June 20th, 1940 - East Station, Paris, Occupied France
The glass overhead was dark with the clouds of a storm as Arthur stepped off the train, glancing around. White marble columns that supported the roof were stained grey by the rain and Arthur sighed slightly, reaching into the pocket of his dark trench coat and pulling out leather gloves. Wasn't it supposed to rainy in London and sunny in Paris? Pushing through the thin crowds that littered the station, mostly comprised of soldiers, Arthur stepped outside, breathing in the air and blinking around. Shifting the shoulder bag a little and double-checking his camera was still around his neck, he headed for the curb, small suitcase in hand.
Glancing at his wristwatch, he noted that it was a few minutes off as above him a large clock marked three o'clock. He stared around, setting the suitcase at his feet looking out for the man who was supposed to be his guide. None of the solders were approaching him through and none fit the description of "an albino in a uniform." it was unnerving to have to stand in the middle of occupied territory as a guest, almost as if he was going on some bizarre vacation. His eyes glanced at the clock again as he willed time to pass, frequently checking inside his coat for his papers in case one of the soldiers should take a special interest in him.
Half an hour passed and the Brit was sitting on a trashcan, kicking it with the heels of his boots and listening to the low thrums echoing from the dark interior and lighting his second cigarette. "We'll meet again…" he hummed off-key, taking a drag, watching the smoke curl from his nose, "Don't know where, don't know when." Out of the corner of his eye he saw a French couple walking by and getting hassled by two Nazis. Lifting his camera to his eye, he took a picture, still watching the scene with idle interest.
Chuckling as the woman stormed away, the two solders looking dumbstruck while her partner grinned nervously, Arthur flicked the end of his cigarette away, watching it smoulder in a puddle as he searched for another one. Even by his standards of otherworldly time telling, half an hour was too long to wait and he was starting to get a little ticked off. He knew it didn't matter though. This was a once in a lifetime shot. A BBC reporter actually allowed into occupied France, not that he was a reporter, but it was fun to pretend. Relations between the English and Nazi regime were at a stalemate, the Dunkirk invasion having succeeded and the Battle of Britain poised to begin but Hitler was biding his time, securing his hold in France. It was only a matter of time before the invasion of the island would start and Arthur would be stuck here.
Now determined to find the hotel himself, Arthur got to his feet and picked up his briefcase; Paris couldn't be that hard to navigate. There was a loud screech to his right and out of instinct, he grabbed his camera -wishing for a moment it was a gun- bringing it up to his face and snapping a picture. A sleek, black car sped towards him, not slowing down and even with years of living on London streets Arthur couldn't move out of the way in time. He was sprayed by a sheet of mud as the tires slid through a puddle. Dripping with mud, water, oil and whatever other filth was on the French street, the Brit swore loudly, attracting the attention of many passersby, barely having protected his camera before he turned to the car.
Perhaps it was the mud in his eyes that prevented Arthur from seeing the large Swastika on the side of the door, but no matter. "Oy!" He yelled, shaking his hair out of his eyes, lifting the sleeve of his jacket to wipe his eyes, "Watch where you're sodding driving!"
The driver's door opened and a tall man stepped from it, turning to look at Arthur. He grinned, "Velcome to occupied France!" The man said jovially, sliding goggles off his head, winking at Arthur with a bright crimson eye.
Welcome to occupied France indeed.
Arthur soon found out that the man in the nice car was his German escort; Gilbert Beilschmidt, who would be making sure his trip would run smoothly (read: making sure he didn't get his big British nose into anything the Nazis didn't want him to see). Arthur didn't mind; it was better to be with the enemy drinking champagne then hiding in the shadows drinking warm beer in his humble opinion.
There were things he immediately liked about Gilbert and things he didn't. On one hand, the man was rude, brutish, over-confident and didn't really seem to care that Arthur could barely understand the mix of German and English and had the hood down when it was raining. On the other, he drove fast and hard and Arthur had to respect that, especially in the cramped streets of France.
"You are vorking for BBC, ja?" Gilbert asked as they turned a sharp corner, laughing as a few Frenchmen jumped aside, cursing after him.
