Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while.
After all that has happened, it's strange how life can still return to some degree of normalcy. In some ways, almost like things were before the war. Of course, food and most everything else is still scarce and hard to come by. And the ruins of what used to be houses remain just that – ruins. A few buildings have been rebuilt, such as the Rathaus and the local church, but most haven't. There are more pressing things to deal with, after all. And besides, it's not like there's really anyone around to do it either, not with the best part of Germany's men either dead or POWs in Russia.
Russia. She supposes she's lucky that Hammelburg isn't part of the Russian occupation zone. She's heard so many awful things about what the Russians have been doing to German POWs and civilians alike. Things only spoken of in whispered rumours for fear that they might actually be true.
At least she should be happy that her brother Friedrich didn't end up in some labour camp in Siberia. At least he's safe in the US. At least...
Her fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the photograph she's holding. She doesn't want to look at it again; right now she can't bear to. There's too much bitterness in her for that. What she would like to do the most is to tear up that photo in her hands and burn the pieces, but she knows that she would regret it afterwards, despite everything.
She so wishes Friedrich were here. And it doesn't fell fair that he's not. It's been so many years now since she last saw him; he should be sitting here right next to her, telling her amusing stories to cheer her up, the way he used to do before the war whenever she was feeling sad. He always knew how to put a smile on her face no matter how glum things were around her.
Perhaps she's being selfish thinking like this when there are so many brothers and fathers and sons that will never be coming back at all. At least Friedrich is alive and well. At least...
She runs her fingers along the edge of the photograph, toys with a creased corner. She thinks of the old picture of Friedrich that she used to keep in the drawer of her desk at Stalag 13, and all the times – when no one else was in the room – that she would take it out to look at. Wishing that she had more photographs of him. Hoping that once she came back home after work, there would be a letter from him waiting for her.
But this photo is one she could have done without. As well as the letter that accompanied it. She's already read through it several times, but she isn't sure whether the news have really sunken in yet. It feels so unreal, so unexpected.
It's not fair, her mind childishly screams at her again, stubbornly protesting facts that she is powerless to change. No, she can't do a thing about it, because she is here, in the remains of what used to be the picturesque town of Hammelburg, and Friedrich is on the other side of the world, in a country she has never been to, only seen pictures of.
And right now, she hates that country. It's ironic, a more rational part of her mind notices, how she never did hate America during the war, when America and Germany were bitter enemies bent on destroying each other. But no, she didn't hate them, not even when the news of Friedrich being a POW in the US arrived or Allied planes were bombing Hammelburg to pieces. Because hate always seemed to be such a destructive feeling, one that starts wars and brings misery to people who want nothing more than to live their lives in peace. She's seen so much hate in this last decade, more than she cares to remember. The propaganda was always filled with it, and so were the endless speeches and rallies and gatherings, and she got so tired of it all.
Not only their politicians and military and leaders hated the enemy, but it seemed her neighbours and friends also did. At times she would recoil at the venom in their voices, the glint of hatred in their eyes as they spoke of the Russian Untermenschen or the American Schweinehunde.
And that's something she could never understand, because how can you hate a person you've never met, someone you don't know anything about?
No, she never understood that. Not until now. Because now she realizes that she also hates like that.
Not really wanting to but unable to stop herself, she steals another glance at the picture still in her hands. The picture of Friedrich. No, she mentally corrects herself, the picture of Friedrich and his wife. His American wife.
I'm sorry, Hilda, his letter had said. But I hope you understand.
He'd gotten to know her during work detail – voluntary work detail, as he wasn't required to work, being an officer. She was helping out at the farm Friedrich had been assigned to. The POWs were given a relatively fair amount of freedom, partly because both they and their captors knew that escaping to Germany was virtually impossible, and partly because the American industry and farms needed able-bodied men when so many of their own were off fighting in the war. So things slowly developed between them, and they didn't stop until he had lost his heart to her, and she to him.
But in the end, after the war was over, he was to be sent home. Repatriated along with the other German POWs in the camp.
And that's when they decided they would marry. It was the only way they could stay together, as Friedrich would otherwise have been sent home to Germany. Apparently, her father had contacts in high places that could arrange for this to happen; the letter is very sketchy on the details, though, and she suspects it wasn't exactly a by-the-book procedure.
I'm sorry, Hilda. But I hope you understand.
Their wedding had been a quick, simple affair. And she hadn't even been there – she, Friedrich's only sister. She hadn't even known about the wedding, not until the letter with the attached photo arrived.
She missed him so much during his long absence, and she still does. So many times did she fantasize about the day he would be repatriated and the two of them finally reunited. But now, Friedrich isn't coming home. Not now, perhaps not ever, because he's chosen that American woman over her. The one who's standing there in the picture in her white wedding dress, flowers in her hands, smiling, because the handsome young man at her side is her husband. He's all hers, now.
While all she has of Friedrich is pictures and letters and memories.
And that's when she buries her face in her hands and cries.