The sky was a sullen ash grey as the prisoners of Barrack Two lined up for morning roll call, the air thick with the smell of rain. With the promise of rain came a miserable feeling that swallowed everything whole. Storms were the worst things in the small world of Stalag XVIII-A, next to all privileges being revoked or snow. At least with snow, the prisoners were excused from work details – but the commandant didn't care about them working in the rain. He seemed to enjoy writing it off as punishment none of them deserved and forcing them onto work details. And if they weren't working in some farmer's field up to their knees in mud, they were shut up in their leaky-roofed barracks.
Ivan glanced at his watch, praying time jumped ahead five minutes since the last time he checked seconds ago. It was still eight-thirty, the same time it'd been for what seemed like the past hour. Underneath his jacket, the file he'd stolen from Gilbert's safe poked at his side as if to remind him it was still there. He needed to hold out for five more minutes, five painstakingly long minutes without dropping the file, getting in trouble, or both.
"Achtzehn…Neunzehn…Zwanzig?" the sergeant asked himself, startled to find twenty men standing before him. He quietly counted again, before saying, "Are all of you really here? On time?"
"Did anyone teach you Jerries how to count? There's twenty of us that sleep in that barrack, and there's twenty of us here right now," Arthur scoffed, although he was clearly just as confused as the sergeant as to why there were twenty people lined up from Barrack Two.
"Alright, who isn't from Barrack Two?" the sergeant said, looking over the group. "Braginsky?" he called out, Aryan blue eyes searching for the Russian.
"Heidrich, you saw me and nearly passed out, I'm here," Ivan answered, looking at his watch again. Eight-thirty-one. The war would be over before four minutes passed if time kept up at this pace.
"What are you doing, being obedient?" Sergeant Heidrich asked, coming over to Ivan. Naturally, he was suspicious – Ivan hadn't shown up to roll call on time since December 31st of 1939.
Ivan shrugged, kicking at the gravel. "I don't know. I felt like I should be a good kid today."
"You?" Heidrich said with a smile. "You thought you were going to be a good kid? Who are you trying to fool?"
"Absolutely no one."
"Right. Don't think I'm not watching you." Heidrich looked at the list of prisoners in his hand, moving to the second man most likely to act out. "Adnan?"
"You caught me punch Heracles and told me I'd be in solitary if I did it again," Sadik grumbled, looking over at the Greek with fire in his golden eyes. Heracles gave him a sleepy smile, saying something in Greek that no one had to be fluent in to understand. Sadik shot something back equally as vulgar sounding, making Heracles' face go red.
Heidrich rolled his eyes, letting the two continue on with their fight. "Jones?"
"Now, sir, I am personally offended that you would think I would be the one to screw things up," Alfred replied, putting a hand to his chest. "I am never late."
"You were late yesterday," Arthur reminded him.
"I don't need you to remind me, Eyebrows."
Ivan resisted the urge to look at his watch again, keeping himself occupied by drumming his fingers on his leg. All around him, people were shouting – Sadik and Heracles, Arthur and Alfred, and now it seemed Eduard was picking a fight with Raivis. He would've been shouting along with the rest of them, but he was scared to do anything more than breathe. The file wasn't folded up and safe in one of the hidden pockets inside Ivan's jacket, but rather shoved lazily in between his jacket and his shirt. Only now did he recognize how terrible of an idea this truly was, praying that the folder wouldn't slip out.
Despite all his efforts not to, Ivan looked at his watch once more. Eight-thirty-three. Just two more minutes. Two more minutes to still get in trouble, drop the folder and break a promise eighteen years in the making. He'd never wanted time to pass more quickly in his life.
"Shut up!" Heidrich yelled in a sorry attempt to get everyone to stop fighting. This, of course, never worked, but the Germans loved to try. Ivan was the only one who could truly stop them, being the senior POW – but why would he? It was absolutely hilarious to watch the German soldiers realize they had zero control over their own prisoners.
The door of the commandant's office was thrown open, Gilbert marching out looking much, much angrier than usual. Everyone immediately stopped shouting, a few of them daring to glance at Ivan to see if he was panicking yet. They all knew he had the file; he'd asked for help that morning with the transfer.
"Report," Gilbert said in a low, cold voice laced with arsenic. Ivan froze, thinking Gilbert was asking for the report on Roderich, but then remembered it was still roll call.
"All present and accounted for," Heidrich replied.
Gilbert looked over the twenty men before him, expression condescending and cruel. "On time?"
Heidrich nodded.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Gilbert said, walking up and down the first row. Ivan stopped breathing every time the man passed him, terrified the report would slip out from under his jacket right in front of the commandant. "How are all of you on time?" He came to a halt right in front of Ivan, red eyes full of hatred.
"What? I just wanted to be punctual for once," Ivan explained, locking eyes with the commandant. He couldn't do anything out of the ordinary – one little mistake and it could all be over.
"And why would you do that? Don't lie to me, Braginsky. You've done something and you're trying to cover for it."
"I am not trying to cover for anything."
"Where were you last night?" Gilbert growled.
Ivan glanced at his watch a final time – it read eight-thirty-five. In a matter of seconds, he'd hear the rumble of an engine coming down the dirt road to Stalag XVIII-A, he'd slip away from the commandant, and he'd keep up his end of a child's promise.
"Answer me, Braginsky. Or are you too scared?"
"I've never been scared in my life, sir," Ivan replied, even though he was so terrified he could hardly breathe. What was taking the old man so long?
