"Herr Commandant, what does this mean?" Heracles pointed to a word on a faded flyer he'd pulled out of a stack of papers on the corner of Gilbert's desk that said colonel was too lazy to bother going through. Gilbert brushed him off, going back to his records. Heracles growled at him with a feral gleam in his eyes, shoving the paper in the Prussian's face. "What does it mean?" he demanded.

"Heracles, I'm really busy."

"What does it mean?"

"No. I am not telling you."

"Mean! Mean!" Heracles repeated, slamming his hand on the desk.

Gilbert held up just one of his many reports. "Do you see this? This is a paper that has to be filled out by tomorrow morning on how many guards I have stationed here, their full names, date of birth, spouses, ranks, and whatever the hell else the Reich absolutely has to know about my prison camp! I do not have time to teach you German!"

Heracles rolled his green eyes impatiently. "I don't understand. What does word mean?" Once again he pointed to the word on the paper, blatantly ignoring the commandant's previous outburst.

"It means Jews," Gilbert answered, to which Heracles shook his head. Gilbert groaned and muttered a few curses the Greek thankfully couldn't understand, grabbing a clean piece of paper and a pencil. Taking the pencil in his left hand, he quickly drew a Star of David and the profile of a man with a huge nose and beard. "See, Jew?" He tapped the elongated nose with the tip of the pencil, and then pointed to the Star of David.

Heracles took the paper from him, studying Gilbert's pathetic attempts at drawing. "Oh. EvraÍos," he said, looking back up at Gilbert.

"Uh, ja. Whatever you just said. So, read the full sentence."

"Rid…Rid Germany of the… EvraÍos." Heracles hung his head, hiding his face with his hands. "Sorry. Do not how to say word."

"Jews," Gilbert snarled. He'd lost all his patience for the German lessons two days, five hours, and exactly forty-three minutes ago, when they started with a basic word, "raus." After twenty minutes of exaggerated gestures and enough screaming to put Hitler to shame, Gilbert finally resorted to drawing the actions or subjects out on paper. It was a sick tradeoff – Raivis was organizing the Roderich von Wolffe papers into a report for Gilbert, and he was stuck teaching Heracles basic German.

"Rid Germany of the Jews?" Heracles asked excitedly. "It say 'rid Germany of the Jews?'"

"Good, very good. Now, can you read that one?" Gilbert tapped the next sentence with his finger.

"They are the…cau…cause…of all bad?" he replied, looking up at him like an ecstatic puppy.

"Good job, Heracles," Raivis chirped, dropping a thin folder on the desk. "I finished my report, Herr Commandant."

Gilbert snatched up the scrawny thing, flipping through the few pages it held. He caught numerous Christian Kleiner conversations, a glimpse of a census, and two photos of some unnamed street. "This is all? This is everything you could find? There were two hundred-something papers in that envelope, and you only came up with fourteen?!" He slammed the folder back down, feeling the pent up rage from the frustrating German lessons slip into his words.

"Well, sir, it's just –"

"It's just what?! You wanted to make me suffer through an idiot like Heracles so you don't have to? You wanted to get time off from working? You wanted to look through all of the papers like the little Russian spy you are?! I should assign you to the most painful work detail I can imagine! I should lock you up in solitary! I should killyou!"

"P-p-please, sir, I really tried! But th-th-there was hardly anything of use t-t-to you in those l-l-letters," Raivis yelped, backing away from Gilbert with his hands held out defensively.

"Oh, would Ludwig Beilschmidt, the man who made it through Gestapo training in nearly record time because of his attention to detail, send me insignificant things?" Gilbert stood up, coming over to Raivis. He grabbed the boy by the collar of his uniform, holding up the report in his hand. "This is absolutely everything you could find?!"

"Please, sir, I'm sorry! D-d-don't beat me!" Raivis pressed his back up against the wall, his whole body trembling in fear.

Gilbert dropped him, watching as the junior lieutenant held up his fists in an attempt at defending himself. From here he could see that the boy's knuckles were scarred, faded white lines running over the back of his hands in crisscross "x" shapes.

