I get into bed, slightly sweating in the heat. Letting my mind wander, I think on several things (like how I'm gonna kill Gilbert and when I can finally buy some more good wurst). No matter what I do think though, my mind always comes back to the girl. She has a large noticeable freckle on her nose; I know I've seen it on someone before. I still can't remember though. Despite the intense situation we just found ourselves in, I still cannot keep the adrenaline going long enough for me to figure it out, and soon I find myself drifting into a troubled sleep.

I'm walking with Gilbert through open gates. It's raining hard; both of us have on our heavy military coats. Suddenly we are in the middle of a graveyard. My throat constricts. Not just any graveyard, a WW2 soldier graveyard. Carefully I begin to pick my way over to one, not by my own willpower but a strange force. Gilbert silently follows me. It's strange at first, but then again he was silent when this happened for real. This isn't just a dream, it's a memory.

White crosses surround me in neat lines. When we reach the one I know so well, I can't help but sink to my knees in front of it. With slightly shaking hands I reach out and rub the layer of grime off of the nameplate. Private Johan Wassinger. I never cry, I barely even know how, but a few rebels fall out as I remember the man who saved my butt more times than I can count. He was never a fanatic, just trying to survive and feed his family. But instead I had to.

Suddenly the scene switches and we are across the street in another graveyard. This one though the white cross soldiers has been exchanged for golden Stars of David. Still kneeling, I want to sink into the earth and disappear. Uncharacteristically Gilbert sticks a hand on my shoulder.

"You need to stop blaming yourself West. What's done and gone is in the past. It wasn't even your fault."

"Everything is my fault." I've seen the way the other countries look at me, the way they still clutch the weapons they bring. East is about to reply when we hear the shriek of kids. Not just any kids; on the day there was a whole busload of orphans on a history field trip. Just as I wondered then I wonder now: What are children doing here?

One child wasn't screaming with the others. She had what looked like a bouquet of flowers and she was slowly and methodically putting one on each star. Pretty soon she came over to where we were. With the innocence of an eight year old she looked at me quizzically.

"Why are you so sad mister?" I look up at this girl; she has no idea about half of it. I struggle to put back on my smile.

"It's nothing." Hesitantly I look back at her. Talking lately hasn't been my strong suit. I've long since given up trying to get anything accomplished at world meetings. I can scare everyone into silence, but I don't want that. "I think it's wonderful what you are doing."

"You know what my mommy used to say? She said the dead should be honored, but she didn't want me to cry when she went to join them. They aren't happy when you cry. They're happy when you are. She told me she would be happy if I was." I look back up at her, but instead of an eight-year-old child I see a mature nineteen-year-old woman that I just rescued, saying the words that got me through the last 11 years. Just as the child did that day, mutely she hands the star a flower and moves on.

"Wait, don't go…" I struggle to get up, to run after her, to ask her everything, but everything goes black. I yell, but all that calls back to me is the echo of my own voice.

Suddenly I'm back in my room, gasping and heaving for breath. I swear Rodriech jacked up the heat again, but I can't feel it because I'm covered in a cold sweat. The same wise child that gave me hope was treated terribly for who knows what reason.

After WW2, I sank into a depression. My brother came back as East Germany, but nothing could get me out. I never really got over the atrocities committed in my land, my country, myself. I still can't but back then it was so bad I couldn't eat, sleep, or even breathe some days. I had some really good bosses them, like Karl Adenaur, and they left me alone for the most part, which was some relief. When I first spoke to that girl, I was making my yearly visit to graveyards. I just couldn't let go. But somehow and orphan child had more strength than I did, and it helped me to end my pain. I couldn't focus on my pain, the past was the past, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

I have to go talk to her; I have to know if she is the one. Quickly I throw off my blanket and ran downstairs.

A/N So, I know a depressed Germany is pretty sad. But that's the story. Soooo, let's see what is going to happen...