-Elizabeta Héderváry-
The door was thrown open, the Soviet soldier staring at Gilbert and Borys through the open door with a childish smile as he held the pistol to Ludwig's temple. The purplish afternoon light spilled into the car. The Russian slid a hand into Ludwig's side and pulled his astra off, flipping the finely-crafted firearm onto the road with a flick of his thick wrist. It spun and clattered on the hard asphalt until it disappeared under the car and into the grass.
"We not be needing this anymore."
The blonde didn't move his body a centimeter, but through slitted eyes his acid-blue pupils scalded the Russian. He lifted his chin, but made no further move to struggle free.
"You hear me, yes? Both Nazis come out of car now, hands up. Put guns on road."
Both Nazis. He must have meant Gilbert and Borys, who was dressed as one. The Soviet must not have seen her or Feliks, the windows were too tinted. She sank low into the seat. Escaping from Auschwitz was too easy, deep down in her heart she felt there would be some kind of further complication: she never would have expected it from an allied soldier. She had also sensed that something wasn't quite right between the two brothers after they had returned from the farm, but it certainly wasn't the most important thing now. Gilbert eyed her from the front and whispered something disyllabic urgently to her, but she couldn't quite figure out what it was. A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him out too.
"Out! Now!"
The soviet was becoming impatient, drumming his fingers on the handle of the pistol he held to Ludwig's head. Borys stumbled out as well.
"Please, sir, this isn't what it looks like. I'm not actu-!" Borys pleaded.
"Be quiet. Or else I decide make you quiet permanently. Put your guns on ground."
"I don't have-" Borys was cut off as the Russian kicked him ruthlessly to the to the hard asphalt. He did not get up.
"I do not like Germans. I do not like liars even more. Do not test patience. Now, red eyes. Put your gun on the ground and take any out of car."
Gilbert looked him in the eye and lightly dropped his pistol on the ground. "There are no guns in the car." He said it assertively, defiantly, with his chin raised. He did not beg for a moment to speak like Borys had.
The Soviet eyed him suspiciously. "Between three Nazi SS, only two pistols? Ha. I would expect at least three pistols and three rifles. Get out papers."
"Papers?" Gilbert questioned.
"Registration. Identification. Whatever." The Soviet ordered. "Serial numbers."
"Why?"
"I want to know who I be killing. Make sure is no one important I use to trade. I not risk any surrender from dishonest soldiers. Especially such poor liars." The Soviet stated, rather evenly.
Feliks prodded her desperately from the backseat, his eyes wide with panic. "Lizzie! He's gonna shoot them! We have to do something!" he whispered.
"Shhhh, he doesn't know we're back here! I'm thinking!"
Elizabeta's mind whirled desperately as to what she could do. Borys was down, not that he'd be any help anyway. Ludwig –likely the strongest of them- was held at gunpoint. Gilbert was outside and would be useful for hand to hand combat, but had sacrificed his only arms to save them all from an immediate death. She and Feliks were unarmed too. Wait… no. That wasn't entirely true.
She gulped. A memory surfaced.
"I'm glad you like, think that, Lizzie. But I'm not really a fighter like the rest of you."
"What are you talking about? I'm not a fighter; Gilbert and Ludwig are the real soldiers between us four."
"Yeah, but you'd like, kill someone, if you had to… right?"'
Feliks had proven his bravery that night he had left the camp, even though he claimed he didn't want to fight. For whatever reason, the boy had lied. Now, it was her turn. She recognized the word that Gilbert whispered to her before the Red Army soldier had dragged him out. Dagger! Having forgotten about it, she quickly pulled it out of her pocket. She ran her finger along the blade. Inscribed along the steel in a gothic script were the words 'Blut und Ehre.' Yes… there would be blood. But honor? She wasn't so sure.
"I know what we have to do to save them, Feliks." she murmured. She revealed the dagger. He stared at it horrifiedly.
"Are you sure?"
"Do you know of any other way? He hasn't been listening to what they've been saying, and he certainly wouldn't trust them if they told him the truth. I'll jump out when he's distracted and…" She couldn't quite bring herself to finish. She looked back out the tinted window to what was going on outside.
"You have shovel, yes?" She heard the allied soldier's smooth voice.
"We don't even have enough guns. Why would we have a spade?" Gilbert sneered.
"Ah, is okay! I have one can share. Come with me, we three go into woods now."
