Disclaimer: The canon characters belong to QT.
AN: Thanks for everyone, who's read my story so far and whenever will read it, for those who left reviews and asked questions (did I answer all your messages?). But the list of my "special thanks" is growing longer with each new chapter. These are people, whose help is invaluable: my translator Yana, my Russian beta and gamma-readers Mary-Eglantine and Hard-Candy-CSC, who keep me sane and accurate, my English editor DeborahKLA, whose brilliant talent of a writer and an editor is worth much more than my humble text, and Mirial, my keen and wise consultant, who knows the answer on any question.
Ladies, your help and friendship are above rubies for me.
AN2: This chapter turned out to be very long, so I divided it in 2 parts. Here's the first part. Your comments, con-crit and reviews are welcome!:)
Chapter III. Four Moments From the Past (part I).
And yet my sky shall not want stars.
W. Shakespeare, Henry V, Act III, scene VII
Hans Landa never doubted he would become a detective. While his brother Friedrich dreamt of military service and his friends planned to fly across the Atlantic some day, Hans had always wanted to solve crimes.
What was the use of military service? Drilling and obeying orders were meant for those who needed guidance and couldn't make their own decisions. Landa couldn't stand having his freedom limited.
Racing autos, flying planes, traveling to the ends of the earth were good for men who didn't realize that there were greater excitements than high speed, the wind blowing in your face or touring exotic landscapes.
The moral side of the profession didn't interest Landa: he wasn't excited about fighting crime or becoming a hero. Striving to achieve the ideals of manhood and conquering evil held no appeal for him. No, it was the investigative process that intrigued him.
Nothing was more exciting than watching events unfold, coming to conclusions, putting together scattered evidence like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Nothing was more pleasing to him than casting his nets and waiting for his prey to get entangled in them as though they were a sticky spider's web.
Landa knew that realizing his dreams would not be easy. He was the oldest son and his future had been predetermined – he was to inherit his father's business.
By the time Hans was born, his father—Emil Landa—was the principal of the law firm of Landa and Sons that had been in existence since the 1850s. He had taken the reins after his father's death and his brothers were his partners. The firm had done quite well for many years and Landa Senior was happily convinced that his oldest son would one day head one of the most successful law firms in Vienna. From the time he was a very young child, Hans was raised to understand that this was his destiny. He realized that no one would take his wishes into account, so he decided to keep mum up about them and, to a certain point, do everything required of him to meet his father's expectations.
So Hans—Landa Junior, as it were—entered the school of law at the University of Vienna just as his father expected him to, but he chose to study criminal law instead of civil law. Emil—Landa Senior—was disappointed, but on second thoughts decided that his son's choice was not a bad one. Although Landa and Sons had always specialized in civil and family law, Hans could become the first Landa to serve as a defense attorney at criminal procedures. Landa Senior was still laboring under this delusion when his son, who was on practical training as a certified Viennese attorney, expressed his intent to work for the police and announced that he had applied for the post of junior investigative assistant.
///
Vienna, 1923
"What?!" His father asked, his voice faltering.
"I got a job with the police," Hans patiently repeated. Emil stared at him; he could barely find the words to express his emotions. Hans rocked on his heels, his hands deep in his pockets, as he waited for his father's response.
"If this is a joke, now's a good time to end it," his father finally spluttered.
"Have I ever joked with you?" Hans asked calmly.
A wave of anger swept over Emil like a tsunami. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Hans ducked his head as if in shame, and his ash blonde hairfell over his forehead. But a moment later he raised his head and looked his father square in the eye.
"I knew you would say that," he announced defiantly.
"Oh, you did, by Jove?! Did you, damn it?!" Emil gasped for breath; he could feel a strong pressure in his chest. His son gazed at him in indifference.
Emil had always known that once Hans made up his mind about something, it was best to leave well enough alone. But in the past his unyielding stances had always been over relatively harmless diversions—like his interest in German Expressionism. In pursuit of that interest the boy would disappear for hours in the cinema, but he always kept up his studies and stuck to his goals. This was different.
Emil took a deep breath, as if to rid the pressure in his chest, and asked, slowly, "Why did you do this?"
"Because I like police work," Hans replied calmly. It was clear that he had made his decision long ago. "I've always wanted to do this, for as long as I can remember."
Emil gazed at his son's face, now an imperturbable and firmly dispassionate mask. "Your entire life? But you're only twenty-two! What is so attractive about endless shit-digging?"
