"Roderich?" Francis pushed open the door to the master bedroom, going over to the man slumped over the desk. He was surrounded by papers, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose. For the first time in years, he looked peaceful, without a worry in the world. "You are asleep, right? Don't try and scare me, I have a bad heart."
When Roderich didn't reply, Francis took it as a sign he was asleep. He picked up one of the papers on his desk, this one not covered in music, but with a simple list that looked to have been written in a maximum of ten seconds. The letters were snarled together, some words underlined several times and written in all capitals.
"People I hate," Francis read aloud in a quiet voice. "Adolf Hitler, Josef Goebbels" – that one was underlined three times and in capitals – "Basch Zwingli, Gilbert Beilschmidt, Vati, maybe Ludwig Beilschmidt, Roderich Edelstein."
Beneath the list was a second, much smaller one. "People I love," was the title of this one. "Elizabeta Héderváry," was the only thing listed. Her name looked so heartbroken on the paper, each letter conveying the pains and regrets of a broken marriage.
Seeing as that list was much too depressing, he traded it for another paper with both music and writing on it. Individual measures were scattered on the page, some crossed out, others circled like they might be promising. But the writing was what caught Francis' eye.
"You're the biggest fraud in history," Roderich had written to himself. "A Jew with Hitler sounds like a bad joke. Why would you ever think for one moment that this really could've worked? At some point they're going to catch up to you, they're going to find someone who'll talk. At least you've lived for that one tiny moment of glory, but at what cost? You should've stayed a nobody, ran off before the Nazis could find you. It's easy to disappear when you're nobody. Nobodies don't have broken marriages and alcohol problems. And they definitely aren't working for Hitler.
"God, I hate you more than I hate Goebbels."
Francis put the paper back on the desk, not knowing how to feel about anything. Surely Roderich didn't despise himself that much – he was probably stressed out from everything that had happened in the past few days. He'd be back to normal in a day or so, maybe sooner.
Who am I even trying to lie to?
Ever since he met the scrawny nineteen-year-old music student in 1933, Francis was fully aware that he'd done the wrong thing for him. But Roderich wanted to stay in the academy so badly, he pleaded and fought for hours with Francis. For weeks he begged, trying to convince him to come up with some plan that allowed him to stay in Vienna and continue his studies. Francis knew in his heart Roderich couldn't stay, not with the Final Solution looming in the distance.
But he made the mistake of caving. How could he not? Roderich was a bright young man with an even brighter future, and who knows where he would've ended up if Francis sent him to Switzerland.
Probably married, happy, and not a drunk. He would've found some way to continue his music, even if it wasn't his official job.
I ruined him, Francis said to himself. I should've been more assertive, should've told him no, should've sent him anywhere but here! But I wasn't expecting Hitler to find him! I wasn't expecting the Nazis to take Roderich into their ranks! Everything could've been fine if it wasn't for the war, if it wasn't for Elizabeta, if it wasn't for me!
Francis looked down at the man he'd spent so many hours creating without realizing he'd been destroying, a whole new anger building deep inside of him. All he'd wanted was to make Roderich happy – and instead, he made this, whatever it was.
Roderich started to stir, opening a sleepy lavender eye. He glanced up at Francis, expression going from half-asleep to irritated with one look.
"What do you want?" Roderich asked in a rough voice, turning away from the Frenchman.
"I have to go out on a rendezvous for some papers," Francis said as he put a hand on the man's shoulder to show he meant no harm. "And I saw that your lights were on, so I thought you might want to come with me. But I can see that you're sleeping –"
"What time is it?"
"Around five."
Roderich sat up, rubbing his eyes. "The last time I remember was two-something. Ja, I'll come, I got the three hours of sleep the world's going to give me."
"Hey, if you seriously haven't slept, I'm not forcing you to go," Francis said, watching Roderich pull a shirt and pants from his closet. "Don't overwork yourself."
"Overwork? I've gone days without sleep before." He pulled on his shirt, stifling a yawn. "This is nothing. I was up for four days straight once. Nearly fell asleep while talking to Hitler."
"Seriously, Roderich, it isn't good for you. You need to sleep."
"That's the wrong mentality. You see, you have to tell yourself that sleep is only a want and that you can make it through anything. Or so I've been telling myself, but it doesn't work as well as I'd like." Roderich fumbled with his tie, seemingly forgetting how knots worked.
"Please stop pushing yourself and go to bed," Francis ordered in the sternest voice he could muster at five in the morning.
"I'm fine," Roderich shot back. "Everything is fine."
"Everything is not fine."
Roderich looked over at Francis, giving him a weak smile. "When did you get so rough? And I know everything isn't fine. We're in the middle of the war that wasn't ever supposed to happen, remember? You're running an illegal underground business and I'm playing with the devil. I lost my wife, I'm an alcoholic, and I'd kill for one night's rest again. I'm not even doing what I love anymore. So, ja, everything is not fine, but I'm going on the rendezvous."
"We can solve only one of those problems," Francis said gently. "You stay here and sleep, and I'll take care of the papers."
Roderich stood for a moment with his mouth open, trying to think of a comeback. He put his tie back on the dresser in defeat, knowing he'd walked into an argument he couldn't win. With a sigh he snatched up his comforter from a heap of clothes on the floor, spreading the dark red blanket out over his rarely used bed before curling up underneath it.