Gilbert stood rooted. As if by some silent communication, Ludwig didn't move either. Elizabeta didn't know how he could be so brave with the gun pressed against his head. "We are not going anywhere," the blond ground out, turning his head to look his captor viciously in his violet eyes.
"Is quite…. What is German word? Ah, ironisch, yes? Is me leading SS into pits in the woods. I heard rumor that my home village was killed by Germans. Lead into woods, lined up on trench, and shot. Now I do same to Germans. Is good closure, yes? Ha-ha."
A shiver ran down Elizabeta's spine. Things were going south far faster than she could have anticipated. If only the Russian would face the other way she could jump out behind him. How would she do it? Did she aim high, below his chin and slide it across? Or lower, close to his collarbone? Just jab it in his kidney and run? Scary as the massive Russo was, he was made of flesh and blood just as she was. He was not invincible. She could see it: a red smile carved on the front of his scarved throat before he fell to the crimson ground. Gilbert would grab her softly and help her turn her head away, murmuring sweet comforts. It was not for racial or even political reasons of which she would kill, but merely because this soldier was a threat. He would kill the person who she loved. But the Soviet was still partially facing her window- she knew if she moved now he'd see her and shoot her instead as soon as he realized her intentions.
"We're not lambs to your slaughter. If you're going to kill us: you'll kill us right here, right now. Not die like a civilian." Gilbert all but howled, taking a step forward. His red eyes burned.
"Fine. Rot out here on road. Feast for the birds. Or maybe snows will come and they find you in spring."
Going south fast. She gripped the knife. She'd just have to hope she could get to him before he could shoot.
"I'm afraid that won't be necessary." It was Ludwig who spoke; picking that exact moment to break away. Surprised by the sudden movement from his previously compliant captive the Russian was thrown backwards. His hand slipped from its position binding the blonde's wrists together. A shot fired and missed. Like a well oiled machine Gilbert then lunged forward, knocking the Russian's pistol from his hand. He kicked it away and slung a knee into the Soviet's abdomen. Ludwig picked up where his brother left off by launching a black-gloved fist into the Russian's head. The Soviet was pushed onto the ground, but he had recovered with admirable swiftness from his shock and pulled Ludwig down to the pavement with him. Soon enough, the men were wrestling and rolling on the ground like dogs. The Russian seemed to have the upper hand over Ludwig's speed and technique with sheer brute size, but by the time Gilbert had thrown himself into the fray the playing field was re-leveled.
They just needed one more factor the tip the fight to their advantage.
"I'm going. Stay here."
"No Lizzie! Wait for me!"
She shoved the door open, hiding the dagger in her long loose striped jacket sleeve. She felt Feliks stumble out behind her, but it was probably more a fear of being left out if something had happened to his friend rather than an actual desire to fight. She alighted on the grass and sprinted up to the road, Feliks hard on her heels.
It was like one of those blurs in one of those western cartoons. Dust was kicked up and three pairs of fists were flying every-which way as the axis and allied soldiers tried to gain the upper hand over each other. Ludwig slammed a vicious kick into the Soviet's ribcage. It was Gilbert who noticed her first, pausing in mid-punch.
"Eliz-?"
At that moment, the Soviet slung a fist into Gilbert's cheek, before stopping himself to see what had paused his foe. Ludwig stopped too. She was about to slide the knife out from her sleeve when the Soviet stared at her head-to-toe in awe.
"You. You are Jew?"
She stopped and re-hid the knife. Certainly he didn't recognize…
"I'm a Political from Hungary, caught spreading anti-Nazi propaganda."
He jabbed a finger at Feliks, who stood at her right. "And him?"
"Polish in the wrong place at the wrong time," Feliks answered.
Slowly, the Russian stood up. He eyed the two Germans warily, in unspoken armistice, who were sitting on the black pavement. Then back to the two ex-prisoners.
"You were at concentration camp." It was a statement, rather than a question.
"Uh, yes." Elizabeta answered, hesitantly. "How did you know?"
"My regiment… we liberated very many when we entered Poland. I recognize the uniforms. You very thin and pale like them, too. Which are you from?"
"Auschwitz." the four said.
He bit his lip. "Ah... I have not heard of that one."
"Because the Red Army hasn't found it yet." Ludwig answered coldly, "But you could, in a month or so."
The Soviet turned back to Ludwig and Gilbert, his gaze hostile. "I demand to know what is going on. Now. Before I decide go back and use my bazooka, now that I am free. Lying would not be wise."