"I've always been much more interested in 'digging shit,' as you put it, than in processing divorce suits and last wills and testaments." Hans was absolutely calm as he spoke, and that was what vexed Emil the most. "You never asked me what I wanted to do. You planned everything for me, years in advance. It obviously never occurred to you that I might think differently—that I might want to do something else."
It took Emil some time to weigh the possible solutions. During his silence Hans waited patiently, a subtle smile on his face. The situation amused him more than anything else, and he was enjoying every minute of it.
"What do I have to do?" Emil finally asked. A derisive and cynical gaze was his son's only answer. "What do I have to do to make you give up this ridiculous idea?" His father's voice was impatient now.
"I don't need anything," Hans replied with almost sadistic pleasure. "I just stopped by to let you know."
"And to collect your belongings, I gather," Emil snarled.
Hans' nostrils flared briefly, but he remained calm. "And to collect my belongings," he replied.
He was about to leave when his father asked, "What am I supposed to tell your mother and brother?"
Hans half turned and flung out, "Tell them I'm not a worthy heir to the glorious von Kroys."
His mother's ancestors had been through the Crusades and fought for their lands against numerous Popes. Over the centuries the von Kroys had nearly become extinct. They had lost their splendor, their lands and wealth. So when the young, successful attorney Emil Landa asked for Kristina von Kroy's hand in marriage in return for his money, neither she nor her parents hesitated. The bargain was good for both sides—Landa got a member of nobility for a spouse and easy access to high society, while Kristina—thanks to her husband's fortune— was able to partially restore her family's fame.
Hans knew exactly what was going to happen when his father broke the news to his mother and Friedrich. He could easily picture his mother's pale face, her hands reaching out to grasp something for support while his brother looked overwhelmed. The image was a delightful one, and Hans smiled.
"Get out!" Emil's hand rested on a heavy paperweight. Hans wanted to say something biting before leaving, but decided not to tempt fate. He quickly slipped out the door, leaving it ajar.
///
Affairs with actresses were common among SS officers in the Third Reich. In fact, it was even on the secret list of their "obligatory duties."
The Führer's "knights" constantly chased after blonde bombshells and endlessly boasted about the little souvenirs and trophies they acquired. These could be anything: a glove, a handkerchief stained with lipstick or a brooch; the lucky ones got shoes, and the real daredevils got lace garters.
Hans Landa looked upon the hunt for souvenirs and trophies with disdain and refused to participate. He never had to provide proof of his love affairs. Everyone knew it took him no time or trouble at all to charm and subsequently seduce any woman he wanted.
There was a time when actresses really attracted him. Those gorgeous women seemed so distant and desired. But he quickly found them disappointing. There was nothing to accompany their charming looks but vulgar stupidity; any mystery surrounding them quickly turned into mincing manners that only wore him out. To say nothing of their coldness—actresses were just like prostitutes, really. The only differences were the higher price and better image.
But when the Reich came to power and the war began, these gaudy butterflies were welcome. Traditional romance simply took too much time and effort.
///
Berlin, 1929
In November, Hans Landa just happened to be in Germany. He was investigating an important fraud case and had followed the suspect to Berlin.
Years later that trip would seem nothing more than a drab gray dream with a monotonous sequence of shots. There was one morning, however, that he would always remember with great pleasure.
Hans had some spare time that morning. He had just sent a telegram to his boss in Vienna, reporting on the course of the investigation, and was now awaiting further instructions.
He didn't want to waste this precious time by spending it with the local police, who irritated him greatly. They often made him marvel at how infinitely stupid men could be. So he chose to take a stroll around the city, instead.
It was cold out, and Hans felt the chill fairly quickly. He slipped into the nearest café to warm up with a cup of coffee. It was about ten in the morning and nearly all the tables were vacant. He was about to sit at the window so he could sip his coffee while gazing out at the people in the street—like a cat watching the fish swim around in their tank—when suddenly he noticed a young lady sitting alone at a table on the far side of the café.
For a moment Landa couldn't believe his eyes. No, it couldn't be true—it was a miracle, a dream, an incredible coincidence, a Halley's comet! A coat with a stand-up collar, a clever little cloche with rooster's feathers to cover her short, bobbed hair, a gentle face, dark eyes and cherry-red lips—it couldn't be anyone else!
Landa felt like a boy who had just opened a much-wanted present on Christmas morning. He slipped out into the street to purchase a photo card at the nearest newsstand, which wasn't easy; he had to shuffle through a whole heap of cards under the glaring eyes of the newspaperman until he found the one he was looking for. He handed over a few coins and returned to the café.
