-Gilbert Beilschmidt-
Concluding that pulling his own weapon at the moment would be the equivalent of suicide, Gilbert Beilschmidt was quickly figuring out several things:
One: Somehow, this young man was Alfred Jones's brother.
Two: He probably didn't speak a lick of German.
And three: Ludwig should be questioning in a few moments what was going on to cause Gilbert to scream out the name of a supposedly dead American soldier and chase down a random man who looked like him on the street.
As for the list of things he should be wondering? There was plenty to wonder, such as why the person in front of him was wearing the simple clothes of a Germanic civilian, and what on earth this foreigner was doing incognito in Vienna. But the main thought that was currently blocking the wandering stream of the Prussian's mind was if that little bit of crumbly dried blackish blood his eyes locked on that had coagulated near the base of the blade aimed at his gut belonged to an animal or a human.
This stranger seemed to show little to no reaction to Ludwig's warning shot, his raging gaze was solely fixated on Gilbert. He already seemed as terrified as humanly possible, all restraint already abandoned in lieu of anger-wrought adrenaline. His eyes searched Gilbert's for answers.
Gilbert knew well how SS were perceived by the soldiers of the world. The propaganda ministries on either side of the war had done a marvelous job at enforcing it. The SS were the fearsome German elite, ruthless pagan protectors of the thousand-year-Reich; unhampered by something as foolish as emotion or trivial as individual thought. Torturing for pleasure, dehumanizing the enemy that was nothing but game to be hunted down. Cutting off trigger fingers from corpses and live men to stuff as trophies, or ears to dry out and mail home to blue-eyed lovers as expressions of their valor. It was an image Gilbert would not deny. A year ago he was exactly as vicious. If anything, the projection was not quite enough.
Such it was only natural to assume that when an enemy SS displayed recognition of your missing Allied brother by face and name, it was because he captured tortured or killed him. Why else would an SS know someone.
This stranger did not attempt to hide the rage-hot tears that threatened to spill from his long tawny lashes, and for some reason Gilbert could respect him for that. But his watering eyes stared challengingly, desperately, accusingly, at Gilbert; hungrily in need of information. Just daring him to admit the conclusion he had drawn with the edge of the knife he held to his guts.
He felt Elizabeta and Feliks catch up behind him, staring confusedly. A dark presence poised itself at Gilbert's left side. The very reason Gilbert could not tell this man otherwise.
"Si tu tiens à ta vie, tu vas me donner ton couteau." the voice was Ludwig's. His gun was still smoking out the muzzle, raised right to this strange young man.
Alfred's brother seemed surprised yet a little relieved to hear familiar words flowing from Ludwig. Not that Gilbert had an inkling of an idea what words were exchanged. Speaking no French, his brain honed in on body language. The man started lowering the knife, then hesitated, looking hotly up at Ludwig.
"J'écouterai si vous me dites ce qui se passe ici!" he yelled, his fingers tightening around the hilt. He had a whispery sort of voice, it seemed strained and unaccustomed to performing at such volume.
"J'ai aucun idée sur ce qui ce passe en ce moment." Ludwig replied calmly. It was the slowly measured tone one used when approached a wounded, cornered animal. He held the pistol levelly.
"Et lui? Pour quelle raison se t'il approche de moi?" The stranger gestured at Gilbert.
By now, Gilbert had backed out of range of the knife. He quickly looked over to Ludwig. "When in the hell did you learn French?" he whispered. "What is he saying?"
"France is next to Germany and we are at war with them. Perhaps if you paid more attention in school, you too would be able to speak a useful language fluently. Or multiple, like myself. He's wondering what is going on." Ludwig lowered his voice a bit, his pupils flickering to Gilbert for a moment. "So am I."
"We can't talk about this here." Gilbert said. They were standing in the middle of the sidewalk. People were starting to stare.
"Parlez dans une langue que je comprends!" the stranger yelled.
"What did he just say?" Gilbert asked.
"He wants us to speak in something he can understand." Ludwig translated.
"He'll put up with me talking however the hell I can. Tell him that we need to go into that alley over there." Gilbert commanded. He knew Ludwig wouldn't kill this kid yet if he was curious as to what was going on. If Gilbert dragged someone innocent into this mess he was obligated to get him out alive. Ludwig barked something in French and pointed to the alley Gil had pointed out. Gilbert and Ludwig quickly ushered him into it, and Elizabeta and Feliks followed a distance behind. They backed in as far as they could and turned a corner, so the main street was not visible. The stranger looked around at the crumbled red brick and grayish cement circumspectly, but for some reason he seemed just as pleased as the Germans to be out of the open.
"Ask him what his name is." Gilbert said.
Ludwig hesitated for a moment. "Do you speak English? In French I am not as fluent."
"Yes, I speak English." Alfred's brother replied.
Gilbert picked up on the word English. Englisch? They were speaking English now too? Ludwig had always had a wet dream of an English commander surrendering to him. But they could be speaking in goddamned Chinese for all Gilbert cared. He could understand it slightly when written since the words were similar, like Ludwig's note when they had escaped, but he was nearly hopeless in speech. What a stupid language English was. It sounded low and flat, and lacked the sharp beauty of German. All of the words were just ever so slightly wrong enough for him to not understand them. He did recognize a handful of English words, but it seemed the only word that sounded completely in common with German was 'beer.' And at least the English had the good sense to steal that from the right culture for the job.
"What is your name?"
"Matthew Williams. What's your name?"
"That's none of your business."