"Why would I do that?" Gilbert asked quietly, taking a few steps back. "Why…would you think that I would beat you?"

"Because when p-p-people get angry, th-th-they hit the w-w-weaker one!"

Gilbert meant to start lecturing the boy on how to make a proper report, he really did. But all of his attention was caught on that one sentence – when people get angry, they hit the weaker one. All Gilbert did was raise his voice, and Raivis immediately tried to protect himself. It was an unconscious reaction. He knew that when someone even vaguely started to yell, he was going to get smacked. And the scars on his hands proved it.

Heracles, not understanding what had been said but still knowing what was going on, got up from his chair at the front of Gilbert's desk and went over to the shaking soldier. He took Raivis in his arms, holding him close. For a moment he kept the boy close, saying nothing at all but meaning so much more.

"Who…hurt you?" he asked in his broken German, stroking the boy's honey hair.

"Everyone," Raivis whispered into Heracles' shoulder. "E-e-everyone hurts the weaker one."

Heracles didn't even try to respond.

"Raivis?" Gilbert asked gently. He never called a prisoner by their first name, except for when he was livid or drunk. "Did…did something happen? Is there something I can do?"

Gilbert didn't know why he was asking. There was a horrible feeling welling up inside of him – concern. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he really cared for that tiny junior lieutenant. It was something about him, something so lovable. Perhaps it was from all of Gilbert's years taking care of his little brother that made him want to shelter Raivis, even though he was a Russian, the worst of them all.

"N-n-nothing happened that you c-c-can change," Raivis replied, wiping at his innocent blue eyes with the heel of his hand. He took a shaky breath, stepping away from Heracles and standing at attention. "I'm sorry, Herr Commandant, I didn't mean to panic like that. It's a horrible instinct of mine."

"You can be at ease, you know. And don't apologize for something you can't control. But you're not like this because of any of the men here, correct? Braginsky didn't do this to you?"

"Oh, no, sir!" Raivis answered almost too quickly. "Colonel Braginsky takes good care of me. Not as good as he does with Toris, but I'm not supposed to say things like that because he doesn't like us to think that he's picking favourites when it's obvious Toris is the favourite. He even lets Toris sleep in his office during the winter, where it's a lot warmer, but I'm not complaining, because Heracles or Sadik usually let me sleep with them. I know you think Colonel is manipulative and irritating, but he's like a big brother to us. Without him we'd all be miserable."

Gilbert looked at the report in his hand, thumbing through the pages again. "I see. I must apologize, then. I overreacted. I mean, you obviously put a lot of work into this. It was wrong of me to call it worthless."

"But I could've done better," Raivis said, hanging his head.

"And you could've done worse. This is perfectly fine, Galante."

Raivis looked up, a little smile on his face. "Thank you, Herr Commandant. I'll try harder next time."

"Dismissed."

Raivis gave him a salute, grabbing the hopelessly confused Heracles and motioning for him to follow. Heracles half saluted, half yawned, walking out of the office after Raivis. Gilbert watched the two leave, noticing something he'd either never seen or never recognized peeking out of the collar of Raivis' uniform.

A slender scar snaked its way up the boy's neck, disappearing into his golden hair.

There was something he wasn't telling Gilbert.

Three gunshots echoed out in the quiet forest, one for each of them. Roderich watched with muted curiosity as the bodies slumped to the snowy ground, red spilling out around them. Ludwig shouted a command and six dogs leapt forward, ravaging the corpses.

"You see," Ludwig said, putting the pistol in Roderich's hand. He glanced over at the ravenous dogs with an unfitting grin before continuing. "That's all you have to do to kill a Jew. Just one little flick of your finger makes the world better."

"That's all you have to do to kill anyone," Roderich corrected. He looked over the weapon in his hands, the hazy memory of a gun his father owned coming to mind. The last time he'd ever held a pistol was when he was six – he'd broken into his father's war chest, somehow loaded the small pistol inside, and killed his cat. Firearms didn't have a good place in his mind. "It's not just Jew that can be killed by guns."

