Chapter Nine

"It is a hopeless misjudgement to think that one could force a dictatorial regime upon the German nation. The diversity of the German people calls for democracy." — Theodor Wolff in Frankfurter Zeitung, January 1933

January 1943

Hans was too young to remember when Hitler had risen to power. He was ten when the man was appointed chancellor: an age where one was more concerned with tree climbing and frog catching than politics. Still, it bothered him that he couldn't recall anything unusual about that day: the day the fragile balance of the Weimar Republic shifted in the fascists' favor, German democracy vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Perhaps the memory was buried in his subconscious, hidden among recollections of his school days, the lyrics to "Das Deutschlandlied", remembrances of their old apartment on Kaiserdamm. There were darker images, too: women pushing wheelbarrows full of marks to buy a loaf of bread, soldiers with haunted eyes and missing limbs, crowds at a Nurnberg rally, howling for the blood of Hitler's enemies.

Although he'd once been eager to grow up, now Hans longed for the innocence of childhood: a time when he still believed people could be trusted, that good would always triumph over evil. Back then, he'd never suspected Hitler would change everything, that one man would, in just a few years, destroy a nation it had taken centuries to build, staining the Motherland's legacy with cruelty and suffering. The Third Reich was but a pale imitation of greatness, a twisted mockery of the land he loved.

Hands curling into fists, he wished for the thousandth time that he were strong enough to fight—though not for Germany. Given the chance, Hans would gladly follow the example of his cousin, Friedrich, who'd defected to the Allies at the first opportunity. But he wore braces on his legs from a childhood bout of polio; and recruiters from the Wehrmacht, despite their desperation for more soldiers, laughed when he offered his services.

"We'd be better off taking our chances with a Jew!"

Although many of his countrymen considered this the ultimate insult, Hans knew who the real monsters were; the Hebrews were scapegoats, convenient targets meant to distract the people from Nazi bloodshed.

Staring into the flames flickering in the hearth, he imagined the Nazis burning along with them, writhing with the pain they'd inflicted on so many. He thought of Jewish businesses looted, the proprietors watching helplessly as mobs carted away their livelihood; the men forced to fight and die for a cause they didn't believe in; the constant fear, everyone bracing themselves for a knock on the door and the stony faces of the Gestapo.

There was a sound behind him—the barest whisper of feet against the worn floorboards—and Hans whirled around, one hand clutching the fireplace poker. It wasn't exactly the ideal weapon, but he refused to go down without a fight. Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, he started to swing…

"Wait!" The shadow exclaimed. "It's only me."

Hans scowled, doing his best to still his racing heart as he slowly lowered the poker. "Leni, you know better than to scare me like that."

"You were scared?" His sister flashed him an impish smile, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

"Of course I was! I thought..." Hans sighed, fear replaced by the weariness that never seemed to leave him these days. "Never mind."

Leni's face darkened; and Hans was struck by how ancient she seemed, this girl who had yet to reach her tenth birthday. Her childhood was yet another casualty of the war. "Even if the Gestapo come, I won't let them have you."

The idea of his little sister facing Hitler's goons with nothing to defend her save her golden hair and blue eyes—perfect Aryan features—made his stomach clench. "If that happens, promise me you won't fight them. If something happened to you…I'd never forgive myself."

Her jaw set: the stubborn expression Hans had come to dread. "I won't abandon you."

Hans opened his mouth to argue but stopped at the sight of her tears; Leni ran to him, pressing her face against his shoulder. "You can't go." She whispered. "I need you."

Hans ruffled her hair. "Liebchen, I'm not going anywhere. Now dry your eyes." He handed her the handkerchief Leni had given him for his birthday last year (complete with his initials crookedly embroidered in the corner).

She sniffled but obeyed. "Promise?"

"I promise."

The lie stung, but her smile was worth it.

He awoke gasping for breath, body coated in a sheen of sweat. Already, the dream was fading, though a few remnants still lingered: a crackling fire, someone crying...Hans closed his eyes, trying to recapture the images, but with each second they receded further, until they'd slipped away completely. His chest felt hollow, though he couldn't recall the reason for that, either.