Williams? Gilbert thought. Shouldn't it be Jones? Did he make a mistake? If this was indeed not Alfred's brother, Gilbert wasn't so sure how far he was willing to risk his neck to save him if he was indeed an American.
"Ask him if he's married!" Gilbert commanded. Anything to change his surname.
"Gilbert, he's even younger than I am!" Ludwig exclaimed.
"Just do it!"
"He wants to know if you are married." Ludwig grunted, glancing at Gilbert.
The shock on Matthew's face was apparent. His brows rose considerably. "I'm barely old enough to vote! I haven't even thought of getting married!"
"He's not married." Ludwig translated. But Gilbert had already deduced that just by the look on his face.
"Gilbert, enough. How do you know this person?"
"I thought he looked like that American Alfred. That's why I chased after him."
Ludwig glanced a bit sideways at Matthew. "He expressed recognition. He called Alfred his brother when you came up to him. I think we ran into his twin. Interesting."
Matthew appeared to be getting nervous with all of this German talking. "I know you've figured something out. Can someone please tell me what is going on now?" he asked at Ludwig.
"Give me the knife. Then we'll tell you."
Matthew placed his weapon on the ground. He stepped on it, rather than placing it in the open between the two. But true to his word Ludwig continued speaking.
"We thought you resembled someone we briefly knew. Explain what you are doing in Vienna. Lying will not be tolerated. You already revealed yourself when you recognized Alfred's name and referred to him as your brother. I know you must be a soldier."
"I was Alfred's navigator of a B-17 on a bombing mission over the city. Four days ago we were shot down. I saw he got out of the plane alive, I've been hiding in the city since then trying to find him. Your friend has heard of him?" Matthew asked, glancing at Gilbert.
"We ourselves ran into some trouble. I believe we encountered the man you explained in the timeframe you described."
"What happened to him?" Matthew asked.
Ludwig released a cold smile. His brows rose with mild amusement. Nothing mocking, but beguilement was unmistakably sparkling in their blue depths.
"We killed him."
It all happened in slow motion. At these strange words Gilbert saw the kid's face drain of color. His lips twist up into a horrified snarl. Unadulterated, grief-stricken odium boiled from watery violet eyes which for a moment too long flickered to Ludwig's exposed throat. The eyes of a desperate man with nothing to lose. He saw Matthew's foot shift to reveal the knife. His fingers slipped from their relaxed position at his side, prepared to lunge for it. Ludwig did not see. Too fast for Gilbert to take aim.
Gilbert rapidly whirled affront his brother. At the cost of someone's life -perhaps more- it was time to come clean. Despite the language barrier he knew something of his mannerisms would have to help this kid realize. He threw his arms in front of him. Emotion was universal.
"Stop! Alfred is not dead!" Gilbert screeched.
Ludwig froze. The kid gapped at him, almost as if he had understood what he said.
"Alfred's… what?" Matthew said, eyes wide. He looked right at Gilbert, hanging onto his every word. His hand slid to hang loosely at his side, thankfully his weapon not curled in his fingers. It was only then that Gilbert realized what language Matthew had spoken in.
"You can understand me? Why haven't you been speaking German to us this whole time?!"
"I had Alfred teach me some before we went off to war. I wanted to see if you would talk about killing me…"
"Sly dog!" Gilbert accused. Apparently this Matthew was cleverer than his brother. He doubted that Alfred would have the restraint to only pretend to appear ignorant. The westerner hadn't even shown an inkling of knowledge of German. In fact, it seemed he took every opportunity to dissuade them of the fact.
"The clever snake knows some German." Ludwig said. His steely questioning gaze turned to Gilbert. His voice lowered dangerously. "…But what I do not understand is why our dear Alfred is apparently not dead."
Ludwig had already looked at Elizabeta and Feliks. Their shocked expressions clearly betrayed what their words had not. That Gilbert's outburst was indeed true, that they had even been in on it. Only Ludwig was left in the dark. Four pairs of coolly colored eyes turned on Gilbert's lone sanguine red. Everyone's gaze was fixated solely on him.
"I…I did not kill Alfred that night in the woods." Gilbert admitted. He could hear Matthew breathe a sigh of relief.
"I saw you! The knife, it went down! You tore his jugular out with it!"
"No. It only went skin deep."
Ludwig looked at Gilbert confusedly for a moment. Neither Matthew, Elizabeta, nor Feliks interrupted. "You lied to me?" Ludwig asked.
"Yes. I lied to you." Gilbert replied simply. There was nothing else to be said.
"Do you regret this lie?"
"No."
"Then why, do tell, did you not defeat your enemy when the time came to?" Ludwig asked. His voice became flavored with a different tone. Beneath his curiosity his voice was very measured and strained.
"Because I didn't need to." Gilbert said.
"I understand you sparing civilians and Jews, but since when did you care about sparing the life of an enemy soldier? This treason is foreign to me."
"I tried to kill him. But I couldn't bring myself to."
"He was half-dead anyway. An easy kill. Why couldn't you?" Ludwig pressed.
"It wasn't a matter of physical ability..."
"You have killed plenty of Russians in years past. What makes the Ami different?"
"He's not dif-" Gilbert was the one who had changed.
"Is it because he is American?" Ludwig cut.
"No. I don't care what someone is."
"Because he is Aryan?"
"No!"
"Why, then?"
"Because…" Gilbert searched for the words. A sudden rage surged through him, and the words swiftly began to flow from his lips. Escalating in volume.