"But there's something much more satisfactory about it. The way they scream and beg and crawl on their knees just to catch a glimpse at survival, it's all like some wonderful production they put on before they die."

"Wonderful?" Roderich echoed.

"Now, Roderich, make the world a better place," Ludwig ordered, motioning to three new people standing in front of him. A woman clutching her child's hand and a tall man were wide eyed and trembling, looking at Roderich with so much desperation in their eyes it was sickening. The dogs from earlier were circling around them like vultures, blood gleaming on their sharp fangs, waiting for someone to drop to the ground.

"Please, sir –" the man started to beg.

"Speak only when spoken to!" Ludwig snarled, making a little motion with his hands that the dogs took as the signal to jump the man. Soon he was lost in the pack, blood tainting the snow under the dogs' paws as they yipped and howled with murderous delight.

"You want me to kill one of them?" Roderich asked quietly, his words barely audible over the man's screams. He stole a glance at the dogs, his chest growing tight as he saw the woman holding the young child now, telling her something in a quick language – Russian? "I can't. You take the gun." He handed it over to Ludwig, who shoved it back into the musician's chest.

"Only one person in this whole forest right now is a Jew. Pick the right one. And I wouldn't hesitate. My dogs are hungry. They could kill the others before you get the chance."

Roderich looked over the two of them remaining, searching for the tell-tale yellow stars. "Herr Beilschmidt, none of them are marked! What if I kill the wrong person?"

"You haven't looked far enough. Someone here is marked." Ludwig smiled a wolf's smile, putting his hand over Roderich's. Confused, Roderich glanced at Ludwig's chest. It was void of a Star of David, covered in medals and patches and who-knows-what else. Ludwig's glittering eyes flicked downward for just a fraction of a second.

Roderich let his own eyes go down to his chest where the star was sewn on.

"They've…they've set me up!" Roderich dropped the gun, tearing off his coat. He threw it away from him like the star was poisonous, looking back up at Ludwig with that same repulsive fear in his eyes. "Someone's sewn this on my clothes! You've got to believe me, I am not a Jew!"

"Then why is there still a star?" Ludwig poked Roderich's chest where the patch was stitched onto his shirt.

"This is all some plan to try and get me killed! I have plenty of enemies; someone has to hate me enough to want me dead!" Roderich sank to his knees, ripping at the star sewn onto his shirt. "I'm not a Jew. I'm not a Jew. I am not a Jew. You've got to understand, Herr Beilschmidt. Someone wants me dead."

Ludwig knelt down next to him, his grin cold and mocking. He grabbed Roderich's collar, beginning to unbutton the man's shirt. "What you don't realize is that Jews may think they've slipped away, that they've hidden far from us, that no one will ever recognize them, but in the end, every one of them is marked. It's like a brand that the whole world can see, no matter how far they go to hide it." He gently took off Roderich's shirt, tapping the Star of David that was burned into the man's chest right below his collarbone. Roderich put a shameful hand over the little star, digging his fingers into his skin. "You can't escape, Roderich. No one can. Hitler knows everything. You may be able to avoid us for a time, but you are marked. We can find you."

"I'm not a Jew. I never have been," Roderich snapped, tearing at the brand. "I am just another human being!"

"That mark will never come off," Ludwig said, watching Roderich rip at himself until his chest was bleeding. He gestured to the trails of red running down Roderich's chest, the branches forming into a Star of David. Roderich tried to wipe it away with his sleeve, but the blood wasn't moving.

"I don't know what you've done to me, but I swear to God I never had that brand on my chest," Roderich said, looking up at Ludwig in a vain hope to find sympathy.

"It's in your blood. Just save yourself the dramatics." Ludwig put the pistol in Roderich's hand and grabbed him by the wrist, forcing his arm up until the barrel was touching his temple.

"No, you can't make me do this," Roderich whispered as Ludwig made him curl his finger around the trigger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the dogs walking towards him, the fur around their mouths stained red.

