Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters; I merely borrow them and play with them for a while.

Perhaps she should consider herself lucky, Tiger thinks. Because in the end she survived everything, when so many others in the underground didn't.

Outside, it's a beautiful summer's day, but she can't quite enjoy it. And that doesn't feel right, because she used to like the summer – its warmth and the sun, all the people bustling in the streets, little children running and laughing. The world was always a friendlier place in summer, even during the war.

The war.

Sometimes she wonders if there will ever be anything else ever again. At least for her, anyway. It's a mystery how people around her seem to have bounced back so quickly. Like decades have already passed since the war came to an end. Like all those who died and suffered were never truly real, only figments of the imagination, or mere ghosts walking among the living, forever unseen and unheard.

But she can't let go, not yet.

She looks down at her hands. They're shaking, again. She wonders if they'll ever stop doing that. Frustrated, she clenches them into fists, trying to stop the telltale trembling.

But the memories don't go away even if the shaking subsides. They're always there, threatening to rear their ugly head and overpower her when she least expects it.

And it's ironic how it's the height of summer, the midday sun at its peak, and yet all she can think of is a dark and cold Gestapo cell.

Perhaps they grew careless, towards the end. Or maybe it was the Germans who grew more desperate, less particular. Any suspicion, no matter how small, was enough for them to crack down.

She doesn't know who ratted them out. If anyone actually did. Maybe it was their own fault for being inattentive, or perhaps it was just their time. Maybe their luck had simply run out, like so many others' had over the years.

She witnessed it happening too, a few of those times when something went wrong and Lady Luck took her graces away; she stood watching, hiding in the shadows as men in black uniforms, materializing out of nowhere, grabbed their underground contacts and took them away. None were ever seen or heard from again, their deaths never officially reported.

She always knew that next time, it might be her turn. It was a thought that never left her. It was there in the back of her head when she went out to meet a contact, or smuggled secrets documents sewn into her coat. Or when she was trying to fall asleep. Or waking up in the morning. Whenever, wherever – it was always there.

So in a way, it was odd that when her time finally came, she was totally unprepared for it. She used to believe that she would face this moment with a fierce acceptance, a resolute stoicism, but the only thing she could think as those men with guns stepped forward was, this can't be happening to me. It can't be happening. Not now. Not to me.

And rather than fear, she felt bitterness. Because the war was winding down; everything was coming to an end, and yet she had let herself be caught like this. So close to the end.

So close, and yet so far away. As she was led away, she was sure that she would not come out of all this alive, and it felt so unfair. Tears burned behind her eyelids; she had fought so hard, risked everything, and yet fate had deemed her unworthy of seeing the long-awaited end of this devastating war.

The cyanide capsule she always kept hidden on her was soon found and taken away. She quietly watched it go, her eyes following it longingly as the stone-faced Gestapo sergeant in front of her held it between two fingers, inspecting it coldly before placing it on the tray holding her other belongings.

An urge to make a desperate rush for it came over her, to grab the capsule and embrace the quick, painless death it would bring, rather than having to endure the tortuous agony that awaited her. But the two guards holding her arms in a viselike grip only tightened their hold, as if sensing her thoughts. Probably they had similar experiences with other prisoners desperately trying to avoid the horrors that the Gestapo had in store for them.

So instead, she only closed her eyes, willing the world around her away for a few seconds. She would get through this without betraying her friends in the underground; the Bosche would not get even one word out of her, she decided. A vain, ridiculous notion, she realized even as the guards took her away for questioning, but it was all she had to hold onto.

And in the end, they broke her. She didn't talk, she didn't betray anyone, but in the end she still broke.

She remembers crying, sobbing, and pleading. They did such terrible things to her in that cell. She wishes she didn't have to remember, that she could wipe her mind of it all, but the memories are as clear and sharp as ever.

During the long hours that she lay huddled in the dark, time melded into a blur. The floor was so filthy, covered with stains from things she didn't want to even imagine. Her own blood was on that floor too, a horrible reddish taint.

Then, the interrogation sessions suddenly ceased and they left her alone. For a long time, no one came. She was alone in her tiny cell, wondering if they had forgotten about her, or simply left her here to die a lingering death.

When the door to her cell finally opened again, she was still huddling on the floor, too weak to move at all. But there were soothing voices mumbling in her ear, and gentle hands touching her, which was odd, because the hands were never gentle. Not here, not in this place. They just weren't.

Words were spoken – perhaps to her, or to someone else – but they were far too many and far too loud for her to catch them all. However, a few things still stood out in the ear-shattering cacophony of sounds – it's over, it's all over. The war is over.

But she wonders if it will ever truly be over for her. Because even though the Allied forces freed her, they came too late. She had already broken, like a fragile glass figurine, shattered into a thousand jagged little pieces.

Perhaps one day, she'll forget about all this. Maybe one day, the memories will fade, leaving only a distant recollection, too shapeless and vague to hurt any longer.

But that day is not today. So she only looks down into the hands lying in her lap, fingers intertwined. They're still shaking, she notices.

And once again, she wonders if they'll ever stop doing that.