"Because Alfred F. Jones was fair to me. Because he made Elizabeta happy. Because as much as I tried to hide it I knew his name. Because he wasn't just some inferior beast to kill while I was following orders of my country or in preservation of my own life. Because he couldn't fight me back. Because right before I was about to kill him, when I looked into his eyes, I saw you, Ludwig! When you were a kid!"
"I am nothing like that naïve, foolish, indulgent slob!" Ludwig's speech grew ever more vociferous with each adjective.
"Not now." Gilbert hissed. "Definitely not now."
Ludwig's right hand shot towards the knot of Gilbert's tie, grasping it and hoisting him up into the air. So fast that his friends in the alleyway could only watch. Gilbert saw his brother's powerful fingers curl around the Iron Cross on his throat, and for a brief moment he feared he would be tearing the medallion off. He felt his heels being lifted off the pavement as Ludwig lifted him to look him in the eye and pulled him close with a simple curl of his bicep. Gone were the nostalgic days of Luther notes and physical dominance over his baby brother. Gilbert fiercely resisted the temptation to lessen the pressure and hold his weight up by grasping onto Ludwig's hand. He was too proud. He met his brother's gaze squarely. But he couldn't hide his chocking.
As he struggled for breath he found himself noticing Ludwig's strong, straight, Aryan nose. The nostrils that flared in anger. The fiercely slanted light brown brows. The wide angular planes of his face. He could smell his breath. He stared into interminably trapping blue eyes…. Blue as Zyklon B residue. The perfect, handsome face of the Nazi party. And for the first time in his life, when faced with his baby brother, Gilbert felt a trace of something he might call fear.
"We will talk later."
With that Ludwig released him roughly and Gilbert felt his heels crash back onto the hard pavement. He inhaled sharply.
"Now, you will fix the problem you have created." Ludwig stated. He did not acknowledge his brother's gasping.
"What should I do?" Gilbert asked. He was massaging his throat with his right hand.
"Take the boy to the outskirts of the city. Set him loose from where we came in the east. Tell him to look for signs of the Russian scouting encampment. Or I will shoot him." Ludwig said. "And you will watch."
"Option one sounds fair." Gilbert said quickly.
"It is very fair." Ludwig agreed, closing his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. He took a deep breath. It sounded like he was counting.
"Uh…"
"You will do that at the present Gilbert." It was a command. "We three shall remain in the city. You shall return to this spot in three hours. I will be waiting for you."
"Can I go with him?" Elizabeta asked.
"No. You absolutely may not. It is time you learned your place. I will be having a talk with you two." Ludwig stalked between the two Easterners. And he looked pissed. The way he spat the word 'talk' made it seem like Elizabeta and Feliks were ten year olds about to learn about the facts of life. But Gilbert felt it would be even more unpleasant a conversation than that.
Ludwig turned back to the trembling foreigner. He appraised him haughtily. Ludwig then gestured to Gilbert. "This is Sturmmann Gilbert Beilschmidt of the German Schutzstaffel. You will be his prisoner until he releases you. Under the 1929 Geneva convention article 42 should you try to escape to your own army and be recaptured or attempt rebellion against him you will be held liable to the disciplinary punishments of his choosing, including death."
Gilbert raised an eyebrow. Ludwig was a master at twisting specifics to his advantage. The German army had long since stopped following much of the second Geneva Convention. And the SS scarcely acknowledged the document's existence but to laugh at its helplessness. Not to mention that the whole concept of taking Matthew prisoner was falsehearted on the grounds that neither of them were actually connected to the German army anymore.
"I understand." Matthew said.
"Good. You are required to give Sturmmann Beilschmidt your name, rank, and serial number."
Wordlessly, Matthew reached inside his shirt and pulled a pair of silver dog tags above his head. He showed them to Gilbert.
"'Mazhew Villiams.'" Gilbert read slowly. The second thing he noticed other than the name was that hand scratched into this American tag was a small maple leaf.
"It's Matth-"
"Rank, lieutenant. Serial number 7421952 T44. Closest of kin-"
"Don't bother with his mother, the address, blood type or religion. It won't matter to us." Ludwig said.
Unless he's a Jew, dammit, Gilbert thought nastily. He handed Matthew back his tags, which he then hid inside his shirt.
"I'm going to have to take your knife." Gilbert said.
"Yes, I suppose you should." Matthew said softly. Gilbert carefully picked up the blade when Matthew removed his boot from it. He didn't resist when Gilbert patted him down for any additional weapons, keeping the knife in his hand. Finding nothing, Gilbert took a step back. He looked at Elizabeta and Feliks watching him.
"Go." Ludwig said tersely. He stepped in front of his friends.
Gilbert took a step back, caught a bit off guard by the coldness in his brother's voice. He bit back a protest. "Fine. I'll go. Kid, with me." he ordered curtly.
"Uh, bye Gil." It was Feliks who spoke. He seemed a bit nervous.
Gilbert nodded. He paced stiffly towards Elizabeta and embraced her. He pressed his face into her hair. "Do not do anything to make Ludwig mad while I'm away. I know how you are." he whispered at her ear.
"Don't let the American do anything sneaky." she whispered back.
"I won't." He brushed the pistol on his side with his free hand. She kissed him on the ear, and Gilbert then broke from the embrace, as if nothing more than sweet nothings were exchanged.
Ludwig looked at him. "See you in three hours." he said.
"You be fair to Elizabeta and Feliks while I am gone."
"You of all people do not need to tell me how to be responsible, Gilbert." Ludwig said slowly.