"Yes, I can. I am the Gestapo. We know no limits. I am doing what is necessary to protect the Fatherland from beasts like you." Ludwig tipped his black hat, the skull and crossbones gleaming in the sun. "That is why the Gestapo is here."

"I'm not a beast! I'm a man, Ludwig! I'm just a man! But you, you've turned anyone who you don't like into some sort of monster to be feared by the public, when really we're all just humans! Stupid, worthless, lying, cheating, humans!" Roderich shouted at the top of his voice, clutching a hand over his bleeding chest. "So what if we're different? In the end we're all just miserable people! Religion shouldn't make me any different than you! I'm just as loyal of an Austrian as you are! I was born here, raised here, and I intend to die here!"

"You know, my least favourite type of Jews has to be the loudmouthed ones."

"My least favourite type of Germans has to be people like you! The perfect Aryan who thinks they can do whatever they feel like just because Hitler adores blond hair and blue eyes! You're no better than any man on this lowly earth, Ludwig. No better," Roderich snapped, earning himself a sharp slap to the face. The red-hot pain clouded his eyes, making the snowy scene become a catastrophe of colours. Ludwig started laughing as Roderich wiped the tears from his eyes with a bloody hand.

"I am better than some people. I am better than gypsies. I am better than Communists. I am better than Jews. I am better than you," Ludwig said, slowly beginning to make Roderich pull back on the trigger. "I've always wondered how you got be up there with the Führer. If he can't even recognize a filthy Jew, how can he lead a nation to victory?"

And with that, he pulled the trigger.

"Hello? Herr von Wolffe? I would like to talk to you about a few things!"

Three knocks ripped the musician out of his restless sleep, throwing him back into the disaster that was his living room. Roderich opened his eyes to find not a snowy forest like he expected, but a field of sheet music and a coffee table. No longer was he kneeling on the cold ground with a Gestapo man in front of him, but rather curled up on his living room floor with his beloved Stradivarius resting nearby. Slowly he came to the realization that he was not dead and everything he'd just witnessed was nothing more than a nightmare, even though his collarbone was throbbing. He sat up, taking deep breaths to stop his racing heart.

"Herr von Wolffe? Are you home?" the stifled voice of Ludwig called from outside, accompanied by a few more knocks. He couldn't help but flinch – that man just forced him to kill himself moments ago. "I'd really like to talk to you!"

And I'd like to get seven hours of sleep without any nightmares or air raids, but we can't all have what we want, can we?

Roderich got to his feet, rubbing his tired eyes. It was always like this before any major performance – he'd work all day and all night until he couldn't read the music anymore, and then fall asleep on the couch, somehow make it up to his bedroom without tripping down the stairs and breaking his neck, or, as it seemed to be this morning, just lie down on the floor? He didn't remember doing that last night. Then again, he did remember that everything was going atrociously and he'd given up on his music, so it made sense.

"Hello?" Roderich said sleepily as he opened the front door so he could see a thin sliver of the outside world. He was met with a black Gestapo uniform gleaming with medals.

"Are you…alright?" Ludwig asked, looking down at the dramatically smaller man hiding behind the door. "I heard shouting."

"Oh, ja, I'm fine," Roderich replied as he fully opened the door. I must've been screaming in my sleep. That's lovely, he probably thinks I'm completely insane. "I'm sorry I look so awful, I just woke up."

"Are you bleeding? Dear God, what happened?"

Roderich looked at his collarbone, a bit startled to find a large red spot on his chest. He tugged at his open collar, revealing a row of scratches and crescent moon shaped indents matching up to his fingernails. "This is just…" he faltered, trying to think of a reasonable lie. "I just caught myself on the corner of the cabinet when I came to get the door. There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"Are you really alright? You seem a little…out of it."

"I've only gotten three hours of sleep for the past two days, so I probably am extremely 'out of it.'" Roderich hid the bloodstain on his shirt with his hand, pushing up his glasses with the other. "So, what can I help you with?"

"I just have a few little questions for you. But I can come back later, as this really seems to be a bad time," Ludwig said, turning to go back to his car. Roderich caught a glimpse of the slightly worrying Luger on his belt, the metal glinting in the morning sun.

