A/N: Ahahah, so, sorry. I just needed to interrupt this to tell you a funny, lil' thing that happened to me a few days ago. I was taking to my Oma, who's German, and she's talking about her cousin, Ruth, who still lives in Germany. And then she mentions Ruth's son and how he goes hunting a lot and stuff. And I just freeze and turn to her and say "what was his name?" "Eberhardt." And I just started grinning like an idiot. Well, then. Ahem.
On with the show!
Also, in one of the last chapters, some facts: when the German soldier was dying on the river bank, the Americans that unsuccessfully tried to kill him with grenades numerous times were Webster and Marsh (they had wanted to put him out of his misery, reasoning that, if the Germans managed to retrieve and save him, he could give them all this information and then they would bomb the Americans more). The one that finally did manage to kill him after the wheezing grew too irritating was Cobb.
Enjoy. xx
"I haven't been so close to home in over two years."
Emilie glanced over to see that Ehrlichmann, the surgeon, had joined her. She was seated on a grassy hill where all the snow had melted away, just outside the town the Germans were currently occupying; in the distance, she could just see the lights of Dachau, a small, medieval town about 16km northwest of Munich in upper Bavaria. The icy breeze wafting over from there carried an odd, pungent scent, one Emilie had smelled too many times before; one of death and rotting flesh and bodies being burnt in fires. But she thought little of it. Few places in the world were untouched by the horrors of the war, and that meant death everywhere she went.
She had her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms tucked around her shins, trying to keep in as much warmth as she possibly could. Winter was drawing to a close, true, but it wasn't finished just yet. It had more left up its sleeve, and Emilie could feel it. Europe was having its worst winter in a long, long time.
She forced a smile and gestured for him to take a seat beside her. He obliged, and lowered himself with a grunt. She could hear his bones creaking from the cold, despite the fact he was probably only about two years her senior. He, like everyone else, had barely begun to live.
They were inside the border of Germany, tantalisingly close to home. But, while everyone else was rejoicing at that fact, she was far more apprehensive. What did she have to go home to? The other soldiers seemed too blinded by the thought of being reunited with their loved ones to remember the Nazi occupation. The mere thought made her skin crawl. The German civilians had voted Hitler in, sucked in by promises of change and a stronger country. They hadn't known what they were getting themselves into, the monster they were allowing to gain power. But now they were too scared to do anything, so they marched on parade before their Führer and cheered him as he passed in the streets, and then raced home and cowered and prayed for the end of his murderous reign.
Emilie and her company were stationed here, waiting to see if the soldiers stationed at the Ruhr needed any reinforcements. So far, they had gotten no radio plead for help, but everyone was still tense, not willing to get comfortable in case they had to run away again.
"Which part do you come from?" Emilie asked, plucking a stem of grass from the ground and running it distractedly through her fingers.
Ehrlichmann struggled to open his pocket for a moment, eventually having to pull of his thick gloves and try again with cussing under his breath. Emilie chuckled and he looked up, smiling sheepishly. But soon, he triumphed over his pesky pocket and pulled something crinkled and bent out, handing it to her. It was a photo. She took it from him and held it up, allowing the silver light of the moon to bathe it. Pictured prominently was a small cottage with an apple tree out front, and three people standing at the front door, smiling happily. She recognised Ehrlichmann on the right, wearing simple clothes, with his arm slung around another, taller man's. An older woman with lines creasing her face stood beside them. "Wiesbaden."
She looked up at the man beside her, who was staring down at the picture wistfully with a small, almost non-existent smile. "My mother and older brother," he explained in a soft voice, "My father died when I was three, so she raised us on her own." He broke off into a laugh before continuing. "We didn't make it easy on her, mind you. This was taken a month before the war started. I was a doctor and a carpenter on the side. My brother fled into the Alps to avoid being drafted, leaving my mother all alone. She didn't mind, though. She was so proud of me, but she wanted to know that at least one of her sons would be safe." Her eyes flicked back to the picture she was still holding, but, when he didn't go on, her gaze was once again on him just in time to see him wipe tears from his eyes before they fell. He shook his head, taking back the picture. His fingers tips lingered over it for a few seconds, before he tucked it back into his pocket. "Sorry. It's just… Now I'm so close to being home, but I know I won't be able to go visit my mother. I must sound pitiful."
Emilie shook her head, expression sympathetic, smiling sadly. It was foreign for her to think that someone actually got along with their family, but also somewhat refreshing. She was faintly aware of the little bluebird and the dog pendant stabbing into her legs, and her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of Tobias, making her feel suddenly empty and lost. She let the grass she had been fiddling with be collected by the breeze, and absently watched it drift into the darkness surrounding them. "You'll get to see her," she assured him, though she wasn't sure what right she had to be telling him that. How could she possibly know? "And your brother. If not now, then after the war. The thought of them will keep you going." She trailed off, looking down, her voice suddenly quiet. "Thinking of my brother gave me strength. Now…" She let out a sigh. "Sorry, that's selfish. We're talking about you."
She saw Ehrlichmann train his gaze on her for a long moment out of the corner of her eye, before his eyes flicked to the distance. "I'm sorry," he told her gently, "About your brother. I don't even want to know how I would feel if I lost mine."
"I don't want to talk about it." Emilie's voice suddenly came out sharp and abrupt, the protective bars designed to keep people out slamming down around her once more. They had abandoned her for a few months, and she wasn't sure whether she was relieved or upset they had now returned. A part of her had liked being able to let people in, but another half had hated it with a passion. She had been scared. Like Muck had said all those moons ago, back in Eindhoven, she was a lone wolf. But even lone wolves can't last long without a pack to watch their back. Like that old saying went: "the wolf's strength is the pack; the pack's strength is the wolf". Though she wasn't sure about that. In her unstable condition, she wasn't much help to anyone. And no one could help her.
Before Ehrlichmann could protest, Emilie was on her feet and storming away on her crutches. She knew she was being ridiculous, that he was just trying to offer some comfort. But all he had managed to do was rub salt in a fresh, throbbing wound that seemed unable to ever heal. And maybe she liked it that way. Maybe she needed to suffer, just like all the people she had sent to their deaths.