And then he heard his salvation; the roar of an engine that desperately needed to be worked on. Ivan looked over to the fence, smiling at the sight of the blue-grey truck with the peeling paint. A guard walked up to the gates, wrenching them open for the truck. The plan was in its final stage.
"Dog truck!" Alfred shouted, although everyone in Wolfsburg knew exactly where the truck was. Only a broken engine could make such a wretched noise.
"Braginsky! Answer me!" Gilbert snarled, taking a step forward. "Where were you last night?!"
The dog truck drove past the office, coming to a halt at the kennels. The guard dogs barked and howled with delight, knowing they were about to be relieved of duty. Ivan looked from Gilbert to the truck, preparing to run.
"Braginsky!" Gilbert grabbed a fistful of the man's jacket.
The report slipped just enough that Gilbert could see half of a cream coloured folder sticking out of the bottom of Ivan's jacket.
Gilbert grabbed it before Ivan could, holding it far away from the man. If he was angry before, he was livid now. "What is this?" he hissed, turning the folder so he could see the label on the front. "Oh, it's the report Raivis wrote for me? Now, could you explain what you were doing with it?"
Ivan was completely blank. He'd expected everything to run so smoothly that morning that he hadn't come up with any good lie. No, there weren't any lies to use. He broke the promise. There was no way to save himself from this one, no way to –
"Danke!" Toris said, plucking the report from Gilbert's hand. He took off for the truck, the rest of Barrack Two following along as planned.
Six years. That's how long Ivan had known Toris. In six years, he'd learned everything about the man, all the minute details that made up who Toris was. He kept all of his worries to himself, hated talking about Lithuania with such a passion Ivan thought he was almost ashamed to be Lithuanian, remembered things in vivid detail, and could hold a grudge like no one else. Ivan knew of the nightmares and the trust issues and the broken relationships that scarred Toris' personality. Toris Laurinaitis was shy, quiet, intelligent, and above all, submissive.
And as Ivan watched Toris run for the dog truck with the stolen report in hand, he felt like he'd discovered something new about him. A little mystery Toris kept tucked away for six years finally revealed itself – he had a rebellious spirit.
Gilbert – like everyone else – was too startled to do anything. Ivan saw his chance, ripping Gilbert's hand from his jacket and running over to the crowd around the truck. The report was nowhere to be seen; hidden, no doubt. The man who changed out the guard dogs carried on like nothing had happened, dragging out new German shepherds from the depths of the truck and shoving the old ones in.
"Oh, my God, did I really just do that?" Toris said in a weak voice, suddenly appearing at Ivan's side.
"It was perfect, malyutka! You should've seen Gilbert's face!" Ivan couldn't help but smile, pulling the man into a hug. "You were amazing, absolutely amazing!"
In that moment, the gloomy world of Stalag XVIII-A ceased to exist. Ivan was so caught up in the fact that they'd pulled it off, they'd really pulled it off, that he completely forgot Gilbert saw the whole thing. All that mattered to him was that Toris got the report to the contact, and Ivan couldn't be more proud.
Of course, Gilbert Beilschmidt had to ruin everything.
"Laurinaitis!" Gilbert snapped, grabbing Toris by the back of his collar. He pulled him away from Ivan, throwing him to the ground. Toris looked to Ivan for help, begging for a way out that even Ivan, the master of getting out of things, couldn't find. "Solitary. A month. All privileges revoked for two months," he growled, stepping on Toris' chest to keep him pinned to the ground. "And you," he said, turning to Ivan.
"What about me?" Ivan asked with a forced smile.
"I'm fed up with your behavior. I can handle a lot of things, but stealing from my own damn safe?! That's just low, Ivan. I only have one word for you," he said, coming over to Ivan. "Gestapo."
"I love the Gestapo," Ivan shot back. "They're not going to get shit out of me and you know it."
"Oh, yes, they will. This isn't going to be one of your routine investigations. I'm sending you to their offices in Vienna, where whoever they choose will have free reign to interrogate you. You better pray it isn't my brother." Gilbert ran a finger across his throat.
"Come on, Commandant," Alfred said, taking a step forward to try and defend the Russian. "It was –"
"Jones, solitary for two days! Does anyone else have anything to add?"
No one dared to say anything else.
"Good. Now," Gilbert said, looking over at the man in charge of the guard dogs, "this truck is not leaving until that report is found."
"You want him to do what?"
"I know you're thinking that I've finally gone absolutely insane," Francis said in the gentlest tone he could muster, trying to keep Basch at least semi-calm. Basch was taking the news much better than he expected, but still not as civilized as most people would've. "But I think we can use Roderich to our advantage."
"By letting him into the Underground? Good God, Francis, why don't we just let the Gestapo join us too? Maybe Himmler would like to be an agent. Roderich's a Nazi, you idiot," Basch snapped, crossing his arms. He'd already made up his mind about Roderich – he absolutely hated him – and had told Francis this several times over the past hour they'd been discussing the man. "Most people I will accept, but I have to draw the line for members somewhere."
"Roderich isn't a Nazi. He's part Jewish, remember? And I'm not saying we use him as one of our most active agents, but for a quick job or two, he'd be wonderful. And best of all, the Gestapo trusts him more than they trust all of us combined. If I plot things out in advance and twist his story perfectly, they can't blame Hitler's favourite musician. He can get away with a lot more than we ever could."