"No, it's fine. I'm already awake, you'll just have to excuse me while I go bandage myself up. Please, come in."

Roderich left the Gestapo man waiting in the front room, running upstairs to the small closet in the hallway and grabbing gauze, medical tape, and antiseptic. He took another glance at the claw marks over his pale skin, wincing at the memory of the nightmare. Ludwig had been the one to force Roderich to kill himself in the dream, and yet he easily invited him into his house.

Perhaps it was a bit of symbolism, Roderich thought as he came back downstairs. Ludwig being Nazi Germany, myself being Austria. I'm woefully naïve and let the Germans come in, only to find that they're murdering anyone who doesn't fit their perfect ideal of a human.

Or maybe I'm just overly examining a nightmare.

"Can I help you?" Ludwig asked when Roderich walked into the front room with his hands full of medical supplies.

"I don't want you to feel like you have to do something," Roderich said as he went into the kitchen and set everything down on the counter. "But if you would like to help, I'd appreciate it."

"Here, sit down," Ludwig ordered, grabbing a washrag and soaking it with the antiseptic. Roderich followed the man's orders – he was scared to find out what would happen if he didn't. Ludwig came over to him, starting to unbutton Roderich's shirt.

"I'm perfectly capable of unbuttoning my own shirt." Roderich pushed Ludwig's hands away, the scene from the dream reappearing in his mind. He was a bit afraid that Ludwig would tear off his shirt and find a bloody Star of David burned into the musician's skin, even though he knew that everything was just a terrible nightmare.

Ludwig's face went red, his blue eyes sinking to the floor. "I'm terribly sorry, Herr von Wolffe, I wasn't thinking about how you might react to that. I'm just used to doing that with my brother. He's rather accident prone, so I often help patch him up."

"It's fine, I'm a bit sensitive about things," Roderich replied as he pulled the left half of his shirt down over his shoulder. Ludwig hesitated before starting to wipe at the scratches, but was soon over his shyness and seemed almost happy to work.

"Are you sure you caught yourself on something? This looks like an animal or a human did this." Ludwig looked up at Roderich. "Not that I'm judging you."

"Do you want the truth or another lie?"

"I'd like the truth."

Roderich took a deep breath. "You see, I had this dream. And in it, someone had set me up for the Gestapo. They sewed the Star of David to my coat and shirt, and burned it into my skin. I was trying to rip it off of me, and I guess I must've mimicked the motion in reality."

"I don't think anyone would ever set you up. Your records are flawless," Ludwig said to himself, grabbing a square of gauze and a roll of medical tape. "I don't want to seem like I'm constantly watching you – even though I am, being a kriminalinspektor and all – but my brother makes me go through your records on a weekly basis. Actually, now that I think of it, he would be the one to set you up."

Why doesn't it surprise me that he's watching my every move? Just when I thought there might be one Gestapo man who wasn't completely insane, Ludwig went off and proved me wrong.

"Do I even know him? I can recall any other Beilschmidt except for you," Roderich said, listing off the small amount of people he knew in his head. There definitely wasn't another Beilschmidt in the mix.

"His name is Gilbert Beilschmidt, and he's the commandant of some stalag in Wolfsburg. He has a beautiful wife, Elizabeta."

Roderich felt his heart clench at the mention of her name. "He's your brother?"

"So I'm guessing you remember him now? Did you go to the same school? I'm so sorry if you knew him when he was younger, he was an even bigger pain than he is now," Ludwig apologized, stepping back from Roderich. He paused to admire his handiwork before beginning to clean up – Roderich, on the other hand, could care less about the scratches.

"What do you know about Elizabeta?"

"Well, she likes it when I visit because I clean the whole office out of impulse, her family has money to burn, she used to live here in Vienna, and one time she was talking about a previous husband." Ludwig stopped, putting all the pieces together. He turned back to Roderich, his blue eyes losing their joking twinkle. "You wouldn't happen to be that husband, would you?"