The girl was still there. She was reading a book and seemed oblivious to everyone around her. Landa placed his order, pointing at her table. He then went up to her.
"If it was evening," he said in a low voice to avoid attracting attention, "I would invite you to have a glass of Champagne with me. But it's morning, so I took the courtesy of ordering you a glass of milk and some strudel instead, Miss Brooks."
Louise Brooks—star of the two most recent films directed by George Wilhelm Pabst and a world-famous American actress—put her book down to look at the handsome young stranger. Her wonderful eyes shone like blackcurrants in the morning dew.
"Well, obviously my disguise didn't work," she smiled, and Landa understood that as an invitation to join her.
"It's no fault on your part. I'm a detective. I notice things that others don't," he told her as he took the seat opposite her, so they could face each other.
"A detective? Well, that's better than yet another wealthy trust fund boy who thinks too highly of himself," declared Brooks, casting an arch look at him.
"Trust me, I ask nothing more than to drink a glass of milk in your company." Hans was smiling, but his tone was serious. His remark made Brooks laugh. She chortled so loudly she had to hide behind her book—the other people in the café had all turned to look at her.
"Don't worry, I'm sure no one here knows you," Landa told her in a stage whisper.
"All the better," a light shadow crossed her face. " I'm so tired of hearing the same words over and over again, 'this is the American woman who played our Lulu!'"
"You must be joking!" Landa became serious.
"Unfortunately, I'm not." She glanced at his piercing eyes but immediately looked away. "After Tagebuch came out I was afraid that people would do me in for the very 'amoral' image I created." She shivered.
"Just ignore them." It was one of those rare occasions when Landa spoke seriously to a woman, but her distress had disturbed him. "Die Büchse der Pandora and Tagebuch are Pabst's best films, and it's your acting that made them so."
Brooks looked down; she didn't say a word, but her brow knitted. Landa didn't dare touch her; he couldn't even place a comforting hand over hers, which was encased in a black suede glove and clenched into a fist. He knew many actresses—some of them on screen, some in person—but none of them was worth a single hair on the head of this charming little goddess with whom he was seated.
The waiter brought their milk and strudel.
"I've had absinthe, Champagne and all sorts of wines as my morning repast," Brooks laughed, "but never milk and strudel!"
"This strudel is worth crossing the Atlantic," he told her, and ate a bite with the air of a true connoisseur. Brooks followed his example, and her childish face blushed with pleasure.
"I say! It really is!"
Landa shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Of course it is. Would I lie to Louise Brooks?"
He couldn't tell if she was simply skilled at quickly hiding her true feelings or if she really liked him, but she laughed again, a laugh as soft yet deep as her voice.
"By the way, you speak English very well. And you have quite a nice accent—nothing at all like the Berlin woof-woof-woof." Her enthusiasm made her all the prettier; her cheeks flushed slightly and her black eyes sparkled.
"Ah, but that's because I am not a Berliner," Landa replied as he gazed into her eyes. "I was born and raised in Vienna, Austria, where our accent is rather softer and more refined than that of North Germany." He could no longer conceal his admiration as he absorbed her beauty and basked in the rays of her good cheer.
She took a sip of milk and put the glass back down on the table. Landa noticed the slightest trace of a milk moustache above her dark cherry lips, and suddenly wondered how cherries would taste in cream. Brooks, it seemed, understood his glance.
"I'd like to propose a toast." Suddenly shy, she ducked her head; but then, as though she'd plucked up the courage to do so, she raised it once more and looked him straight in the eye. "It's a dramatic one, to be sure. But may our respective careers prosper and bring us not just wealth but also happiness!"
Her toast surprised Landa, but he raised his glass. Brooks downed the rest of her milk, then glanced at her watch:
"It's time for me to go," she said, with just the slightest tinge of regret.
Landa drew the photo card he'd purchased as well as a pen out of his pocket and put them both in front of her without saying a word. Miss Louise Brooks pondered them for a moment.
"What is your name?" she finally asked.
"Hans Landa."
"It suits you well. If you ever consider a career as an actor, you won't need to change it."
It was as though she didn't want to leave, and was simply looking for ways to continue their conversation. She hesitated for a moment, then finally took the card and signed it, in the corner: To Hans Landa. Thank you for the milk and strudel. Louise Brooks, 1929.
In just a few years her acting career would end and Louise Brooks' star would forever disappear from the Hollywood sky.
As for Landa, he would hold onto his one and only cinematic trophy, keeping it among his many documents and papers until one chilly, foggy morning his own career ended in a forest outside Paris, just a few miles into the Allied Zone.