Roderich had always been a rather spacey person – never focusing on anything, paying little to no attention to details, daydreaming, he'd done it all. But even he couldn't help but notice the rusty stain on the sidewalk and the bits of broken glass scattered like confetti. It was glaring evidence of the Nazi regime at its worst, on display in the streets of Vienna for everyone to see. They were so proud of their actions that they didn't even bother to clean up disaster and left it to the people who didn't want their city to look like a scene out of a murder novel.

Clutching the new little book closer to his chest, Roderich stepped around the shattered glass and carried on like he'd seen nothing. Grim images of Kristallnacht came to mind, but he forced them back. Instead he focused his thoughts on what his next composition would be. Would he go with something like the standard, national pride filled song, a sort of "Deutschland Über Alles" of his own? Or perhaps he'd come up with something totally unique. Whatever he decided on, he had to figure a melody out, and fast.

Maybe something the children can easily understand, Roderich thought as he walked by a schoolyard. After all, if they're using my music for propaganda I might as well go along with it. But what do children like?

He paused for a moment, watching a group of young boys in Deutsches Jungvolk uniform run about the field, each of them with a red bandana tied loosely to their wrists. Figuring he might get some inspiration from a children's game, he leaned against the fence and opened his composition book. Everything with their game was hard to follow for Roderich – it all went so fast he couldn't keep up. But slowly he began to understand that when the red bandana was torn from someone's wrist, their "life" was gone and they had to play dead. Taking someone's life seemed to be a rather celebratory event, as many of the boys would start cheering and making rude comments towards the now "dead" man.

I never would've done such a thing when I was their age. Then again, I really didn't have any friends, and even if I did, Vati was working me to death. But still, doesn't anyone think that maybe children shouldn't be taught to kill each other, even if it is just for fun? Is killing really something we should promote?

"Hey, you're that music guy!" a little voice shouted, nearly giving the Austrian a heart attack. He glanced down to see a young boy in uniform missing a red bandana from his wrist, his bright blue Aryan eyes gleaming.

He was the perfect poster child for Nazi Germany, a boy no more than ten.

"Hello to you too," Roderich said with a smile, giving him a little wave.

"You live by me, right? You're the one who plays the piano really late in the night, and my mama says she'd like to give you a piece of her mind," the boy chirped innocently. "Whatever that means."

Roderich felt his face go red – the only time he played piano late at night was when he was drunk. Thankfully, he restrained himself from the lure of his Stradivarius when intoxicated, but that didn't mean his piano skills were that of a master when he'd had one too many. "Tell your mother I'm sorry, I just have to practice for my concerts. I don't intend to be so…loud."

"Have you really met the Führer?" The boy's eyes lit up, his voice nearly jumping an octave out of excitement. Roderich found it rather amusing that children, especially young boys, always asked about Hitler before anything else.

"Met him? I've had lunch with the Führer," Roderich said, watching as the young boy somehow got even more wound up.

"Can you wait here? I have to go get some people!" He took off running towards the "battlefield," earning himself several snarky remarks about how he should be playing dead. But the boy ignored every word of it, telling them all something very animatedly and motioning to Roderich. Soon a group of young boys was gathered at the fence, asking Roderich a thousand questions about the Führer they had been taught to give their lives up for.

"Were you scared?" one of them called out, his fist full of red bandanas – a mass killer.

"Wouldn't you be? I was playing the violin in front of the leader of all of the Reich," Roderich replied, remembering the panic attack he'd had moments before his first ever performance. He somehow managed to hold the bow in his shaky hands and play without any major mistakes, but the whole experience was nerve-racking.

"Did he ever get angry with you?"

"There was this one time I told him that I preferred cats to dogs and we had what you might call an argument over which animal is more likeable. I let him win, of course."

"Do you know all of the secret military plans?" a younger looking boy asked, looking up at Roderich like he was some sort of hero.

Roderich laughed a bit, tucking his new composition book under his arm. "Oh, heavens no. I'm just some composer. He doesn't tell me anything about the military, except when talking about the victories of the Reich."

"Do you normally attract this much attention, Herr von Wolffe?"

Roderich sharply inhaled at the sound of his last name, praying he wasn't going to turn around to find a Gestapo man with handcuffs ready to drag him off to wherever it was they took people who committed serious crimes. He looked over at where the voice had come from, his heart all but stopping when he saw the black SS uniform. Every single recollection of the torturous methods he'd been told the Gestapo used sprang up, his chest growing so tight he could hardly breathe. But the man wasn't glaring at Roderich – he was smiling.

"Well, no, Herr…" Roderich froze, realizing he didn't know this man's name.

