some use left in you," Basch said. "After you get over this alcohol problem."
"It's not a problem," Roderich said, looking up at Basch.
"On average, you're drunk three nights out of the week. That's not a problem?" Francis asked. "What is a problem to you?"
"What I'm doing isn't…It's different…" Roderich faltered, knowing there wasn't any way to answer this. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Francis, I'm hungover! I can't think of an answer, but I don't have a problem!"
"The first step is always denial," Basch reminded him.
"So maybe it's a slight problem. Not a serious one like you two are insinuating."
Basch shook his head, grabbing a box from under the table. "This," he said, putting it in front of Roderich, "is your first ever delivery."
"Joy," Roderich snapped, pushing the box away from him.
"It also happens to be Lilli's first delivery. Don't screw it up. All I want you to do is take it to Mathias. Don't go looking for the Gestapo, don't open the box, don't do anything stupid. If the Gestapo does stop you, deny everything. You seem to be rather good at that."
"It's not a problem."
A/N: Lots of history notes this time around, so I'm not going to waste any time.
Alfred's story: When WWII started up, many Americans were eager to join the war. However, America wasn't too fond of the idea of jumping into foreign affairs again. The Neutrality Act of 1935 was supposed to keep Americans from going to Canada and signing up for "illegal" warfare. In comes Colonel Charles Sweeny, America's mercenary. When the Nazis invaded Poland, Sweeny started organizing a group of American pilots willing to fight. He set up a secret network to get pilots to France before he left for Europe himself. The rest follows along with Alfred's story. A few of the Americans were actually in the Battle of Britain as illegal pilots. If you want more on this, the book The Few by Alex Kershaw is wonderful.
Walther P38: A 9 mm semi-automatic pistol used by the Wehrmacht. It was made to replace the expensive Luger P08. I don't know if any of you guys shoot guns; these little pistols are fun.
Kübelwagen: Basically Nazi Germany's version of the Jeep. Designed by Ferdinand Porsche and built by Volkswagen. Used pretty much everywhere thanks to its air cooled engine.
Bund Deutscher Mädel: The female equivalent of the Hitler Youth (Hitlerjugend). Founded in 1930, this organization prepared girls to be the perfect wife and mother. Every eligible girl was required to be in the BDM as of 1933. Most of their training was the typical Home Economics things; sewing, cooking, etc. but on Saturdays they did do the physical training associated with the Hitler Youth. The importance of self-sacrifice was heavily emphasized – die for Germany, do it for Germany, that sort of thing. Many girls were actually put into the Wehrmachtshelferin, where they helped to defend their cities as Flak Helpers, signal auxiliaries, searchlight operators, and office staff. They were also sent to Poland as part of the Germanisation, to help move out Poles and put more Germans in.
Translations:
Travailler sur vos divorces sans violence n'a pas si bien passé, il a? Que faites-vous maintenant, sept? - Working out your divorces without violence hasn't gone so well, has it? What are you on now, seven?
Il est seulement six, salaud. - It's only six, you bastard.
Thank you to idrinkwaterjuicesoda, GoneInASecond, EllaAwkward, and Comix and Co! You guys are wonderful!
And could you wonderful beings do me a huge favour? I feel like I'm writing too much in each chapter and often worry about it. 8,000 words every single chapter is a lot. I have a poll on my profile, if you could do that, that'd be great. Sometimes I feel like people don't want to read this story because of all the words and how long it takes to read.
See you all next chapter!