Title: Accents

Author: pronker

Era: November 1944

Summary: Diva is as Diva does. Also, what if Manfredi and Johnson began POW life in Stalag 13 before transferring to Stalag 17?

A/N: Written for a theForceDAHTNET's challenge.

IOIOIOIOIO

"Uff da," moans Johnson.

"Non sei ancora pronto? Dai!" growls Manfredi.

Rökk Marika is my name. The Germans say Marika Rökk. Ez nagyon állat. As long as I make UFA product to uplift the masses of the Third Reich and milk dear Herr Goebbels of tidbits of information, I take their deutschemarks as I dance to their tune. I have learned to accept much in ten years.

The dragon twitches its tail. Must I risk my manicure in this barbaric prison? There is no guard inside the Hall of Recreation per my demand, so I must.

"Stand still," I command. The two Americans inside the rubber dragon mumble something or other as I ascertain the site connection remains secure, tail to torso. "Do not squirm so. I shall tell you when to move." Ach, the bronze catch chips the Jungle Red paint on my left pinkie as I clinch it tighter. I play the diva as everyone expects.

"Tök rossz!" Manfredi and Johnson must hear me inside the dragon because I shout loud enough to awaken my baby; fortunately, Gaby remains at Hotel Hammelburg with Georg in our barely adequate family suite. He is so good with her. From habit, I trill my R's and rumble my umlauts to play up my Magyar accent. To listen to me would rouse the indigestion that plagues dear Georg at age sixty-two, yet I know Germans adore exotic touches as long as they are not too exotic.

A disturbance grows at the barred door as someone roasts the marshmallow-shaped guard. "Aw, come on, Schultz! We're all members of the Marika Rökk Fan Club. You've gotta let us in to get her autograph! Forget the rules for once!"

Mistrust gilds the gemütlich tones I've learned to recognize in two days' stay. "Colonel Hogan, please, it would mean my life!"

Skepticism silvers the other voice. "Your life, Schultz?"

"Well, maybe it would mean only my lunch, but that is still serious business."

A shrewd voice, its accent as familiar to me as the scent of paprika. "Schultzie, Schultzele, a petit four I made just this morning - mmm, smell it - oops the icing is still soft - here, taste on my fingers - "

"Das ist doch ja wunderbar and you saved this one just for me, only you would do this, how nice of you, cockroach - "

Another voice, scratchy from cigarettes. "You love them so much, Schultzie, 'ere, take another."

"Very well, Colonel Hogan, twenty minutes, no more." I can hear lips smacking even through the door.

I have learned another thing in two days staging Ereleuva at Stalag 13: the door to the Hall of Recreation squeaks like an unrehearsed coloratura. After Schultz unbars the door to allow entry and then shuts it once more, a group of nationalities approaches.

Three Americans outnumber the rest, an intriguing Frenchman and an Englander, all in uniform except the Frenchman. I wonder why he is not.

Attitude leaks from the unquestioned leader, firm in voice, stride and manner. However, there lurks an artist's fire underneath. Dance? Music? Drama? "Madame Jacoby, our respects." There it is, step one of the code, which is the use of my formal name; it is common knowledge, yet an American could be excused for ignorance. I incline my head.

"You have the advantage of me," I purr as Manfredi and Johnson stir in their confining suit. Would they emerge to undo the latch as they greet their commander? They two may be taller than I am, but this is my rehearsal. I whip around to shrivel the one wearing the front part of the suit with a glare. Through the eye holes, I can see his gaze drop - I am unsure if it is Manfredi or Johnson in the head of the suit - and he retreats one step, bumping into the tail part of the suit to provoke a yowl from within.

The officer's decisive, unsmiling face relaxes into either a smirk or half-smile as he bows in the European fashion and indicates the rest of his group. "I'm Colonel Robert Hogan. I am senior officer of these men and head the Official Stalag 13 Rökk Marika Fan Club, where we eschew German customs regarding name order as much as we eschew saying Heil Hitler."

There it is, the second step of code recognition: the uncommon English word eschew, twice.

I am among friends.

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TBC

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