"She was having an affair. Said I was 'too busy with the Führer to pay attention to her.' And then one morning she was just gone. I found out later that she ran off with a colonel, but I didn't imagine you'd be related to him," Roderich snapped, pulling his shirt back on.

Ludwig looked down at his perfectly polished boots, blushing once again. "I'm sorry, I've gone and made everything uncomfortable. I can understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore. I can imagine it's difficult to speak to the brother of the man who stole your wife."

"It's not you that I hate; it's just your brother."

"Everyone hates my brother."

"Evidently Elizabeta doesn't," Roderich muttered, making Ludwig smile. "So, what did you want to ask me?"

"Oh, right, I almost forgot. Where is the coat you were wearing a few nights ago, during the air raid?" Ludwig asked.

"On the hook by the door where it always is?" Roderich replied, watching as Ludwig went back to the front room.

What a strange question, he said to himself. Is there something wrong with my coat? Surely it's just some routine Gestapo thing. They do peculiar things like that.

But what if he knows something? What if he wants to see my papers? What if he starts asking personal questions? What if he finds something I forgot to hide? What if –

"When you were going to the bomb shelter, did you happen to pass by the corner of Schulstrasse and Bahnhofstrasse?" Ludwig interrupted Roderich's what-if mental breakdown, coming back into the room with the coat in his arms. Roderich couldn't see anything wrong with the coat, but he could see that something was wrong with Ludwig. His voice lost the semi-sweet tone to it, making his words cold and rough.

"Yes," Roderich said slowly. "But what has that got to do with anything?"

"Were you coming from the north or the west?" Ludwig continued.

"West."

He knew he shouldn't lie to a Gestapo man. Ludwig could've been following him and saw exactly where he went. But it was an instinct to lie about literally anything if he was given a choice of options. He needed to keep people guessing. If they could trace his steps back to wherever he'd just been, they might be able to find something, they might be able to make contacts, they might be able to bring him down.

"Why would you go that way?" Ludwig kept his head held high, acting like he was so much better than Roderich, who currently felt worthless.

"Because it's faster."

"Did you go by Herr Seitz's office?"

"Yes."

Ludwig handed the coat to Roderich. "Do you see those marks?" he asked, pointing to white streaks Roderich never knew were on his coat. They looked almost like someone dragged their fingers along the fabric with their hands covered in paint.

"What's wrong with them?" Roderich dared to ask, looking up at Ludwig pitifully.

"We found enemy propaganda painted on Herr Seitz's office the morning after the air raid. The colour of these streaks matches up perfectly to the paint on the wall. No one else was mad enough to be out at that hour with an air raid. So, do you have an alibi?"

"I…I must have just accidentally brushed up against the wall. And why would I paint enemy propaganda, knowing I'm going to face the minister of propaganda myself tomorrow?" Roderich ran his fingers over the dried paint, trying not to let his panic bleed through his calm mask.

"Exactly. I knew that it wasn't you," Ludwig said, his voice losing the coldness. Roderich was hit by a wave of short-lived relief, his heart rate returning to almost normal. "But," he added, sending Roderich back into a miniature anxiety attack. "I had to be sure of your story. Some people do the most unexpected things."

"If that was so important to you, why did you even bother to help me?" Roderich asked. "I mean, wouldn't you want to interrogate me first and then help? And then you acted like you almost forgot, and you even said that you could come back at a later time."

Ludwig cracked a smile. "It's a ruse, Herr von Wolffe. I acted like I was sincerely concerned about your health and your relation to my brother, when in reality I could've cared less. And the forgetting was just part of the game. I had no intentions of leaving when I said I could come back later – I specifically turned so you could see my gun. If I would've shown up at the door angry and demanding answers, you wouldn't have trusted me. But, by letting you build up that confidence, I was able to get what I wanted out of you quickly. Don't let what just happened fool you, though, I still rather enjoy your company and would love to talk to you more often. Sometimes work just gets in the way."

"Do all of you Gestapo agents do things like that?" Roderich said, wondering just how many people could be using him like this. Suddenly he was suspicious of everyone.