Arthur nodded, hand gripping the side of the car. "And taking some pictures for the Guardian." His eyes travelled over what he could see of the uniform that wasn't covered by a large black jacket. An Iron Cross at his neck and the huge Swastika on the car. The intelligence had been right, Gilbert was high-ranking.
"I have never heard of zees." He said, car sliding down a side street, barely fitting.
Looking up, Arthur saw a woman grin down from an open window, wearing only a bra and a very light shirt. He wondered for a moment if he was going to be able to keep pleasure out of business in the city of love. "Considering they're banned here, I'm not surprised."
Pulling onto a main road, the car stopped outside a large building from which large red banners hung, fluttering in a light breeze. Gilbert climbed out, black boots splashing in the street as a porter came out, holding an umbrella over the soldiers head. "Herr Kirkland!" he called, stopping once inside the safety of the alcoves leading into the hotel, "Come on, ve have not got all day, ja?"
Arthur grumbled, reaching into the car and grabbing his suitcase, looking across the road at the large hedges that stretched up into the sky, blotting out most of the view. "Picked the nicest hotel." He commented.
"Ja." Gilbert lead him inside to the sprawling lobby that was littered with men in dark uniforms and very subdued looking attendants, "Ve vanted somevhere to stay zat was comfortable. After all, ve vill be here a very long time."
"Very." Arthur agreed quietly, taking a few pictures, smiling as many of the men assembled turned away, raising hands to block their faces. Leading him over to the elevators, Gilbert hit the call button, clasping his hands behind his back. Arthur shifted on his feet, wishing he could see more of the man's medals and ascertain his rank, "So, what part of Germany are you from?"
The red eyes narrowed. "Prussia."
"Doesn't that… not exist anymore?" Arthur asked.
Elevator doors opening, Gilbert stepped into it, glaring back at Arthur. "I am of Prussian descent. Now get in the elevator or I vill leave you behind and you can take ze stairs."
"Well, can't have that." Arthur stepped in beside the soldier as the gloved hand reached out, hitting a button and the door shut. In the moment of silence that passed, Arthur wished his gun was in his shoulder holster and not his suitcase. "So… what part of Prussia then?"
Gilbert's shoulders pulled back slightly and he stood straighter. "The north... near Denmark."
Arthur snorted but said nothing, mind flicking to an old acquaintance. "And… your last name?"
The elevator came to a stop and Gilbert reached into his jacket, showing the hilt of a Luger for a moment before the jacket slipped back over his chest and held out a key to Arthur. Taking it and swallowing, the Brit stepped out of the lift, looking down at the room number engraved into the gold. "Beilschmidt."
He looked up, Gilbert was grinning at him. "Reichsführer-SS Gilbert Beilschmidt." A gloved finger was placed to his lips and the red eye winked as the doors slid shut.
Arthur swallowed, staring at the closed doors, not noticing the key digging into his hand from the force of with which he was holding it. "Reichsführer-SS." Arthur repeated quietly, shaking his head and sighing. This could prove to be a problem. Deciding that mulling it all over in the middle of the hallway was probably not the best idea, Arthur started to his room, sliding the key into the lock and moving inside.
The walls and furniture were all a soft cream while pillows and other accents were made of a deep burgundy. Arthur threw his suitcase into a corner, tossing the eye on top of the bed before his hand found the knot of his tie pulling it loose. He walked over to the writing desk, pulling the curtains aside to stare out at the hedges and the garden beyond. He walked back over to his bag, picking up his camera and took a picture of the empty park, hoping one day he would see it filled with people.
He rummaged around the room some more, pleased to find a bottle of brandy. Popping the cap off and pouring a glass, Arthur leaned in the window frame, raising his drink to the city. "To fair Paris." he muttered, downing the drink.
Author's Note
- Hotel Meurice: the hotel where Nazis set up camp for the long haul. It's directly across from the Tuileries Gardens. Arthur is staying in one of the smaller suites.
-Reichsführer-SS: only five people ever achieved this rank (four at the time of this fic) but Gilbert can be the secret member… right?
-BBC ban: All British sources of information were banned from Occupied Paris, but especially BBC radio because de Gualle (leader of the Free French) would use it to broadcast to the Resistance)