Ludwig and Gilbert stood outside Feliks' shop, looking inside the window. The two had just left and the door had been locked, but Gilbert came with his unofficial Fūhrer's lock breaker—a wedge and a hammer.
"Alright." The wooden block was jammed in between the door and the frame and hit with the end of the mallet.
The lock popped.
And the two went in, bearing flash lights and gloves, ready to tear the entire place in two. Either was well determined to find something. Anything at all, even something small.
"I'll take the basement, and you can have the office." Ludwig spoke quietly, with an edge of apprehension. The blond man was always careful, perhaps sometimes a little too careful. But it came in handy.
"Right. Don't go falling down the stairs."
Either took their separate paths, Ludwig going into the dungeon and clicking on the light. What he saw was what he expected to see. Fabric lining the shelves in bulk and Feliks' sewing machine poised in the center of the floor.
It seemed upset, that someone had broken into its chamber. That someone had come in and invaded its personal space. This was an offense, and Ludwig could feel it.
This was Feliks' space, as well as the machine's, down to the very floorboards. Which creaked and squealed at every step the man took.
Perhaps he shoved some Jews beneath them.
There was a possibility.
Ludwig continued his inspection.
And on the upper level, Gilbert went through all of those drawers. Paper scattered like snow falling from the sky. It landed everywhere, all over the floor. Receipts from past business endeavors. Designs of numerous gowns. Notes for reference. Years and years and years of paper scattered everywhere in the haphazard chaos.
And Gilbert didn't find anything.
The platinum haired man sighed and contemplated leaving while his foot slipped against a loose floorboard. Gilbert's boot had knocked something out of place.
So he leaned down and brushed away the stray papers, finding something of a secret compartment beneath that shiny plank of wood.
Inside it, there was a singular book, a beautiful book. Well cared for and cozy indie its crevice. And it was kidnapped from its home, ripped up from the ground like a turnip and devoured by a set of hungry eyes. Full of lust and curiosity and crimson for whatever the innards of this volume contained.
The book's spine cracked. The front cover opened.
Gilbert was met with an abundance of familiar looking names; certain he had seen at least a few of these beforehand. A bit of salvation gathered upon his tongue.
He knew it. He fucking knew it.
So the Nazi went down stairs to alert his partner, because this was all they needed.