Gilbert had a feeling they had two very different ideas of responsibility. Ludwig wouldn't be unreasonable… right? He was a harsh man, but a fair one. Nonetheless Gilbert decided he would be coming back to this spot in sooner than three hours. A plan germinated in his mind, accentuated with a coy grin that crept across his cheeks at his genius. He only hoped he was right in his assumption.
He flicked his wrist and Matthew filed out behind him. He turned his head to see Ludwig lead Elizabeta and Feliks off in front of him further into the alley, like prisoners to their execution. He looked back briefly to catch Elizabeta's gaze, but she couldn't return it. Ludwig was in the way. Gilbert hoped she and Feliks would be alright. When they were out of the alleyway Matthew strode up to his side. He seemed curious to how his captor truly was when he was out of the presence of his brother.
"You will walk at my side. Do not make eye contact with anyone. You shall answer my questions quietly." Gilbert ordered. He doubted that that last part would be a problem with how quiet this person seemed. Gilbert did not want to have to answer any officer's questions. It was too easy to be approached if he made it obvious to anyone watching that Matthew was supposed to be his prisoner. Unfortunately, that left a larger safety risk for him.
"Yes sir." Matthew said.
He turned out onto another bustling street and headed east into the rising sun towards the edge of the city. People were swiftly pushing away rubble and going about with their day. No one paid them much heed. Gilbert thrust his chin up and straightened his back anyway. He wasn't likely to be bothered if he looked like he knew what he was doing. "Tell me, Mazhew, where are you from?"
"I'm from the countryside of southern Canada."
"You sure you're brothers with Alfred? He thinks he is American, doesn't he?"
"Yes, I am very sure."
"Then why are your last names different?" Gilbert asked.
"I thought all he said I had to tell you was my name, rank, and serial number?" Matthew replied.
"All you are required to. Just because Ludwig is a stickler for formalities doesn't mean I am." Plus, it wasn't like Gilbert hated this strange Canadian. He kind of felt a little bad for him, actually. Gilbert had dragged him into this mess.
"Oh. Okay. Where are you from, Sturmmann?" Matthew asked.
"East Prussia. Then outside of Berlin, Germany. Bloodline stretching back to the mighty knights of the Teutonic order." Gilbert said, standing straight and jerking his thumb towards his chest.
"Oh….yes. Prussia. Right." Matthew said meekly.
"Kid, if you want to stay alive around me, you better at least pretend to know where East Prussia is." Gilbert warned.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"East Prussia is a small Germanic state to the east of Germany. It's north of Poland, west of Lithuania, and on the southeastern border of the Baltic sea. It consists of the most eastern portion of the former Prussian empire." Gilbert recited didactically.
"Oh. Okay. Thank you for telling me."
They walked. Matthew must have sensed his irritation and thought it best to keep quiet. Gilbert realized he was still clutching Matthew's knife in his right hand. Gilbert pulled it from his side, examining it from up close.
"It's prettier than mine." Gilbert noted aloud. He noticed where an eagle was carved into it, along with a bear and a wolf and a few other things. It was positioned like the Prussian eagle, but had the big thickly lined beak and expressive eyes in the style of American natives.
Matthew paced up to Gilbert's left and offered a small laugh. He looked at Gilbert's knife on his waist. "Heh… got kind of a medieval look yours, eh? A bit melodramatic."
"Perhaps. Nazis are very ceremonial, German culture and so. I like it though. You'd be amazed how badass you feel strapping this thing on your hip. I felt like a knight." A dashingly evil looking one, but he hadn't minded.
Gilbert's gaze traced back to Matthew's weapon. He stowed it carefully inside his coat, hoping it wouldn't cut through the dense fabric. "Fine craftsmanship. Did you carve the handle yourself?"
"Yes. It took me a long time. It means a lot to me."
Sucks for you, Gil thought, I'm keeping it. It would be useful to have another knife among them, not to mention he could probably sell it for a lot if he needed to. There were plenty of artsy farts in Vienna willing to waste their money. At least before the war, but there were probably still some rich people around. Certainly if Roderich's family had somehow retained their fortune there would be other aristocratic old bags around.
"I got him with a crossbow, you know…" Matthew said softly.
"Got who with a crossbow?"
"The moose. It's made of a moose's..." Unsure of the German word, Matthew pantomimed a branching motion with his hand at the crown of his head.
"Antler."
"Yes. Antler."
"Well that's melodramatic. Just shoot things with a gun. It's quicker that way, ain't it?" Gilbert asked. What a strange man this Matthew was.
"But don't you want to give whatever it is you're tracking a fair chance?" Matthew asked.
"Nope. Death is death. Ain't nothing honorable about it. Survival of the fittest. Plus, I'm sure it would rather be killed quickly with a gun, wouldn't it?"
"If I were a moose I'd rather be killed with a crossbow..." Matthew answered softly.
"But hell, you'd have to probably shoot it a couple times. And if I were a moose, and a scrawny kid like you came at me with just a crossbow," Gilbert adjusted his cap and pointed to his temple. He smirked a bit and closed his eyes. "I'd gore you on my horns."
"Maybe."
"If I were a moose I'd want you to kill me with a shell from a goddamn Panzer IV." Gilbert declared.
"But if you were a moose, you'd be able to run away from a tank, wouldn't you?"
"Correct! I'd be a smart moose. I'd run. And then I wouldn't have to worry about getting eaten by some hockey-nut anyway."