"You're going to have to work twice as hard to cover for him," Basch added, pacing back and forth over the bedroom floor. "And if he does get caught, it won't only be him going to some labour camp. It'll be you and probably me."
"I'm willing to work for him. And besides, I already have everything about him covered. He'll be wonderful, Basch."
Basch sighed, holding his head. "He'll be great until the Gestapo pins him and starts interrogating. He's not good material. From what I've seen and you've told me, he's nervous, he's an alcoholic, and he really doesn't care what happens to himself. That's not the kind of person I need."
"So what if he's a little nervous and a bit of an alcoholic? Aren't we all?" Francis nearly shouted, trying to get Basch to make eye contact with him. He couldn't stand it when Basch would talk to him but keep his eyes focused on something else. It made Francis feel like what he was saying wasn't worth the effort. "This is the chance for him to finally do something worthwhile with his life. Something important. He can finally work for the right side."
"He can find something else."
"Basch, if he keeps going through life doing the same thing every day, he's going to kill himself."
"Oh, so this is about saving him now?" Basch asked, keeping his green eyes focused on the wall. "We're going to let one half-Nazi, half-Jew into our Underground because he might commit suicide? Well, now I've rethought everything. He deserves to be with us. No, he can take my position."
"Will you stop being sarcastic? I thought you'd understand, but obviously, I was wrong," Francis snapped.
"I'm sorry I value my family more than some pathetic drunk. Let's say Roderich does get caught," Basch started, glancing over at Francis for a second before continuing. "Who is the first person he is going to throw in front of the guilt train? You? Me? Maybe even Lilli? I don't want any of us being shipped off to Poland. I don't trust Roderich yet. Give me twenty years or so to warm up to him, and then I'll reconsider."
"I promise he wouldn't do something like that," Francis said, knowing all too well that he couldn't keep a promise like that. Roderich wasn't the most trustworthy person in the world. "Lilli will be safe, and I'll make sure of it."
"How do you know he's not a traitor? How do you know? Oh, wait, you don't. You're going off false assumptions and what little you know about this man," Basch snarled.
"I know nothing about him? Basch, I read his whole damned life story and rewrote the whole thing! I know that man better than he knows himself!"
"People can hide a lot of things from you, Francis. It's not hard," Basch said in a voice so uncharacteristically harsh Francis nearly flinched. He really had his mind set on Roderich not joining.
"I know they can. But believe me," Francis pleaded. "Roderich is no different from any of us. He's not out to please Hitler. All he wants to do is make some sort of difference in Vienna. He wants to be somebody, somebody more than von Wolffe. Someone real."
Basch rolled his eyes. "I used to want to be someone, too. But I got over that. He's older than me, so he should've gotten over it a long time ago. My answer is still no."
"And what makes you think you aren't someone? Good God, your name is all over Gestapo Headquarters! You're the person everyone goes to when they need help, whether it is Underground related or someone like me crying about how their third marriage ended."
"What, are you trying to sugar me up for something?" Basch asked, arching an eyebrow. "You're being strangely nice to me."
"You need someone right now, Basch. I'm trying to be that someone," Francis admitted, looking down at the worn floorboards. "The war's doing a number on all of us, but I think you've been hit the hardest. And if it goes on for three, four more years…I just don't want you to end up like Roderich."
"Is that why you're so concerned about me all of a sudden? I thought you'd found out that I had some terminal disease and had to make up for those years of shoving me in the Seine and giving me a black eye," Basch said, the hostile edge to his words disappearing.
"The black eye was technically not my fault," Francis shot back, looking up to find Basch finally making eye contact. "You gave me a bloody nose first."
"I was eight. You were twelve. I had a right to defend myself. Are you still upset about that?"
Francis felt his face grow red. "Maybe."
"Listen, Francis, I know you have good intentions for literally everything. That's just who you are," Basch said. "And I know you would never intentionally do something to hurt our family. But I don't know if I feel safe letting a stranger into my family. I treat everyone in Vienna's Angels like they are my blood relatives because I've known them forever. I've known Roderich for less than twenty-four hours."
"And what a wonderful less-than-twenty-four-hours it's been. I only want to do this because I think it'll help save you some stress. Please, just give Roderich a chance. You gave me my first chance. And look where I am now."
Basch smiled. "You're begging for a drunkard to be let into the most successful Underground operation in Austria. Haven't gotten much farther, have you?"
"Does that mean yes?" Francis asked hopefully.
"Oh, God, I can't believe I'm going to say this," Basch muttered, shaking his head. "I'm not saying that we're going to let him in right now, but if I become more acquainted with him over, say, the next few months, and find out more about his personality, I will seriously consider allowing him to run a few missions and rendezvous. Consider, not automatically initiate."
"…Are you serious?"
"I would never joke about something as serious as this," Basch answered. "Now, I don't want you to go talk to him about everything, and I don't want you to make him do things that will change my mind. I want to see his real personality, not Francis Bonnefoy's influence."
"Who do you think I am?" Francis asked with a grin. He knew his charm would make Basch loosen up eventually – it always did.
"Francis Bonnefoy, the biggest cheat in all of Europe."
"Not much better than Basch Martin Luther Zwingli, the tiniest and angriest member of the Resistance," Francis said, giving Basch a playful nudge. Basch pushed Francis away from him, storming out of the bedroom.
"Oh, come on, hedgehog, it was only a joke!" Francis called after him, following the furious Swiss out to the kitchen.