"Beilschmidt," the man said, extending his gloved hand. Roderich gently took it, hoping to God this wasn't some elaborate trap. The Gestapo was known for horrible things like that, making you think they weren't trying to take you away to a labour camp for anything, even a slip of the tongue. "Ludwig Beilschmidt, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Roderich von Wolffe. But I presume you already know who I am." He tried not to seem overly nervous, but who wouldn't be having a complete meltdown in front of a Gestapo kriminalinspektor? They'd have to physically be made of Krupp's steel.

"Who doesn't? You're the only man I've ever met whose played violin for the Führer. And came back alive, for that matter." Ludwig's face became tinted with pink, his blue eyes looking down to the sidewalk. "I hate to admit that I had some questions of my own."

Roderich sighed with relief, realizing he was not going to be arrested. "I don't mind answering. I just hope I won't bore you to death."

"You can't do that when talking about the Führer!" one of the boys added. "He's the most exciting man in the world!"

"He spoke for me." Ludwig gave Roderich a sheepish grin, his sharp blue eyes twinkling.

Yet another perfect example of Aryan selection, Roderich noted, looking over Ludwig. Blue eyes, blond hair, square jaw, smaller nose, could they have picked anyone better for the job?

"Well, carry on. What do you want to ask me?" Roderich said, making a rolling gesture with his hand.

"What was it like to meet Reichsführer Himmler?" Ludwig's voice almost carried that child-like enthusiasm to it, quite a strange thing for a Gestapo man.

"He was just like you imagine – only more intimidating and thousands of times more polite. He's definitely the best paying out of the officials I've met. But he was one of those people who had to warm up to you. I guess that's what one gets from being a chicken farmer before moving up to Reichsführer," Roderich answered before remembering that the SS didn't like to be reminded their leader was once a farmer.

"And the Führer?" Ludwig asked, thankfully saying nothing about the farmer quip. "Was he as…you know…?"

"Terrifying? Being in a room with him is like being in a room with a wolf. I never know if he likes my music, if he hates it, if he wants me dead or shipped out to Russia, anything, really. He listens very closely, watching my every movement. But in the end, he's usually pleased and doesn't want me torn open."

"Has he ever killed a man in front of you?" one of the boys piped up, pushing his way through the crowd so he was right at the edge of the fence with Roderich.

"I've never seen anyone die in my life. And the Führer wouldn't do such a thing," Roderich hastily explained, wishing he could tell the boy that he'd heard the man order for a ghetto to be cleared and shipped out just because he liked the piece and was in a "good" mood. He'd never seen anyone die, but he'd been a direct factor in the deaths of many.

He was an involuntary murderer.

Roderich suddenly felt sick – and for the first time in a long while, it was not from alcohol. "I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me, but I have to finish something and can't talk for any longer," he said weakly, letting his gaze fall to the sidewalk. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Herr Beilschmidt."

"Same to you. I hope to see you again, maybe you can answer some more questions," Ludwig added.

"Maybe."

Roderich waited until Ludwig was out of sight before he took off running. His feet pounded against the pavement, sending sharp waves of pain up his legs that weren't used to such physical activity. But he carried on, trying to get away from the fact that he was a murderer.

There were a lot of things Elizabeta was still trying to get used to, and waking up in a stranger's bed was definitely on the top of the list. Sometimes she'd wake up and remember just fine, and other mornings were full of the short-lived fear that she'd been dragged off in the middle of the night by some strangely pale man. But once she saw his gentle smile, all of her worries washed away. That smile was the entire reason she'd fallen in love with the once battle-crazed colonel, now commandant of Stalag XVIII-A.

"Good morning, Frau Beilschmidt," Gilbert whispered, sleepy red eyes looking over his wife. He was quite fond of calling her Frau Beilschmidt, mostly because he loved claiming ownership over the beautiful woman. The Prussian was a very jealous person – he liked people to know that Elizabeta was his wife.

"I swear, if you call me that one more time…" Elizabeta paused, trying to come up with a good threat.

"Oh, are you going to run off?" Gilbert flashed his adorable half smile. "Are you going to run back to that lazy dummkopf and leave me all alone in my cold and miserable stalag? Will you just leave me with no one to love but the guards and the dogs? Must I turn to sin and bestiality to find some love in this world?" He got out of bed, pulling on his pants from where he'd left them on the floor. Taking a clean white shirt and uniform top from his closet, he went into the bathroom. "Whatever shall I do without my dear Elizabeta?" he called, mocking the voice of a Southern belle from the American films he secretly loved.

"You'll just have to move on with life," Elizabeta replied, propping herself up against the headboard. "And besides, there are plenty of other women out there. And guards."