Matthew didn't acknowledge the insult. He smiled softly, his eyes were staring far away at some distant western horizon. "A blizzard was setting in that day. We lived at the border of northern Montana at the time, me and Alfred. That's one of the northern states of the US. It's the second prettiest place in the world, I think. We lived right at the border with Canada. So a lot of the time I went out I was actually in our Saskatchewan province. I consider that my home. Alfred tried to go with me, to make sure I would be okay, but Al can be very loud at times. He's a fine shot with a shotgun, but stealth doesn't come natural to him like it does to me. So I had him stay home that day. And then I killed the moose."
"Ah."
"Sturmmann?" There he was being all respectful again. At least he knew his place. Perhaps this Matthew wasn't so bad. Not as obnoxious as Alfred.
"What, kid?" Gilbert grunted. He was instinctively a bit harsh when someone approached him like that.
"How do you know Alfred?"
"Met him about four days ago. He crashed out in a forest a while from here." It was about time he had asked. Matthew should be wondering why Gilbert wasn't being unfathomably cruel to an enemy soldier.
"Is he okay?"
"Yeah, he's alright. His right arm was pretty gouged out by some shrapnel, but Elizabeta patched him up finely all things considered. Alfred was very nice to her. And he wasn't cruel to me or Ludwig. I could respect him for that."
"I know you didn't afterwards, but why didn't you two kill him when you found him?"
"I might have. But we four were captured by a Russian at the time. Ludwig and I did some stuff that wasn't okay with the German army and we were running when that Russian found us. We told him and that's probably the only reason he let us live. And he was quite adamant that if we wanted to survive we shouldn't lay a finger on Alfred. Plus, even if we did kill him, it was Ivan we were really worried about. Alfred was too hurt to do much."
"Do you know where Alfred is now?"
"We escaped from the Russian, but I let them both live. We assume they're at some scouting camp in Czechoslovakia, that my brother mentioned."
"...Sturmmann?"
"Yes?" Gilbert answered evenly.
"I'm sorry I tried to stab you before."
"Hah! Well, I guess that's alright. I would have tried to stab me too, probably."
"I'm sorry… it's just, well, you're really only the second SS I've ever seen up close. And when you ran up to me, I assumed the worse with Alfred and…"
"Where have you seen another SS before?"
"I saw one back at our base camp. Some unit must have taken him prisoner. He was dressed differently than you though, his uniform was gray."
"That's an officer or someone of the Waffen SS. They fight alongside the regular army. The black uniforms are too conspicuous so they give them gray ones. Ludwig and I served in the Waffen in Russia and Poland a few years back. But then we transferred to do… something else. The current SS we're with is the SS-Totenkopfverbände." Gilbert pointed to his cap, and the little metal skull on it. "'Skull units.' Sometimes I wish I was still with the Waffen. At least if I were I wouldn't be so hopelessly without gear or weapons now."
"You'd probably be dead." Matthew said.
Probably wouldn't have met Elizabeta either, he realized. "What did you do with the SS you saw?"
"Uh…"
"Never mind." Gilbert immediately regretted asking. The Westerners were fairer than the Russians when it came to German soldiers, but no one –no one- took SS as prisoners. No one wanted anything to do with them. They would have shot that SS on the spot. He wouldn't have been missed.
"You said Ludwig." Matthew said, trying to change the subject. "Was that the man who spoke French back in the alleyway?"
"Yes, he's my brother. And I know he's a total fascist bastard, but Jesus Christ at least pronounce his name correctly."
"What? Was I saying it wrong?" Matthew asked, his tone already apologizing.
"Yeah. It's Lud-viikh. Not Luhd-wig. You're westernizing it, it's not how it's spelled in English. The U is longer."
"Oh. Ludwig." Matthew said, correcting the first part of the name.
"Ludwig." Gilbert corrected.
"That's what I said isn't it?"
"Ludwig. Gotta sink your teeth into that W more." Like… like whatever stupid things they ate on that side of the ocean. "Like you're biting into a hamburger! Yes! That."
Matthew cocked an eyebrow at this analogy. Oh right, Gilbert thought. He's Canadian. "…A mooseburger?" he corrected.
A halfhearted laugh.
"Fine." Gilbert closed his eyes and shrugged his hands up in the air. "Pancakes, or whatever you eat over in Canada."
"Pancakes. They're good. Been a few months since I've had one of those. Is it a W sound or a V sound?"
"What? I don't fucking know, they sound the same to me."
"Ludwig." Matthew said, a bit differently this time. "How was that?"
"Not bad, actually."
"Okay. Am I pronouncing your name right? Gilbert?"
His name? Matthew cared. That was nice. He hadn't expected that. But perhaps growing up with his speech impaired I'll-answer-your-question-with-my-favorite-grunt family it could only be expected that Gilbert was not often exposed to people who cared about their enunciation much.
"Harder on the G. Softer on the R."
"It's a name in English too." Matthew chimed. "More popular in Al's country than in mine though."
"Of course. The Americans must have heard what a fearsome warrior and handsome devil I am and decided to name all of their children after me." Gilbert said with a proud grin. This earned another laugh from the Canadian.
"It's not that much of a popular name." the Canadian said. "It's still usually used by the descendants of the German immigrants."
"Splendid! Those are the best people in his country anyway, Mazhew! Fine taste in names."
Matthew laughed quietly again. "It's Matthew."
"S'what I said ain't it?"
"No. You can't make a 'th' sound. You make a zed sound instead."
Well obviously, if Gilbert couldn't make that sound it wasn't worth knowing. Gilbert attempted this pointless and elusive 'th' sound that Matthew had demonstrated and only succeeded in spitting. Which was bad, because he was really thirsty and he didn't want to waste any spit. He scowled. Despite its uselessness Gilbert Beilschmidt would not tolerate failure.