"And a piss poor at that!" Basch shot back. "You know I don't like people talking about my height. Hey, have you seen Lilli?"
Francis shook his head. "I didn't leave when we were talking – how could I?"
"Weird, she's usually out here," Basch said to himself, ducking into the tiny adjoining living room. "Lilli?"
"Is she outside?"
"It's raining; she wouldn't be dumb enough to go outside. Where the hell is Roderich?" Basch pushed past Francis, stomping off to the back of the house. "I swear to God, if he is anywhere near that kid…"
Francis sighed, going over to the little window by the back door. Sure enough, Lilli and Roderich were talking, Lilli perched on the swing like a maroon canary and Roderich sprawled out on the grass. Both of them were soaked, but they didn't seem to care. They were smiling, talking back and forth as if they'd been friends for more than a few hours. Roderich said something with a narcissistic look that sent Lilli into hysterics, the girl nearly falling off the swing.
"I'm going to burn that son of a bitch alive," Basch muttered, stomping back into the kitchen. "The hell are you smiling about?"
"Lilli has a new friend." Francis motioned for Basch to join him, tapping the rain-streaked window pane.
Basch stood beside Francis for much longer than he should've gone without saying anything. Francis couldn't tell if he was angry or interested – really, any emotions were hard to tell apart with Basch. Whatever the man was feeling, he watched the two for several minutes, studying their every move. Was he trying to make sure Roderich was really trustworthy with Lilli? Was it part of his test? Was he so mad he couldn't do anything?
Basch was too damn hard to read.
"Basch?" Francis asked, only to be shushed.
"Look at her," he said after a few moments of silence. "I haven't seen her this happy in so long. She's actually laughing."
"September 23rd," Hochstetter said as he hung up the phone, flashing Ludwig a grin. "We only have to wait two weeks. And all it took was me getting my entire family banned from Berchtesgaden for the rest of our lives. Future members included. Goebbels' secretary doesn't take kindly to calls from strangers."
"You were the one who came up with the bright idea to call Josef Goebbels himself."
"I wasn't expecting his secretary to curse my family for all of eternity!"
Ludwig rolled his eyes – what did Hochstetter expecting out of a call to Berchtesgaden where he demanded information from Goebbels himself?
"Don't act like you're so much smarter than me," Hochstetter huffed, crossing his arms. "It was a good idea when I started."
"At least we got the date. But what if Zwingli decides to do something before then?" Ludwig asked, knowing Basch couldn't go two weeks without vandalizing something. He couldn't go a day without making some kind of trouble.
Hochstetter shrugged, putting his boots up on the edge of his desk. "That's your battle to fight. I just got my ass chewed by some secretary because you didn't want to go up to von Wolffe and ask him."
"I don't want to ask him because I don't want him to get suspicious. And I didn't say you should call Goebbels!" Ludwig could only imagine what would've happened if the secretary had let him talk to Josef Goebbels. Hochstetter certainly wouldn't be showing up to work the next morning.
"So maybe it was a bit stupid," Hochstetter admitted.
"A bit?"
"Fine," Hochstetter groaned. "It was probably the dumbest thing I've done in my life. But we got the date, right?"
"I don't know why I put up with you," Ludwig muttered, grabbing one of the prisoner files the two were supposed to be working on before the ingenious idea to call Berchtesgaden came up. The box was still half full – needless to say, they hadn't gotten much work done together.
"Just a friendly reminder I'm four months older than you, kriminalinspektor," he said, putting extra emphasis on kriminalinspektor to remind Ludwig that he was beneath him.
"Four months. Four damned months. And it wasn't my fault I had to stay at home for longer than you because my father needed help. If I wouldn't have stayed, I'd be up where you are."
"Who cares about a parent?" Hochstetter scoffed. "I left home the second I could."
Ludwig looked up at Hochstetter, watching the man sign his name on the bottom of a report. "At least I care for my family."
"Family? Who needs –"
Hochstetter was interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for a reply, the kriminaloberassistent marched into the office, carrying a thick folder, a bucket, and looking like he could kill someone as usual.
"Guten Tag, sir," Hochstetter said, looking down at his desk. No one dared to make eye contact with the kriminaloberassistent unless he insisted on it.
"Will you two do something useful for once?" he growled, throwing the folder down on the desk. Roderich von Wolffe was written lazily across the cover in Gilbert's handwriting, the ink smudged – he was probably too impatient to wait for it to dry. He handed the bucket to Ludwig, ice water splashing over the rim and soaking into Ludwig's pants. "We have a prisoner from Wolfsburg here, details are in the folder. He's already driven everyone in the office absolutely insane, so good luck."
The kriminaloberassistent sighed, going back out into the hall. From there he started shouting, a strong yet strangely childish voice shouting back in thickly accented German. Ludwig couldn't understand much of it – the two were yelling over each other – but he caught threats of stabbing, drowning, strangling, several insults pertaining to the two's families, one threat of disembowelment, and there were many, many Slavic insults in the mix.
A young – but definitely not small – man was shoved through the door by the kriminaloberassistent, a few more insults were thrown his way, and the door was slammed shut. The man muttered a few curses in a foreign language, turning back towards the door. Only now could Ludwig see that his hands were tied behind his back, his wrists rubbed raw from struggling. Both of the Gestapo men kept quiet, still trying to figure out what had just happened.
"Hello," the man said after a moment of silence, giving them a little smile. "You are going to interrogate me, yes?"