There was a quiet as the four decided who was to speak first. Eventually, Gilbert stepped forward.
"My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt. My brother Ludwig and I are –uh, were- SS guards at the camp."
"My name is Elizabeta," the Hungarian clarified.
"And I'm Feliks!"
"And that idiot lying on the road over there is Borys. He's not actually an SS, just a Jew prisoner, but we dressed him up like the commandant to help us escape." Ludwig added.
The Soviet eyed them suspiciously. "I know the what, but not the why. Why escape? Why Nazi team up with prisoner?" He asked, his voice high-pitched.
Elizabeta stepped over to Gilbert. He stood up and wrapped an arm protectively around her, and fixed the Soviet with a challenging stare in answer. Ludwig and Feliks each took a step to stand on either side two lovers. Ludwig on Gilbert's right, Feliks on Elizabeta's left.
"I see…" The Russian trailed off. "Not sure if believe. But maybe I don't kill yet."
"Yeah? Maybe we won't kill you right now either." It was Ludwig who spoke, his voice still openly hostile. "Now, we'll be getting on our way. Goodbye." He whirled a step towards the automobile.
"Nyet."
What?
"I did not say I was going to let you go." the Russian said. His violet gaze was cold, unreadable. And she wasn't sure how or when –probably when they were talking- but he somehow had his bazooka with him again. She quickly scanned the road surface and the nearby grass and didn't see either of Gilbert's, Ludwig's, or the Russian's pistols that had been knocked to the ground. She was suddenly nervous.
"These two still Nazis. They are lucky I have not put holes in their skulls yet. You will all be my prisoners until I get Girl and Pole to one of our medics. Nazis to station to send to POW camp. Unless I get bored, maybe then I shoot German pigs for fun."
Ludwig suddenly took a step forward. "I'm not going to wait around patiently for you to send me to go rot in some hole in Siberia!"
"Me neither," Gilbert hissed. "My job, my friends, what I believed in, I abandoned everything I had when I left the Nazis. Who the hell is some Communist to decide where my allegiances lie?"
"I am afraid you do not have a choice in the matter, my friends." He smiled sweetly and leveled the bazooka at the two SS. It was not a precision weapon. It would kill all four of them at once with the concussion waves alone. Instinctively, Ludwig and Gilbert spread themselves apart.
"What about Borys?" Elizabeta asked.
"What about him?" Ludwig retorted. This earned him a guilty laugh from the Hungarian.
"Now, you four come with me, da?"
Ludwig narrowed his eyes. Elizabeta tightened her grip on the knife that she pressed behind her wrist.
"Guys, like, what is that?" Feliks gasped, breaking the tension before a second fight could break out. He pointed a finger at the top of the treeline on the horizon.
"What's what?" Gilbert asked.
Elizabeta thought that Feliks was just making a distraction, but she too noticed something on the horizon. White and ragged, billowing in the wind, suspended in the branches of some leafless tree.
"It's totally like, a ghost or something!"
Feliks squeaked, hiding behind Ludwig. The older soldier all but shoved the little Pole to the ground. "Get off," Ludwig growled. He raised a hand beyond the visor of his cap and squinted into the dusk light at the distant object he pointed at.
"I told you it's a ghost!" Feliks squealed, this time clinging to the Russian.
The Russo soldier sliced his arms out angrily from his side. "Enough." the Soviet ordered. "We go see it out, yes? Is no ghost, stop complaining. I have feeling know what it is…"
Elizabeta blinked. Silhouetted in the rising moonlight, the billowing white looked admittedly like some sort of apparition.
"Let us go now." The Soviet hefted his weapon onto his shoulder to assert his threat, and with his free hand gestured grandly for the four to head out in front of him. Gilbert and Ludwig moved out reluctantly before the unnamed threat. Feliks took this time to bolt away from the group and grab the bag of stuff they stole from the farmhouse from the car before returning. The Russian fixed him with a look, but resigned to ask him about it later. Elizabeta moved closer to Gilbert, as between the scary Soviet breathing down her neck and wandering into a forest at night she was somewhat afraid on multiple fronts. The Prussian kept marching out into the forest in front of the Russian towards the strange object that waved on the horizon. She slipped his dagger from her sleeve and returned it to him wordlessly. He nodded once and slid it into his pocket. His face was set in a fierce frown and his red eyes burned angrily into whatever they met…. Eliza could see he didn't appear to be fond of the stony irony of his position as guard being reversed to that of the personal prisoner. Perhaps one could argue it was similar to his incarceration while waiting for his lynching, but then it seemed he still held his rank. His pride.