"But darling, without you my life would be simply –" His southern accent was cut short by the phone ringing.

"Hello, this is Colonel Beilschmidt's secretary speaking," Elizabeta said as she picked up the receiver. She'd become so accustomed to answering the phone that she almost always used that line, even when she called her mother. "The colonel is busy at the moment, may I take a message?"

"How drunk is he?"

Elizabeta instantly loosened up, the corners of her lips flicking up into a faint smile. She loved that voice. "Hello, Ludwig. How are you?"

"I'm doing quite fine, actually. Now, is my brother really asleep, or is he trying to get out of something? I'm not calling to get him to work." Ludwig knew his older brother too well – most of the time the albino avoided any and all work.

"Hold on." Elizabeta covered the receiver with her hand. "Hey, Gilbert, Ludwig wants to talk to you."

"The hell does he want?" Gilbert shot back, his tone thankfully joking. He could get so mad at little things like his brother calling to say hello without much warning.

"I don't know, but it doesn't sound too important."

Gilbert groaned, appearing in the doorway a moment later. He took the phone from his wife's hand, rolling his eyes. "What do you want, brat?"

There was a long pause.

"...You really saw him?...Why would you talk to him? Don't you remember a thing called stranger danger?" Gilbert started pacing back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip like he did when he got furious. "Nice? What sort of lies have they been feeding you in SS Land? Aren't you guys supposed to be mean?...Luddy, that man is nothing but a lustful, money stealing, pathetic son of a bitch! …Don't even start on his last name. I know it's not von Wolffe."

Elizabeta already knew who the man in question was before Gilbert said Roderich's last name. Gilbert's loathe-filled emphasis on "him" was a dead giveaway. He had it out for that musician. From the start, he'd been investigating Roderich's documents with Ludwig at his side, searching every little detail for some chink in the man's perfect armour. She found it all a bit excessive – but Gilbert never knew when to stop.

"I swear, I'd kill him right now if I wouldn't get court-martialed and shot...Keep an eye on him, okay? Don't be too creepy, though…Whatever. Just don't get caught up in the fact that he knows the Führer." And with that, Gilbert slammed the phone down and stormed off for the bathroom again.

"You know," Elizabeta started after some time of silence. "You really don't need to make such a fuss."

"I am going to make a fuss, whether you like it or not. There's just something about that man. Something's not right with him. I don't know what it is, but it has to do with his name. He must be a Goldstein or a Birnbaum. It's this feeling that I have, like when you know someone's watching you." Gilbert stepped out of the bathroom, trying to knot his tie with one hand and comb his white hair out with the other. "Not to mention that anyone who'd give you up has to be completely insane."

Elizabeta wanted to tell him everything. She knew all about Roderich – he'd put all of his trust into her. He'd told her everything about his past. And she remembered every word of it. Elizabeta could go right to Gestapo headquarters and get that man arrested. But there was some strange feeling keeping her from saying anything. It was something she'd never felt before, a sort of tugging at her heart when anyone even mentioned the musician. She just couldn't bring herself to tell Gilbert everything.

"He never was right in the head," Elizabeta sighed, getting out of bed. "He didn't pay attention to things, like he was lost in another world."

"Another Jewish world," Gilbert muttered under his breath. "Probably hid 'em right under your house and smuggled 'em to Switzerland when you weren't looking."

"I didn't say that. He's just a dreamer."

Gilbert pulled on his uniform jacket, giving Elizabeta a look he usually reserved for the prisoners that had been caught escaping. "All I'm saying is that if he doesn't want to find himself rotting in Mauthausen, he better get out of the country as fast as possible. Because, one day the Führer's going to start wondering about his little Beethoven's past, and then he's going to find everything. And I'm going to leave it at that." He gave her another glance as he left for the morning roll call, this time a bit softer. "Hurry up. It's lonely in my office."

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

For once, something was actually going right for Roderich.

He looked over the piece before him, barely readable in the dim lamplight. With a quick glance at the clock he realized it was three in the morning – no wonder it was so dark, he thought it was only seven p.m. still. Roderich must've gotten so caught up in his work that he hadn't noticed the sunset or all of the lights in his neighbours' houses go out.

Roderich grabbed the composition book, going over to his piano. Fearing all of his work was meaningless – he'd written almost the whole piece without even playing it – the tired musician put his hands to the ivory keys and began running through the his newest work, an untitled lullaby sounding tune he'd drawn up thinking about the children he'd met that morning and his what his own childhood had been like back in Salzburg. He played the piece over and over, his smile growing larger with each time.

His lullaby was perfect.

Roderich was going to live for another few weeks with real money in his hands.