"My God, you're huge," Hochstetter gasped before Ludwig could think of anything professional to say.
The man looked down at the floor, face growing red. "Was that meant to be an insult or a compliment?"
"It likely was both," Ludwig answered, snatching up the file they'd been given. He could tell the man wasn't the everyday prisoner, with a report nearly four times as thick as a standard one. But when he saw the name, he completely understood everything.
"Colonel Ivan Leonidovich Braginsky," Ludwig said slowly, looking back up at the Russian before him. "You're the infamous bastard my brother calls me about?"
"Oh, sir, that's not even coming close to half of the things the commandant calls me. Just today he threatened to murder me over ten times in one sentence," Ivan said much too proudly.
"Give me that." Hochstetter snatched the report from Ludwig's hands, flipping through the pages. "You've got an impressive record, kid. Sixteen escape attempts in the past two months? One count of arson? Five of theft? You've been requested for transfer forty-one times. What the hell are you doing in Stalag XVIII-A?"
"It's boring there. We have to find something to do, so I like to do things that make Commandant want to murder me. Did they mention the incident with the letter opener?"
"Letter opener?" Hochstetter skimmed through the list of offenses and descriptions. "Uh, no. Nothing about a letter opener."
"Shame, that was one of my best ones. My barrack played darts with a letter opener and a picture of Hitler," Ivan admitted without one look of regret. Did he feel anything but pride?
"And they want us to interrogate you on account of stealing? They sent you all the way to Vienna because you stole something?" Hochstetter asked, handing the report back over to Ludwig. "This is Vienna, not some little town. We've got better things to do than interrogate people like you. Now, if you would've killed someone, we could talk."
"That's what I told Commandant." Ivan took a seat in front of the desk, looking all too comfortable for someone who'd been sent to Gestapo Headquarters, supposedly multiple times. "And he wouldn't let me go to the Gestapo in Graz because I 'know them too well.'"
"Don't you ever want to not cause trouble?" Ludwig asked.
"I've been causing trouble since I could walk. But I actually didn't cause trouble today. Well, not intentionally. I wasn't expecting the commandant to mess everything up," Ivan muttered, his smile fading into a grimace.
"What did you even do?" Ludwig thumbed through the first few pages of the report, looking for some sort of information on the actual crime. All that was written down was "theft," which could mean anything.
"I stole a file on Roderich von Wolffe."
"For what reason?" Hochstetter sat up straight again, blue eyes gleaming.
Ivan shrugged. "I felt like it. The commandant keeps his safe unguarded, and the locks on the windows don't do shit against me."
"Do you know who Roderich von Wolffe is?" Ludwig asked, trying to remember if Roderich had ever mentioned a Russian man before. A man of his size would be memorable.
"Some Nazi pig, right? Listen, I don't care about whoever the guy is. I'm here to be talked to about stealing."
Hochstetter glanced over at Ludwig, looking to see if they were thinking the same thing. Ludwig nodded, getting up and closing the shades.
"So we're going to be formal now?" Ivan asked, his voice wavering. So he did have more than one emotion.
"Colonel Braginsky," Hochstetter said, the venom in his words so thick that Ivan's name sounded like an insult. "In Vienna, the Gestapo asks the questions. Don't you dare say another word out of line unless you want to find yourself in much more pain than you've ever been. So, let's start with an easy question. How do you know Roderich von Wolffe?"
"I thought you were the nice one," Ivan growled.
"Oh, I am. Ludwig's the one who will break your bones and make you bleed. I'm the one who rips whatever sanity you have to pieces. It's your choice which way you want to go. You can go back to your prison camp perfectly fine, or I can send you back forever broken."
"I already am broken," Ivan replied, still bearing a smirk. "You can't shatter me any more than I already have been."
"Get on your knees," Hochstetter ordered.
Ivan gave him a look that screamed murder, but surprisingly followed orders. Ludwig didn't move for a second – suspects with as strong of a will as Ivan never were so compliant. He was used to slamming people to the ground and pinning them there, and he expected Ivan to be no different. Was it part of some sort of plan to do as he was told?
Ludwig put the bucket of ice water down in front of the man, grabbing a fistful of his blond hair. He was expecting Ivan to lose his arrogance and at least cave a little – but he started laughing.
"Of all the games you want to play with me, a full-blooded Russian, you choose this one?" Ivan asked in between fits of laughter. "Tell you what, I'll humour you and play along."
Ludwig shoved his head underwater, taking a sharp breath as the cold bit at his fingers. And yet, Ivan didn't struggle. He stayed perfectly still.
"What the hell is wrong with this kid?" Hochstetter asked. "I've never seen someone so…"
"Insane?" Ludwig finished, pulling Ivan back up. Ivan shook his head like a dog, still smiling.
"You Germans have a very different definition of cold," Ivan said, his voice much weaker than before but still smug.
"How do you know Roderich von Wolffe?" Hochstetter snarled, coming over to Ivan.
"Like I said – it was there for me to steal," he answered.
Ludwig forced him back underwater.
"You don't have any plans tonight, do you?" Hochstetter asked. "I know you're so busy."
"No. I never have any plans," Ludwig replied, pushing Ivan's head a bit deeper into the bucket.
"How do you feel about an all-nighter with yours truly?"