"How do I do that?"
Matthew tried it out again, as if to figure out exactly how. He nodded to himself as if deciphering it. "You stick your tongue underneath the edge of your top teeth, then you blow out a little bit of air between them." He performed it. Despite his words his friendly tone was neither didactic or patronizing. "See? Matthew. A lot of English words have that sound, it's very useful."
"You look like an idiot with your tongue sticking out like that."
"Try it. You won't be as clumsy after a few tries."
"Mahtzew."
"Not quite, almost there. You Germans just have to get your tongue out from the back of your throats, thats all. You can do it." he encouraged.
"You shut up. I am not a twelve-year-old learning how to kiss for the first time, Matthew."
"That was it." Matthew congratulated softly. "Good job."
Gilbert felt a small beam of pride shoot through him. He raised his chin and smirked. He had conquered part of this idiotic English language.
"How'd you get into the army?" Gilbert asked.
"Alfred tried to volunteer when he was fifteen. When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor he went absolutely berserk. And he was a huge kid, too, I was almost afraid the recruitment office would believe him when he said he was eighteen."
"But they didn't?"
"Nah. He didn't have the right papers then. The moment we were out of high school we enlisted in the American army. We wanted to be together, so I didn't go to the Canadian one. As long as we fight, I decided it didn't matter what it was under. Al wanted to make sure we went before the draft got us. That was six months ago." the Canadian said.
"Did you like the army? I liked it a lot, at first. I volunteered fresh out of the Jugend when the war started in '39."
"It was tolerable at first even though training was really brutal. Alfred and I could handle it. But this... Running around in a city swarming with Germans unarmed and by myself is not worth the fifty clams a month they pay us, that's for sure." Matthew said.
"They pay American soldiers in food? That's bizarre. I'm glad I was with the German army. I don't want any fucking clams."
"Oh. I'm sorry. That's American slang for a dollar. Alfred taught me it."
"Can ya buy a clam with a dollar?" Gilbert asked.
"You can buy a whole bunch of clams with a dollar."
"How much is fifty dollars?"
"Say- two-hundred and ten Reichsmarks. They told us the exchange rate was one American dollar to 4.2 marks. But the cost of living is more expensive in Europe…. So I'm not really sure. Do they pay SS well?" Matthew asked.
"Meh. We were expected to take more occasionally, of course."
"Excuse me? When did they pay you the rest?"
"It was very illegal. But our type of SS were known to steal things from any Jews we worked with. Take watches and rings and things. You just had to make sure your commanders didn't see you do it."
"Did you take stuff?"
"In the old days? Sure I did. We all did. There was no such thing as an honorable SS."
"You use the past tense when referring to yourself a lot, Sturmmann." Matthew noted.
"Uh… yes. I'm not connected to the SS anymore in anything but experience and a uniform. But you know what I've been wondering?"
"What?" Matthew inquired.
"Why you're not dressed up like an Allied soldier. Where your gear and gun is."
"I got rid of them. An allied soldier alone in Vienna wouldn't last very long until someone found him, you know."
"Where'd you get the clothes?" Gilbert asked curiously. He would need new clothes sooner or later. His uniform was durable and let him slide with a lot of things here, but the only thing it would get him inside of Switzerland was a bullet in his skull.
"There's plenty of clothes lying around if you know where to look for them..." Matthew glanced fleetingly at the bombed buildings.
"Jesus Christ, don't say it like that! Those were good Germans. Were you raised by wolves or something?" Gilbert quickly started wracking recent memory to see if he had touched Matthew at any point, revolted. He and Ludwig would not be looking forward that.
Matthew only laughed warmheartedly. "Between Alfred's eating habits and being outside all of the time, I might as well have. But you should know that wolves have remarkably social family structures. They're really not brutish."
"Yeah? That's real nice. I bet you eat about as much moose as them too, Canuck."
"Only about as much as the German family eats pork. We Canadians pepper our diet with plenty of maple syrup too. We chug it straight from bottles, you know, and we perform an ancient ritual dance to summon grizzly bears down from the mountains to challenge them to drinking games around it."
"Yeah? Well ain't that just swell. You'll have to invite me to the next one of those." Gilbert snorted. He would try this strange Canadian maple syrup when the war was over. He would put its awesomeness to the test. Gilbert started chuckling, and Matthew eventually joined in.
Then the Canadian looked up at Gilbert, his eyes were very earnest. His tone nervous as he refused to look the Prussian in the eye.
"Sturmmann?"
"You can call me Gilbert, if you like."
"Oh. Okay. Mind f'I ask you something, Gilbert?
"Ask away."
"I'm s-sorry if I offend you. I'm just curious. You don't act like any Nazi SS I've ever heard about. And I thought you all cared about how people looked, especially the SS and all, and y-you look a little..." Matthew stared tentatively up into his eyes, but Gilbert realized he was probably just studying their color rather than actually meaning to make eye-contact. "Different."
"What's wrong with being different, Matthew?"
"Nothing!" he replied quickly. "But I just know that the Nazis don't like things different. They like things perfect. And the SS are supposed to be their role-models and all..."
"It's true that they only let Aryans in the SS, but Hitler's definition just means that you're white and not a Jew. They'd let you in if you had brown hair or whatever. It's just the blondes with the blue eyes like Ludwig who are the highest level of Aryan." Gilbert clarified.
"Oh. But..."
Gilbert figured out then what he was asking. He felt he could trust this reserved little Canadian, he would be dignified with a true answer. Gilbert sighed, a bit sadly, before continuing.