He stood up, grabbing the book and slamming it closed. For a moment he paused and looked at the little book, barely able to contain his excitement. Although it wasn't exactly propaganda material, Goebbels was sure to love it. It was made for young children, after all, the most valuable resources to Germany.

"Oh, my God," Roderich whispered, clutching the book to his chest. "I'm not going to starve. I'm not going to go to war. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine! They can't send me off to Africa! They can't send me off to Greece! Because, I'm not going to fight in their God forsaken war!"

Roderich put the book down on the piano, turning off the little lamp. He wandered upstairs in the darkness, imagining all the lavish things he was going to buy when he got his next paycheck. Perhaps a new scarf or a coat for the winter, and maybe a real coffee pot. The Austrian couldn't help but smile as he got into bed. He'd finally finished a piece, all because he watched a war game and thought about his childhood. Inspiration was such a spontaneous thing – and he loved it.

Oh, if only I had someone to tell, Roderich said to himself, looking out the window at the picturesque half-moon. But Vati doesn't care, I don't have any real friends, and she's gone. I really ought to get myself a cat or something, and then I won't be so damn lonely.

I got it! I'll call my piece A Lonely Winter's Lullaby! Oh, Roderich, you're so clever. It's such a shame that no one appreciates your genius. Well, they like my music, but that's different. I want someone who really appreciates my music, not just generally likes it. I want someone who knows what they're talking about, who can tell me what I've done wrong.

I want Elizabeta back.

Roderich screwed his eyes shut, trying to erase that horrible name from his mind. He hated to think about his ex-wife and the way she'd always listen intently when he played something for her. She was just so perfect for him – his soul mate. And then she had to go run off with a cocky little colonel, leaving Roderich all alone with no one to talk to.

I wonder what she's doing now, Roderich asked himself, forgetting all about his vows never to think of the woman again. Does she even love that man, whatever his name is? Or was it just a spur of the moment thing? Whatever has happened, I hope she's alright. What is she going to do if he dies? Will she come crawling back to me? Oh, I doubt it. I can't be that lucky.

Roderich groaned loudly, wishing things wouldn't be so complicated. He pulled his blankets closer, looking out the window like it would give him some sort of answer. The night certainly was beautiful with its moon and sprinkling of stars, but it didn't solve any of his problems.

At least I've made it through today. And look, there was only one Gestapo incident, and it was a friendly one. Well, as friendly as a Gestapo man can be. And I got my piece done, and I'm not going to be sent off to Leningrad, and I'm never going to be forced to go back to Salzburg.

He didn't mean to hate his hometown. It was just that his father created so many bad memories of the place that Roderich subconsciously blocked out any good memories. Roderich's father was a hardened war hero who believed children were only good for one thing – work. And so he made his only child do literally everything, from cleaning up scraps of molten glass in their family's glasswork shop to going to get firewood in a blizzard. Every little job Roderich was told to do only made him want to leave Salzburg faster.

The only thing Roderich really cared for in the town was his father's grand piano. He'd practice on it day and night, able to play Chopin and Saint-Saens in a matter of weeks. His father told him he'd never get anywhere playing the piano, and one night got so fed up with Roderich's insistence that he was going to be a famous musician that he took an axe to the beautiful instrument and burned it piece by piece in the fireplace. Roderich screamed and begged him to stop, but his father didn't even care. He just kept shouting that "worthless music" was destroying his son, and that Roderich would never make it as a musician.

But look where I am now, Roderich laughed to himself. I'm living off that "worthless" music. What do you think about that, Vati? I'm playing for the Führer himself! And what are you doing? Why, you're still working in that stupid glasswork shop telling everyone you can about when you fought off the Italians at Isonzo!

And I'm trying not to waste all my money on alcohol and talking to myself.

I haven't gotten much farther, have I?

Roderich buried his face in his pillow, letting the horrible memories of Salzburg drift far away from him. All he could focus on was the present, no matter how hard or terrifying it was. He just had to keep going, getting through life one day at a time.

A/N: Funny thing, the piano chopping up and throwing in the fire bit is a true story involving my great-grandfather. Only the piano was a trombone in the real thing, and it dealt with rival polka bands. I have the weirdest family...

And about Roderich's last name - I'm not going to elaborate. The story will explain itself.

Big thank you's to Awenia (you have no idea how much panic you saved me when you corrected me, thank you!) exca314, TrefleV, the guest reviewer Abc, FookinWangDoodle (thanks for the heart attack, dear!) and my two returners who never fail to make me smile, SoulEleri and Comix and Co! My first story didn't get any reviews until the sixth chapter, and by the first chapter of this story I have reviews and followers?! Thank you all so much!

Maybe it's a sign this story is going to be a good one?

See you all next chapter!