Roderich fell back on his couch, too tired to even think of moving. All day Basch had him running guns and parts to people, giving him wrong addresses so Roderich was forced to make several trips just to deliver one pistol. When he finally let Roderich go home at ten, Francis had to go with him. Not only did Francis have to take him home – he was keeping Roderich under house arrest.
As if all of that wasn't enough, Basch told Roderich to show up at his house the next day at eight for even more work. Roderich felt like he could've murdered Basch numerous times that day, but he knew that he owed a lot to the short Swiss and his charming cousin. Who knows where he would be if they hadn't kidnapped him. In jail, at the mercy of a jury who only wanted to see him executed, perhaps even dead.
Still, didn't Basch feel even the slightest bit guilty for making an innocent man run all over Vienna?
Probably not. That man was colder than Siberia in the dead of winter, and he'd made it clear he wanted Roderich to drop dead.
From the kitchen he could hear the phone ring, breaking the silence of the lonely house. He considered getting up but quickly remembered Francis was perfectly able of answering a phone. If someone needed to talk to Roderich so bad, they could wait until morning. Right now, he didn't want to move for another ten years.
"Aren't you going to answer that?" Francis called from somewhere in the back of the house, clearly not having the same idea as Roderich.
"I can't bear to move and may very well be dead," Roderich groaned. "Please, can you answer it?"
"Stop exaggerating," Francis huffed as he came into the kitchen, snatching the phone off the wall. "Hello, Herr von Wolffe is being an overdramatic crybaby right now, he can't talk. So you can take your complaints elsewhere and leave that bastard alone. In other words, piss off."
Francis didn't say another word for what felt like hours, only starting to talk before being cut off and sent back into silence.
"Who is it?" Roderich asked, hoping Francis didn't just sass the Gestapo.
Francis looked over at Roderich, gesturing for him to come get the phone. "Yes, sir. I am so sorry, I had no idea it was you…Who am I? Oh, I'm a nobody compared to Herr von Wolffe…Sorry, sir, my name is Christian Kleiner. Hold on, I'll get Herr von Wolffe. Um, Heil Hitler." He pulled the phone away from his ear, covering it with his hand. "It's Goebbels. Oh, my God, I just told Goebbels to piss off."
Roderich immediately got up, snatching the phone from Francis' hands. Francis backed away, looking more pleased with himself than terrified like he should be.
"I am so sorry about that, sir," Roderich apologized, knowing he was going to be screamed at. He should've answered the phone himself, but he really wasn't expecting Francis to be so rude.
"Who is that Kleiner man, Roderich?" Goebbels asked. "No, better yet, why is he answering your telephone?"
"He's a family friend, sir. Really, he meant no offense to you. And he's probably a little drunk right now," Roderich explained, earning himself a cold glare from Francis.
"Takes one to know one," Francis hissed quietly.
"Tell your friend he needs to watch himself. Talking like that could certainly get him in plenty of trouble. Now," Goebbels said in a sharp voice that made Roderich flinch, "about your new assignment. I need a swing piece, somewhere between three and four minutes long. Can you handle that?"
"I think so."
"You think?" Roderich could tell Goebbels was smiling at his uncertainty.
"No, I can do it!" Roderich quickly corrected himself. "I promise you, sir. You won't be disappointed."
"I haven't been disappointed with your work yet, I'm sure you'll do fine. You are the prodigy of the Imperial Academy of Music and Preforming Arts. And by the way, do you know a kriminalkomissionar by the name of Hochstetter?"
"I don't think so. Can I ask why, sir?" Roderich looked over at Francis, wondering if he knew anything about Hochstetter. Francis shrugged, mouthing the word "what."
"He called here around twelve, asking when your next performance was. I didn't talk to him personally, but my secretary told me he seemed rather interested in you," Goebbels said. "It seems you have a fan. Anyway, I'm sure you have better things to do than talk to me."
"I could talk to you all night if you wanted, sir."
"What did I say about calling me 'sir?' It's fine to call me by my first name now, I won't get mad," he said in such a way Roderich knew that deep down, he really would get mad.
"Oh, um, right. Auf…Auf Wiedersehen, Josef. Heil Hitler," Roderich stammered, feeling a bit sick and angry all at the same time.
"Heil Hitler. Auf Wiedersehen."
Roderich hung the phone back on the hook, slumping against the wall. Talking to anyone from the Nazis' inner circle always made him feel like gagging – they were all sickening people. But calling them by their first names? That was too much.
"You just said Josef, didn't you?" Francis asked with a smile.
"Shut up."
"So, what did Josef have to say to you?" Francis said, drawing out Goebbels' name. "And why did you look at me like that?"
"It's nothing that you need to know," Roderich growled, pushing past Francis to go upstairs. "That bastard Goebbels," he said to himself when he came into his room, grabbing his composition book from where he'd left it on the dresser. "Saying we can call each other by our first names. You don't call the devil Lucifer to his face unless you want to be eternally damned. And who is he to say what I'm going to write? I'm going to write whatever I feel like, Josef."
Roderich couldn't stand that name. It felt so wrong when he said it, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. The name should have been cursed, as if anyone who said it would be punished to a lifetime of misery.
He opened the composition book to a clean page, titling it "swing." For a moment he stared at the blank page, trying to find an idea hidden in its lines. He knew what he was supposed to write – a swing piece, of all things, for whatever Nazi jazz band the propaganda ministry scraped together.
"You want swing music, Josef?" Roderich growled, still unable to come up with any idea. "You want me to write for your little Nazi approved band? Well, I'll give you swing music. It'll be the best damn song you've ever heard, even better than the Americans."