"Oh, no, as far as I know, it's just me. Everyone else uses fear and brute force. The safest path to Hell is a gradual one. With a steep drop you get nothing but resistance. But when the path is a gentle slope with no bumps or turns, before long man finds himself standing at the gates of Hell and wondering how he ever got there." Ludwig gave him another grin. "You didn't happen to see anyone when you were on Bahnhofstrasse, did you?"

Roderich searched the memory of the night, vaguely recalling someone at the corner. "There was a man," he started, trying to picture his face clearer. "Rather short, with blond hair and a white beret."

"Zwingli," Ludwig muttered under his breath. "Danke. It was a pleasure talking to you, Herr von Wolffe. I wish you the best for your concert. If you ever need something, my home is 484 Haupstrasse, although I'm rarely home. Auf Wiedersehen." He turned on his heels, disappearing into the front room.

"Auf Wiedersehen," Roderich said, clutching his coat tight to his chest.

The safest path to Hell was a gradual one, and Roderich knew he was on it.

Lilli smoothed out the handmade quilt, running her fingers over the meticulous stitches Basch grumbled about for weeks. He never was one for delicate work, unless, of course, he was cleaning or repairing a gun. But he promised Lilli a new quilt for Christmas, and he delivered. It was a pastel pink and blue checkerboard pattern with little daisies embroidered into the blue patches. Sometimes she wondered where he got the thread and fabric to make it, seeing as there was a war on and there weren't vast expanses of fabric lying around.

But it was the thought that mattered.

She looked over the tiny bedroom, quite satisfied with her work. Basch always told her not to clean, that he would do the work when he got home, but she didn't like to feel so useless. After all, Basch took Lilli in when he couldn't even take care of himself – she felt like it was her responsibility to be as helpful as she could be.

Today she'd taken it upon herself to fix the broken front step after she came home from school, finding some rather odd little things under the porch. There was a half empty can of white paint and a paintbrush, a bullet-riddled copy of Mein Kampf, various bits of broken gun parts, cigarette butts, and a black box no bigger than a brick, tucked all the way in the back and covered partially with dirt.

She did what she knew was right – left the box alone, put the paint back in the shed, and hammered the plank into place so there wasn't a gaping hole for one of the two steps up to the porch. But now as she waited patiently for her brother in the kitchen, her mind went straight back to that box. What could be inside? Would Basch ever show the box to her? Or was it some memento from his horrid past in Geneva, something that he couldn't bear to talk about? Was it money? Was it keys to treasure? Was it anything of value?

"I've got to distract myself," Lilli said, going over to the record player Basch brought home back when the war was still young and exciting. His pathetic explanation was that someone was throwing it out because it was broken. For a while she believed him and went along with it. But she wasn't a clueless child anymore. Lilli knew he'd bought it on the black market, but she didn't complain. She never complained.

Searching through the stack of records Basch claimed he got from a friend that he didn't have, Lilli picked up her favourite one and put it on the player. Soon the soft voice of Lale Andersen was floating through the home, bringing up memories of Basch dancing with Lilli in their cramped kitchen, singing along to "Lilli Marlene." He would laugh and smile and just seem alive.

But now he was burdened by his job – the military needed guns, the military broke guns, the military demanded parts. He managed to make it home by dinnertime every night, only to be called out on a sabotage mission or a rendezvous for the Underground. Lilli just wanted a day where Basch wasn't working until three in the morning and they could laugh and dance to "Lilli Marlene" again. She wanted to see him come home and not immediately fall asleep. She wanted to see him smile.

If only there wasn't a war on.

"T'was there that you whispered tenderly," Lilli sang along softly, dancing across the kitchen floor by herself. "That you loved me,

"You'd always be,

"My Lilli of the Lamplight,

"My own Lilli –"

A loud knock on the door cut her short. It couldn't have been Basch – it was too early and he wouldn't have knocked. She went to the window over the sink, leaning over to find a man in a black uniform standing in front of the door. It was a regular at their doorstep, a Gestapo agent who loved to drag Basch off in the night and bring him back bruised. But Lilli had never answered the door for him; she'd always hid far from the man.