She marched along with Gilbert into the dark forest. Feliks was looking readily afraid, and since Gilbert and Elizabeta were taken; the Soviet scarier than the forest itself, the only person open to cling to was Ludwig. Who did not appear pleased to being exposed to the Pole's rapid string of theories and fears.
Ludwig placed a hand to his brow and moaned. He looked to the Russian for reprieve.
"Tell me Russian, I've been wondering why you are alone. Where is the rest of your squadron?"
"No questions," he answered evenly, not breaking stride. He looked up to the stars that shone in the twilight, searching for the white billowing from the branches of a nearby tree. He saw it and pointed with his free hand. "This way. Almost there."
Elizabeta kept walking, eventually coming to the trunk of a huge oak tree. The Russo pointed up into its limbs and nodded. "There."
Elizabeta followed the path of his index finger with her emerald gaze. Tangled and speared at great force in the branches was a tattered thick white cloth. Definitely not a ghost… she felt Feliks relax behind her. "A sheet?" she hesitated.
"Is what I thought. Is parachute. Or was." Their Red-Army-Incarcerator replied.
Instinctively, she looked to the base of the tree. She thought she saw something there, something the same color white as the cloth fluttering in the tree branches. She broke away from Gilbert's grasp and bolted forward.
"Elizabeta, wait!" He raced after her. Ludwig, Feliks, and the Soviet followed swiftly. Brambles tugged at her clothing as she leapt forward into the cold winter night. The massive trunk of the oak tree grew in her field of vision. She halted about a meter and a half before the roots of the tree, panting. Nestled in the roots was a figure, shawled in the tatters of the white parachute that adorned the branches above him. Well, that wasn't entirely true…. In the bright full moonlight she noticed that the silken fabric wasn't just white, but stroked with crimson red.
She heard Gilbert trot to a halt beside her. Ludwig arrived swiftly afterwards, followed by Feliks and the Soviet. They gapped at the figure sitting in the parachute before them. He was slumped, and blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. A shock of messy hair adorned his head, less pure of a blonde than that of Ludwig or Feliks. A handsomely chiseled chin and nose, with longer dark-blond lashes pressing his eyes closed. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket, which was also speckled with blood. His throat and shoulders were thick and muscled from years of manual labor. The number forty eight was messily sewn onto the back of his jacket –obviously embroidered by the clumsy hand of some drunken male squad mate. A sheepskin collar was folded around his throat. On his head he wore the round goggles and leather hat of a flightsman. Cradled in his arms was a rifle. He smiled and clutched it like a child would a stuffed bear, as if it was his only tool to salvation. Patched onto his shoulder in gold thread was a certain star-spangled banner…
"Mein Gott…. It's an American…" Gilbert voiced, prodding the body with his boot.
The Russo leaned his bazooka on the ground and stepped closer, his brows raised curiously. "Was."
"Ewww, he's all like... Bloody and stuff. Do we have to be near him? He's totally grossin' me out."
"Ludwig, I'll bet you one-hundred Reichsmarks the poor bastard's dead," Gilbert said, elbowing his brother. The Russian glared at him. "When we are released from Siberia in a decade." he added. He obviously didn't mean a word, but the Russian didn't seem to catch this.
"I'll take that bet. I smell a lot of fresh blood. Dead things don't bleed," Ludwig said, examining the body like one would a cut of meat. He brushed a shock of dirty-blonde hair out of the figure's sun-tanned face. It remained uncreased with the wrinkles of worry and time. It was such a young face, too young to die. Probably even younger than Feliks. Hardly eighteen.
The eyes flickered open at the touch.
They were a shining sapphire, with a slightly larger spectrum of green, blue, yellow, and gray flecks than Ludwig's icy granite eyes held. They were like how she imagined Gilbert's irises would be if they weren't red. The cobalt orbs were transparent with emotion, naive and as easily readable as a book. First she saw immense pain. Shock! Then, recognition, fear, and confusion. Finally, they lightened somewhat. He looked up to the five strangers surrounding him and asked something in a flat nasally language. She didn't understand it… it was in English.
He smiled sheepishly and muttered again, realizing they didn't understand him. He closed his azure eyes in thought for a moment, before replying in broken German:
"Howdy there, folks."