He scribbled a quick treble clef and a 4/4, taking a deep breath. Pen poised, he waited for the first few notes to come to mind. And waited. And waited. And waited. Suddenly, Roderich came to a horrible realization.
He knew nothing about swing.
All his life he'd trained to become the next Beethoven, the next Wagner, the next Chopin. And American music never really was his forte – the language barrier was a huge problem. He'd hardly paid any attention when he heard swing. Roderich thought it was the downfall of society, the musicians were only in it for the money and not the art now. Swing was all the same to him, just one never ending song. Only, now that he was being paid good money to write swing, he realized he should've paid slightly more attention.
"Shit," Roderich groaned, putting his head down on his desk. "Oh, God, I don't know a damned thing about any new music. That's just wonderful. Because when one thing starts to go right for me, the whole world has to turn against me!Thank you, world! I just want to have one miserable thing go right in my life, one worthless little thing, and so far all that's happened is I've sold my creative freedom to a monster. Does anything else want to go wrong while I'm at it?"
"What are you doing?" Francis asked, stepping into the room. He came over to Roderich's desk, looking over the catastrophe of papers, books, and other odds and ends that covered the surface.
"You wouldn't happen to know any Americans, would you?" Roderich looked up at Francis. "I need one who knows about swing music."
"Isn't that illegal?"
"Not the Nazi approved stuff," Roderich mumbled, wondering where he could find an American in Austria.
"I know everyone in Vienna, and I've never heard of one American here. They might be holding one in Gestapo Headquarters, though. From what I know of Americans, they tend to be troublemakers. If you wanted, I could take you there tomorrow before we go to Basch's," Francis offered. "You know, since you can't leave my sight or else Basch is going to break my legs."
"It's worth a shot."
"Look what I found in the kriminaloberassistent's desk," Hochstetter announced as he came back into his office, holding up a brown bottle. "Didn't know he was such a drunk, you should've seen half the shit I found. I could've brought the brandy, but I think you're old enough for vodka now. Tonight you'll become a real man, Ludwig."
"Four. Months. I am not a child, at least compared to you," Ludwig said, although he couldn't help smiling. He had no idea what he was in for when he signed up for an all-nighter with Hochstetter – he wasn't expecting raids on everyone's offices and smoking stolen cigars on the roof.
Headquarters wasn't so frightening at night with Hochstetter, as everything with the man was some sort of game. When Ivan passed out and they locked him up, the game began. First, it was a contest to see who could find the most embarrassing thing in someone's desk – Ludwig won with the letters to several different men he'd found in the secretary's desk, none of which were her husband. And then it was a race to get up on the roof. After that they found a deck of cards and started lighting them on fire, throwing the burning aces and queens at the still sleeping Ivan.
"Of course you're not a little boy, dear," Hochstetter said in a falsetto voice, producing two shot glasses from behind his back. "And I'm not the worst Gestapo man that's ever been transferred here."
"You do realize that you just insulted yourself, right?"
Hochstetter sat down beside him, twisting the cap off the bottle. "It's true, isn't it? Berlin was begging for someone else to take me. And now I'm here with you." He poured a shot for each of them, nudging a glass towards Ludwig. "I am the wild child of this group. And the only fun one to be around, might I add. You all need to learn how to have fun in this here Gestapo Headquarters."
"The Gestapo can't be described as fun," Ludwig corrected him.
"Whatever, kid. To the end of this damned war," Hochstetter said, lifting up his shot glass.
"To the end of the war, and Basch Zwingli."
Ludwig didn't want to tell Hochstetter that this was his first time ever drinking vodka – it would only reinforce Hochstetter's already solid superiority complex. To keep Hochstetter from making any more age comments, he quickly downed the shot and immediately regretted it. No one told him how awful vodka was or that it burned. It was easily the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted, forcing him into a coughing fit.
"Don't you dare tell me this was your first time drinking straight vodka," Hochstetter said with a smirk as he poured himself another shot. "Or your first time ever drinking," he added before throwing back the shot.
"No, this isn't. And it's not my fault you've got a Slav's taste," Ludwig managed to say in between coughs.
"Oh, so this is my fault you're so young and so uncultured to the world of alcohol?" Hochstetter asked. "Don't worry, kid, the more you drink, the less it hurts. It can be a really good friend when you want it to be, and a bitch when you don't. And I would share more, but one of us has to stay sober to deal with Ivan."
Ludwig glanced at his watch, realizing it was already almost three. Had it already been five hours since the last man went home? "We only have a few minutes until three, you drunk. If Ivan comes in here and there's vodka out, who knows what he'll do."
"Shit, it's already that late? And we were just starting to have fun, too," Hochstetter huffed, hiding the bottle and shot glasses in his desk drawer. "Do you want to do the honours of bringing him here?"
"Honours? You just don't want to get your lazy ass up, so you're going to make me do all the work."
"Exactly. Now, go get my prisoner," Hochstetter ordered, motioning for Ludwig to leave.
"Some kriminalkomissionar you are," Ludwig said over his shoulder as he left.
"Better than a lowly kriminalinspektor! Move, peasant!"
Ludwig rolled his eyes, going off down the dark hallway towards Ivan's cell. Thankfully he could see Ivan's shape on the floor – he'd almost expected some grand escape attempt from the Russian, nothing left but his scarf or something of the sorts. A strange disappointment tugged at his heart as he unlocked the door and slipped inside, like he really wanted an escape. It was probably the vodka talking.