"Ludwig tried to explain it to me once. He understood it better than me, this eugenics stuff. He said it didn't really matter what I was, since it was all hereditary. If I'm albino -or whatever I am, maybe I'm just really pale- it didn't matter to the Nazis. He then started talking about chromosomes and Punnet squares and phenotypes and dominant-recessive genes... I really didn't know what he was saying, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. That eugenics nonsense has always been over my head. Essentially since both of our parents had blonde hair and blue eyes, if I had kids, those would be the only genes I could pass on. So the Nazis didn't care. I'd be wormfood in sixty years, I didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. It was my kids that meant something. And their kids. That's what the Nazis think."
Matthew was quiet for a moment as he digested this. "That's creepy. I wouldn't want to live in a world like that. With evolution already all planned out."
"Yeah. Well, good thing it's probably not happening. That's what you guys are fighting for. Not all Germans are like that, there's a lot of good people in my country."
"Like you?"
"I'm not so great." Gilbert said with a chuckle. He recovered his humor a bit and smirked. "I'm kind of a conceited jerk, aren't I?"
"Yes, but you wear it well." Matthew stated.
"Hah! You know what Matthew? I think I like that answer! That must have been what Elizabeta saw in me. Something beneath my obnoxiousness."
"Elizabeta. Was that the girl in the alleyway? With the smaller blonde boy?" Matthew asked.
"Yes. She is the bravest girl I've ever met. I, I think I love her." Gilbert admitted.
"She seemed kind of normal to me."
"Well, you clearly do not know her, Canuck!" Gilbert bit.
Matthew seemed a bit caught off guard by his reaction. "Oh. Sorry. I just didn't hear her say anything, that's all."
"She's a little too brave, my Elizabeta... I fear she'll do something not too smart when she's with Ludwig. When Ludwig is mad he can snap the neck of a girl like her with a flick of his arm. Elizabeta is fast and knows how to fight but..." he shook his head as he walked. "She doesn't stand a chance. She's too weak. Feliks too, he's picky about what he stands up for, and rubs Ludwig the wrong way sometimes."
"I'm sure they'll be alright."
"I'm very worried about them, Matthew. Very worried. Ludwig has never acted like that before."
"Gilbert?"
"Yes?" he answered.
"What would you have done if I succeeded in stabbing Ludwig? Right before you stepped in and said that you didn't kill Alfred?" the Canadian inquired.
"I would have shot you in the head without a second thought, Alfred's brother or not." Gilbert replied honestly.
"What if I stabbed you? What would Ludwig have done?" Matthew asked.
"Ludwig would shoot you, dismember you, sacrifice your body parts to Germanic pagan gods, grind up whatever scraps were left into wurst and feed it to his dogs."
"Thanks for that, Gilbert. But what makes you think that you don't care for each other?"
Gilbert thought that one over. The brothers had started fighting when Gilbert had attempted to spare the Jews in that barn they had pointed out. And their relationship had been turbulent at best since then, but when circumstance forced them together they had proven their ability to coexist. But something about this most recent quarrel made Gilbert's hair stand on end. The way it was levelheaded Ludwig who had drawn the line. Gilbert had already defied the Nazism that his brother believed in, but in sparing Alfred it seemed Gilbert had done more than betray just Nazism. Also the fact that Ludwig had a problem with Eliza and Feliks for following his direction and keeping a secret during such a crucial time had left the German all alone. Ludwig had helped them get into this situation, saving their lives even, only to be betrayed.
"I don't know. I just hope he doesn't hurt them." Gilbert said.
Matthew didn't offer any more, and Gilbert was slightly pleased with that. As he looked around on the street he realized they were becoming more familiar. He could see the flak towers looming on the horizon, but they were still a far distance away. Matthew noticed them too.
"Are we almost to the edge of the city?" the Canadian asked.
Gilbert stopped walking abruptly and looked up. They were on a small street. Tall apartment buildings on either side blocked out much of the sun's light, although the sky was mostly overcast anyway. Pieces of paper and trash blew like tumbleweeds in the wind channeled between the narrow buildings. There were no people around.
"It was never my intention to take you to the end of the city." Gilbert answered.
Matthew was suddenly appearing fiercely nervous. His gaze flickered to the pistol on Gilbert's hip. "W-Where are you taking me then?"
Gilbert grinned hungrily, drinking in this fear as one would an elixir and ran his tongue along his dry lips. He released a cold, arid laugh. His right hand strayed towards his belt. "No talking. Hands on the wall, if you please."
"What are you doing?!" Matthew gasped.
"Shortening my three hours, that's what."
"What!? Sturmmann, please!"
Gilbert dug his pistol out and flipped it in his hand. He squared his feet on the ground, sliding them along the worn pavement with an audible shhhhkk. "You shall obey my orders! Now stand still."
"We had an agreement." Matthew said. His right arm kept twitching towards his side, where his knife used to be. His long fingers desperately groped the air, as if hoping for something tangible to materialize there. His wide eyes were quickly filling with panic. Darting from side to side like those of a trapped animal. The hunted little moose did not have the honor of death by a crossbow's bolt.
"Did you really think I would keep your indulgent American ass alive? Shit, do you want me to miss boy! You ever been shot before? Hurts like hell. Hands on the wall!"
"But I need to get to Alfred!"
"Alfred's got his Ruski. He'll be fine without you."
"But…but-!" Matthew stammered.
