The heavy pounding on the door was followed by a crash and a shout of "Entschuldigung!". Then came the distinct sound of military boots on plank. The little house reverberated and old wood creaked under the steady strides. Closer and closer, deliberately slow, like a predator stalking its prey.
Then he stood there, casually leaning on the doorway. He caught the other nation's dull eyes and raised a hand to knock mockingly on the open door.
"Guten morgen, Norwegen," Germany greeted, with a stern expression and a football under his arm. There was an awkward silence, filled by the clicking of knitting needles, before Norway opened his mouth to speak.
"Nice weather we have," he said monotonously. The German blinked, but chalked it up to some backwards Norwegian custom.
"Ja, ja, sure. Perfect for football." He turned half ways in the door, as if to leave.
"If you say so." Norway unwound some more blue yarn. Germany stopped and looked back with a nonplussed expression, before deciding that Norway probably was a bit slow. Living in such a remote and isolated country would do that to a person. It had made him a homey, unsophisticated farmer, suitably clad in traditional clothing and living in a picturesque, rustic little cabin. Truly the perfect Aryan.
"Do you want to play football?" he half asked, half commanded, with an awkward gesture to the ball under his arm.
"..." Norway carefully folded the unfinished sweater and put it in a basket, together with the knitting needles and the yarn. "I'd rather not," he said, standing up. Germany furrowed his brow.
"Against Denmark, then."
"No."
"Sweden."
"No."
"Why?"
"I do not wish to play."
"You would like to play football. Now." The Norwegian stood up and walked towards a closed door.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" Norway inquired airily, changing the subject as he opened the kitchen door. Germany followed hesitantly.
"... Ja." He then paused before adding, "Bitte." Norway poured water in a coffee pot and placed it on the stove.
"Would you open that cupboard, please? There should be some bread there." Germany opened the cupboard. The bread was there. A small grey lump. He looked through the rest of the things, after a furtive glance over his shoulder. Norway was watching the pot. Boxes. Most of them were empty. There was a half empty one, half full, with wheat flour, and another with a brown-greyish flour of unknown origin.
"The coffee is ready," Norway said, and Germany started at the sudden noise in the silent kitchen. He turned to find Norway sitting at the kitchen table, which he had somehow already set, with two steaming cups of (presumably) coffee and two plates. He was lazily stirring a bowl of jam, and had turned his head to look out of the window. Germany took three long strides, and sat down at the table.
"I should probably warn you," Norway said, dripping a small amount of jam onto a slice of bread. "That the coffee is not real coffee, it is a substitute."
"A substitute?" Germany asked, pouring jam onto his own slice of bread, before setting it down and lifting the coffee cup to smell the substance.
"Burnt roots of dandelion," Norway replied serenely, sipping his 'coffee'.
"Dandelion," the German deadpanned, subtly pushing his cup away. He reached for the bread instead, and took a bite, only to gag slightly. "Und was ist das?" he croaked.
"Bark bread. There is a shortage of flour, so I mix it with bark. The taste is not optimal, and it does not give much energy, but it does fill ones stomach."
"Hmph." Norway shrugged.
"As you can see, I do not have enough food to throw away energy on unnecessary games."
"Hardly unnecessary. I can provide better food."
"Germany, is it right to play, when your house is on fire?"
"Your house is not on fire," Germany replied, raising his voice. Norway stood abruptly, and opened the cupboard beneath the sink. He pulled out a keg, uncorked it and began pouring liberal amounts of it onto the floor. He splashed some on the curtains and moved back into the livingroom. Here he picked up the basket with his knitting and continued pouring the liquid, again splashing the curtains.
Germany has now gotten to his feet and followed him out in the hallway, watching in disbelief as the other splashed lamp oil into the rooms he passed. At this point the rug in the hallway was completely soaked. He emptied the keg at the threshold, and stepped out. Germany hurried after him and moved even further away from the house when Norway fished up a match from his pocket. He lit it against the wooden wall of the house.
"I do not play while my house is on fire," he spat, and threw the match over his shoulder and in through the door. The rug immediately caught fire, and soon the house was enveloped in flames. Norway simply hooked his arm through the baskets handle, and sauntered into the woods, as if he was taking a stroll after service a sunny Sunday afternoon.
Germany was left staring alternately at the ablaze house, and after the retreating back of the Norwegian nation. After a while he turned and walked back to his car, looking back at the burning house with a sigh. Maybe Norway really was as insane as Sweden and Denmark had claimed.
-:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:-
Translations:
Entschuldigung (ger) - Sorry
Guten morgen, Norwegen (ger) - Good morning, Norway
Ja, ja (ger/nor) - Yes, yes
Ja (ger/nor) - Yes
Bitte (ger) - Please
Notes:
This is set in 1941, in summer or early autumn. At this point most of Norway's sports teams were on a strike against all Nazi arrangements. This strike started in November 1940, and the first out where the wrestlers who refused to enter an audition for the national team. In January 1941 the ice skaters and the ski athletes, including Nordic skiing, ski jumping, alpine skiing and biathlon, refused to compete in the Norwegian Cup. A majority of Norwegian clubs and teams decided to enter a period of inactivity. The strike also included spectators, and betting, and was a success.
One of Norway's most famous ski jumpers, Birger Ruud, refused to participate in sports, and was therefore placed in the concentration camp Grini, outside of Oslo. The two responsible for this scheme, Olaf Helset, officer in the Norwegian army and leader of the Ski Union, and Rolf Hofmo, socialist and leader of the Worker's Sports Union were both forced to leave the country, albeit under different circumstances. Helset was sent to Sachsenhausen, where he sat in good company with two men who both would be elected Prime Ministers of Norway, while Hofmo managed to flee to Sweden.
The strike ended after the war.
Author's Note:
Am so tired…
An alarming number of these chapters are written between midnight and sunrise, and I'm beginning to feel the effects. I hope all the facts check out, but please inform me is something seems weird, or if there is any grammatical errors.
I am also always open for requests and ideas and other thing that could kill the monster known as Writer's Block.
Au revoir,
-Shrizyne