He nudged Ivan a few times with his boot before kneeling down beside him, taking a fistful of the Russian's still damp shirt. The man still seemed to be unconscious, but Ivan was liable to put him in a chokehold at any second. Ludwig held up a fist, preparing himself for the fight he knew was going to follow.
"I didn't mean it," Ivan muttered, turning away from Ludwig. "Yah…know I'd never."
"What sort of game are you trying to play with me," Ludwig snarled, pulling Ivan back so he could see the man's face.
"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it. I never…wanted this." Ivan's eyebrows curved up in concern, looking like he could cry.
"You have two seconds before I punch you."
"Please…Basch. I don't want to hurt anyone. Not…or Roderich."
Ludwig dropped Ivan, wondering if he'd heard him right. He was tired, he could've imagined it. But he couldn't help but think he could use this to his advantage – Ivan obviously knew something about Basch, something he wanted to hide from the world. He wasn't as useless to the case as he seemed.
"What the hell is taking you so long?" Hochstetter called out, appearing at the cell door from seemingly nowhere. His boot tapped impatiently against the floor, arms folded over his "It isn't that hard to wake someone up, is it?"
"Shh!" Ludwig hissed. "He just said something about Basch and Roderich."
Hochstetter clapped a hand over his mouth, blue eyes going wide. He was smiling yet again when he pulled his hand back and tiptoed into the cell, giving Ludwig an approving nudge.
"I don't want…" Ivan's worry faded away, replaced by a contempt smile. "Basch, lovers haf'ta fight sometimes."
"Does he mean Basch's girlfriend or did we just walk into a secret romance?" Hochstetter whispered, leaning in closer so as to not miss a word.
"Don't you 'member that mad night in…Innsbruck? You, me, th' Grand Europa. That was the best night of my life. Don't y' love me like that anymore?"
"I think we've found something to use against Basch," Ludwig replied. He felt rather guilty and ashamed of himself, as he'd intruded on a very private part of two very different men's lives – a part they'd obviously worked hard to hide. It all seemed so wrong. Ivan didn't look like the type for any romantic relationship, and Basch didn't have a heart to love with.
"Hold me like yah did," Ivan said in a rather suggestive voice, his grin growing as he put his arms around Ludwig's waist. "Tell me evr'ythin', let me pin yah to the bed, scream…scream my name, kiss me. Kiss me just like you did that night."
"Can I please wake him up now?" Ludwig begged, praying Ivan wasn't going to get any more physical.
"I don't know, I think you should kiss," Hochstetter replied quietly. "You two are cute together."
"Really?" Ivan asked, looking over at Hochstetter. "I thought I overdid it a little bit with the kiss. And by the way, what does that Basch guy have to do with Roderich? Better yet, who is Basch?"
"You're awake?" Hochstetter snarled, giving Ivan a kick in the ribs.
"Ow, shit, what was that for? All I was doing was having fun!"
"You mean you were lying that whole time?" Ludwig growled. He was thankful for the darkness of the cell – his face was burning with shame. How could he have been so gullible, believing Basch and Ivan were in some twisted relationship? Ivan didn't even know who the man was.
"Of course. Listen, I know we've only known each other for a short time, but you've got to understand that I am the biggest liar currently in Austria." Ivan flashed a smug grin, pushing Ludwig closer to murder. "There's only one rule for being a suspect – never let the Gestapo catch you asleep. You should know that by now. So, what are you going to do to me? I'm dying to know."
Hochstetter didn't say anything as he pulled Ivan to his feet, but his eyes said it all. He was furious, ready to kill a certain Russian. During interrogations, Hochstetter always remained semi-calm no matter who he was talking to. Ludwig hadn't ever seen Hochstetter snap – and it certainly wasn't going to be pretty. At the same time, maybe that was what they needed to crack Ivan.
"No one shows up until six, Braginsky," Hochstetter said in a monotone voice as he dragged Ivan back to his office, Ludwig following close behind. "That's three hours for Ludwig and myself to do whatever we want to you. Here in Vienna, if the kriminaloberassistent didn't see it, it didn't happen. For now, we don't have to follow any interrogation rules."
A/N: Oh, dear, a lot happened this week. The biggest thing was probably Swing-Stole-My-Heart and I turning this story into a script. Dear Lord, that's been a trip.
History time:
Berchtesgaden: A municipality in the Bavarian Alps, near the border of Austria. Adolf Hitler began vacationing there in the 1920's, and bought land in the Obersalzburg above the town. It became the vacation place for the Nazis during the 20's and 30's, and when the war started it was reinforced with security posts and support services.
Nazi Swing Band: Swing music was beginning its reign over the music industry in the early 1900's. However, because of the African American influences in the jazz/swing style, the Nazis weren't fond of the style, even outlawing it in 1935. Several underground bands sprung up in Berlin, avoiding being caught by pasting pro-German music over their own. For a while they stayed underground, until Josef Goebbels realized that he could use big band music to his advantage. He put together a band called Charlie and his Orchestra, and they made over 90 recordings that they distributed to POW camps.
Thank you to EllaAwkward, FlamingFyre (is this the one from Numbers? If so, hi! You're back!) idrinkwaterjuicesoda, Chizu5645, Swing-Stole-My-Heart, and Comix and Co! You guys are awesome for putting up with my rambling!
See you all next chapter!