Padding to the window, he peered out the porthole into the midst of a raging storm. No wonder the others had let him be; little business could be conducted in such weather. Someone pounded on the door, forcing him to reevaluate this assessment. "Are you awake?" Without waiting for a response, Schrodinger let himself in. Annoyed by the boy's utter disregard for common courtesy, Hans glared, but Schrodinger didn't seem to notice (or more likely, didn't care).

"I was sent to fetch you; Herr Doktor has called another meeting, despite the lovely weather we're having." Noting Hans' disheveled appearance, Schrodinger smirked. "You look pale, Captain. Were you having a nightmare?"

When Hans only scowled, the boy shrugged, knowing better than to press the issue. "Ah, well; I'll get it out of you eventually. Now hurry up or we'll be late. Last one there is a Jew!"

London

Heinkel was in a foul mood. It had taken the better part of an hour to free Seras from the witch's spell—to the tune of much swearing and several explosions—and she was tired and sweaty, her head throbbing in time with her ruined cheek. Even more painful was the knowledge that the mission had been a failure. Not only were they unable to capture the culprit, but now that the witch knew they were on to her, she would surely be more cautious: making it that much harder to apprehend her.

Integra would be furious; to say Heinkel wasn't looking forward to delivering her report would be an understatement. At least she'd recovered her guns; her weapons had been piled carelessly in a corner, dusty but otherwise unharmed.

Something nudged her hand; and Heinkel almost blew it to pieces before recognizing her new pet. She'd taken the cat with them, since it would have been cruel to leave the animal to its owner's nonexistent mercy. Besides, it was pretty cute (not that she'd ever admit this aloud) and its presence would annoy Dorian (always a bonus).

"We're in deep shit." She told it, bending down to scratch it behind the ears. The animal purred in response.

At least one of us is happy.

"That sums it up nicely."

This time, Heinkel was able to keep from flinching at Seras' sudden appearance. "What did Integra say?"

Seras' eyes were knowing, as though she understood how Heinkel dreaded the disapproval of her superiors—even one she despised. Was the vampire inside her head? She thought of the way Alucard forced others to do his bidding with a mere look and repressed a shudder.

Sir Integra is a tosser. Heinkel thought as loudly as she could, but the vampire's expression didn't change.

"She isn't happy, but she was prepared for this. We're moving to the second phase of the plan." There was a hint of pride in the vampire's voice at her master's cunning. Seras bent to pet the cat, which eyed her for a moment before rolling over to present her with its belly.

"Which is?" Heinkel realized she was speaking through gritted teeth and forced herself to relax. Her body felt taut, like a rubber band stretched to its limit. If she didn't get some sleep soon, she'd snap.

"Dorian and the new recruits will search the area for any clues." Seras replied, ignoring Heinkel's snort."Sir Integra wants us to rest and gather our strength."

It was clear this instruction was intended for Heinkel's benefit. While Seras didn't have so much as a hair out of place, Heinkel's robes were torn and her hair mussed; bruises purpled her body, and there was a cut on one cheek. Nodding, she smothered a yawn. Ordinarily, Heinkel would have been offended at the implication of weakness, but she was exhausted; witch-hunting was harder than it looked.

Besides, I could use a nap and a hot shower—in that order.

Scooping up her new pet, she set off for her quarters.

Seras called after her, "I never took you for an animal lover."

"Shut up, bloodsucker."

But there was none of the usual venom in Heinkel's voice; it was difficult to be angry with the cat purring loud enough to rattle her bones. Oh, how she'd longed for a trusted companion—someone who loved her unconditionally and would never betray her.

What should I call her?

Heinkel tried to think of a suitable name, but none seemed quite right. The cat meowed, nuzzling her chest; and she thought of those bleak days in the orphanage, when Greta had been the only sunshine in her life. As though sensing her thoughts, the animal purred even louder.

Greta it is, then. The thought warmed her despite the chill of Hellsing's halls.

Once in her room, Heinkel deposited Greta on the rug; with an offended meow, the cat leapt onto the bed and settled there, tail twitching. Too tired to bother removing her, Heinkel followed suit. By the time Greta curled up on her chest, she was already asleep.