Gilbert started cackling maniacally. Pigeons started flapping away at the echoing noise. He stowed the gun. "I'm sorry Matthew. You looked so scared when I said I wouldn't be taking you to the edge. I couldn't resist."
A flash of relief crossed Matthew's countenance. Then, complete rage. "You bastard!"
"Yes. But I wear it well, don't I?" Damn, Matthew was scared. Gilbert made a mental note of his acting abilities. Dumb kid. You can't have a conversation with someone and suddenly decide to kill them. He must have been taught Germans are monsters.
"I'm still not taking you to the edge of the city, though." Gilbert reasserted, after his fit of laughing at Matthew's fear had run its course. He straightened his uniform.
"Where are you really taking me? And the next words out of your mouth better not be 'the morgue.'" Matthew warned.
"Hah! Ain't neither of us soldiers gonna be so pampered with that. Nah, I'm taking you to a restaurant."
A quiet moment. A joking smile. Then "A restaurant? My, Gilbert, I've only just met you."
"You shut up. What are you, eighteen? You ever been with a woman before? Is that even old enough to drink in your country?"
"How old do you have to be to drink in your country?" Matthew queried, his previous humor evaporating into mild curiosity.
Gilbert blinked confusedly. What kind of question was that? "Eleven?"
"What's there for me at the restaurant?" Matthew asked.
"Come walk. I've burned enough time screwing around already. I'll explain on the way, it's just over there. You want a cigarette, kid? It'll calm your nerves."
"No thanks. I don't smoke." Matthew said softly.
"No?" Gilbert mused. "You should take it up. It's good for your health."
The Canadian and Prussian turned out of the dingy backstreet and onto the main boulevard. It was stupid, really, Gilbert couldn't just decide someone's allegiances on a hunch. But his instincts had rarely failed him before.
"So: that restaurant. You go in there. You see a flitty looking blonde French guy? You sit down at one of his tables. I don't care if you don't have any money, pretend like you do. You speak to him in French, and only in French, got that? Let a few odd things slip and see what he says. If you're not out in ten minutes I'll assume everything is alright and I won't need to take you to the end of the city. Otherwise we'll continue Ludwig's plan A."
"You won't escort me in?" Matthew asked.
"This is as far as I go. I ain't talking to no allied spy."
The shock was apparent on Matthew's face. "You think he's a-!"
Gilbert cut Matthew off before he could say that attention-attracting word again. "You get him to take you to the Soviet scouting encampment to the east. He should know of it. That's where that Russian will have taken Alfred. Do not allow him to take you back to your own army."
"I want to get to Alfred, but can I ask why the Frenchman can't take me back to my own base? Rather than the Russian one?"
"Just don't go back into the American army after this." Hopefully by the time they sort everything out winter will be on too strong to allow any transportation between the two fronts. And maybe by summer this whole damn war will be over and I can go back home after Switzerland.
"Why?" Matthew asked.
Why? Gilbert thought again, because I'm having a serious identity crisis if I should just end you right now if you're going to bomb more German civilians. "Because I said so." Gilbert responded.
"Gilbert, please, I signed my life away, I can't promise-"
"You damn well promise unless you want me to change my mind right now!" He lowered his voice to a stern whisper. "I'm a traitor to the Nazis. Not the German people."
Matthew didn't answer. He looked up into Gilbert's eyes helplessly. Gilbert decided that was all he was going to get. He sighed.
"Right…Should you see Alfred you tell him to whom you owe your life. He's in my debt now. You both are." Gilbert said. For all the trouble Alfred had caused he had better be the first man on the moon. Or research a cure for cancer or malaria or a longer lasting lightbulb or something.
"I will. I'll tell him that you're all okay in Vienna."
"Tell him that we're all going to Switzerland."
"Okay. I will." Matthew confirmed.
Gilbert stopped walking. "We should split up now, so they don't see us walking together when you go into the restaurant." Gilbert pointed a ways down the street where the familiar green and gold awning protruded from the white streets. It was a little before lunchtime. "I'll wait just outside. Remember: ten minutes."
Matthew nodded determinedly. "Yes. Goodbye, Gilbert. And thank you. It was important meeting you, I think. I'd be looking for Al in all of the wrong places."
"Yeah? And now, thanks to you, I now know what 'clam' means in American, and that fifty of them are worth exactly two-hundred and ten Reichsmarks!" Gilbert exclaimed, his voice dripping with excitement.
"Hey!"
"Cool it kid. It was good meeting you too."
"Gilbert, after the war, if you get a trial... you have them call me."
"We'll see."
Matthew extended his hand. They shook.
"Goodbye Gilbert."
"Goodbye Matthew. Good luck."
Matthew quickly strode ahead of Gilbert and disappeared a hundred meters away into Frenchie's restaurant. Gilbert followed leisurely, staying a fair distance behind. When he reached the door he halted several meters before it and leaned his back against the rough cement blocks of the wall. He lit a cigarette, crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and started counting the minutes.
Author's Note
Hi everyone, Celt here. I hope the chapter lengths are not too long, because I never wanted it to feel like this should be rushed or skimmed through due to a sheer amount of content. I do try my hardest to get these out swiftly and consistently, especially given their length.
With all of these foreign characters I wanted to thank people who have helped me translate, offered to, or just politely mentioned in a review if I online translated and got something wrong. I also want to just thank everyone who reviews in general, especially the repeaters. It's really fun to get to learn your names. I wish I could thank you all personally like I used to. I would not be able to write this if it weren't for the feedback this has been getting, and I truly feel myself becoming a better writer and I learned a lot about history just researching for this, and I hope you have too.
CelticFeather