"Hello? Is anyone home?" the man asked, looking over at the window. Lilli yelped, backing away from the glass. He knew she was there now, if he couldn't already guess before.

Her heart all but stopped as she went over to the record player and tore the arm from the record with a horrible scratching sound. Lilli knew Basch got caught. She knew he was going to a faraway camp. She knew they would never see each other again and they'd send her off to some orphanage while Basch was forced to lay railroad track all day. But she had to act like she knew nothing was wrong. That was the first thing Basch taught her – always know nothing.

"Hello," Lilli said in the shyest voice she could muster as she opened the door, looking up at the daunting man.

"Hello there." The man's voice was low and calm, reminiscent of a father's. Perhaps he was one. "You must be Lilli Zwingli, ja?"

How does he know my name? Surely Basch wouldn't tell him.

"Yes, sir, my name is Lilli," she replied, playing with one of her long braids. Basch taught her that the more childish she looked, the better. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No, dear, I'm looking for your brother. Is he home?" The man flashed a reassuring grin, but Lilli wasn't going to fall for anything the Gestapo man threw her way.

She shook her head. "No, sir. He's at work right now. Can I take a message?"

"What time does he usually get home?" he asked, letting his eyes wander around their house. What, is he looking for clues? Lilli said to herself. He's not going to find anything.

"Around six or so." Lilli glanced back at the clock on the wall – it was five past seven. She knew what she had to say next, even if she would rather kill herself than invite a Gestapo man in. But Basch taught her to be polite, especially to the Nazis. "He should be home any minute now. Would you like to come in and wait?"

The man looked down at her, cold eyes flickering with a hint of interest. "I don't want to trouble you."

"No, it isn't any trouble at all. Please, sir, come in."

Oh, no, this is it. He's going to find something, something that I didn't put away or Basch didn't burn. The two of us could spend tonight in a jail cell.

"I'm so sorry, I never gave you my name," the man said as he walked in, closing the door behind him with an ominous finality. She was stuck with him now – no escape. "I'm Kriminalinspektor Beilschmidt, but you can call me Ludwig."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Herr Ludwig. Would you like some coffee?" Lilli chirped, grabbing the pot of coffee she made for Basch.

"No thank you, I don't intend to stay that long. You have a lovely house," Ludwig said, sitting down at the kitchen table. He took off his gloves, revealing dried blood on his fingertips. Lilli gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry, have I done something wrong?" Ludwig asked.

"You…you…there's blood on your fingers!" Lilli took a step back, her hand searching for something to use as a weapon against the presumed murderer.

Ludwig held up his hands, a little smile crossing his face. "Oh, dear, I didn't mean to scare you. I was helping an injured man today, and I completely forgot about this. Don't worry, I didn't kill anyone."

"What –"

Lilli was interrupted by the front door slamming open. Basch burst in, his green eyes wild.

"Lilli, are you alright?" he asked, walking right by the Gestapo man in his kitchen and going over to the girl. He gave her a hug, acting like they'd been separated for years. "I saw the car outside and thought that he'd…What does it matter? You're safe. And that's all that…" He froze, finally realizing who was sitting at the table.

"Guten Abend, Herr Zwingli. Would you kindly back away from the girl and put your hands in the air? Unless, of course, you want me to drag you out of here again."

A/N: One day I won't assault Basch every chance I get. It's not my fault – he's too damn easy to play with. He's probably the character I have the most fun writing. Everyone else just makes me scream on the inside, especially Roderich and Lilli.

I'm not really sure if I should do translation notes at this point – everyone knows their Auf Weidersehen and Guten Abend, right? Maybe it's just me being a German nerd and assuming most people know the basics of the basics. So, if I ever put something down that you don't understand, just Google translate it. Raus does mean "out," though.

I don't have a lot to say this time, it's been a pretty quiet week here. So, thank you to idrinkwaterjuicesoda, Abc, Chizu5645, EllaAwkward, and my cinnamon rolls SoulEleri and Comix and Co! You guys all make my day!

See you all next chapter!