"You can't be so hard on yourself, dear." Francis thought back to the letter Roderich wrote, remembering the cruel words he'd told himself. He had no idea Roderich was that mad with himself.
"Easy for you to say."
"You've got to look for the bright side," Francis added, knowing there was no such thing as a bright side anymore. "I know the world looks hopelessly bleak right now, but you've got to put at least a little faith in yourself."
"Why should I? You know I'm doomed to fail, Francis. We can't keep up this façade forever, especially not with Hitler. And now I've gone and made all this trouble for you and Basch and Mathias and Lukas and everyone else I've run into. Maybe I should just disappear," Roderich muttered, pulling the blanket over his head.
"You're being overdramatic again."
"Oh, heavens no, not being overdramatic!" Roderich groaned, his words stifled by the blankets. "Because being overdramatic is so much worse than being a Jew who's constantly in the Nazis' presence! I could die at any given second, and you're concerned about me being overdramatic? I…I want it to be over. I want everything to disappear, and I can go back to being myself."
"The war will be over soon," Francis said, sitting down at the foot of the bed.
"That's what you said at the beginning, 'it's going to be over soon'. That's what you said during Kristallnacht. That's what you said when I met you! Is it ever going to end, Francis? Is it ever going to end? There isn't going to be a happy ending for me like you've dreamed of! I'm going to get shipped off to a ghetto and hanged!"
Francis didn't know how to respond. Roderich was right – he'd always been told that everything would be over soon and life would go back to normal, and it wasn't looking that way. How much longer could they hold out before something slipped through the system and there was a loaded gun pointed at both of their heads? That unknown ending was slowly choking their optimism, its uncertainties and what-ifs preying on their every move.
"Everything has to come to an end at some point. And I promise you that your ending will not be because of the Nazis. We are all going to make it through this war, alive," Francis said.
"Your positivity is killing me right now," Roderich growled, pulling the blanket back to glare at Francis. "Can't you be pessimistic for once?"
"I'll be pessimistic when you lighten up a bit."
Roderich gave him a tired smile. "I don't understand you. You have the worst job in Vienna, you can't find a woman that'll stay married to you for more than two weeks, you have to put up with Basch and me, and you're still so damn happy. God, I kind of feel like a bad person now. I complain to you about everything, and I've never heard you say anything about your troubles."
"Don't feel bad about it," Francis said, reaching over and ruffling Roderich's hair. "I don't have a lot to say about myself. Adieu, Roderich. I'll see you in a few hours."
"If you ever want to tell me something, you can. I mean, I rarely sleep. You can call me at three in the morning if you want, I'll probably be awake or drunk."
"If I ever find something I want to tell you, I will."
I want to tell you how sorry I am, I really do, but I can't find the words to use.
There are no words.
Francis left the room with all of his guilt weighing down on his shoulders, knowing he'd pushed Roderich to be the distrustful disaster he was. It made him want to give up on everything, to take his family and Roderich to Switzerland and leave the life they'd lived in Vienna in the past. And while it was the ideal escape, he knew he couldn't give up yet. There were still so many families in need of his help, so many more Roderichs who knew the world was against them and needed a way out.
Such is the way of a conman.
"Do you think you could kill someone?"
"What sort of sick question is that?"
Toris couldn't see Alfred, but he knew the American had to be grinning. He always was. "It's only a question. If it comes down to it, can you kill someone? Or better yet, have you killed someone?"
"Are all Americans as demented as you are?" Toris asked, leaning back against the cold wall. Colonel Beilschmidt wasn't feeling generous this time around, leaving Toris with no means to protect himself from the freezing temperatures of the cell. For one hellish night, he'd shivered with his jacket pulled tight over his chest, falling in and out of sleep and answering Alfred's constant questions.
"Only runaway dreamer pilots who get shot down on their first real mission," Alfred answered proudly. "That and criminals. I worked in a jail in Chicago for a month or two, and those guys were absolutely insane. So, can you and have you killed someone?"
"Yes, I have killed someone, but not someone I knew. I was defending Russia. And no, I don't think I could ever kill someone again," Toris said, pulling his knees closer to his chest. He could almost smell the gunpowder in the air, feel the weight of the rifle in his hands, hear the last cries of so many. There was no way in hell he'd ever force himself through that again, not even for triple the bare salary the Soviets gave him.
"You always talk about Russia like it isn't your homeland. See, if I was talking about America, I'd be much more proud than you are with Russia. It's my country, you know?"
"There's nothing to be proud about with Russia. For God's sake, Stalin's killing more Russians than Hitler is! If FDR was murdering your neighbours in the night and taking them away to the gulags, would you be proud?" Toris clenched his hands into fists, willing himself not to completely snap on Alfred. He was a stupid American pilot with too big of dreams, too naïve to know about anything that didn't pertain to him.
"…Are you serious? Shit, Toris, I had no idea. Sorry for bringing it up," Alfred apologized, although he didn't sound sincere, more resenting than anything.
Toris sighed, cursing himself for raising his voice. The only thing that ever happened when he spoke out was trouble. "No, it's fine. If you want to keep asking me questions, I don't mind. Really, it's keeping me from going insane."
"Oh, uh, okay. So, um…How'd you get into the army?"
"As a loyal Russian citizen, I'm supposed to tell you I volunteered," Toris replied. "But truthfully, I got mixed up with the wrong people. If a Russian man ever comes to your town saying he can get you out of trouble, don't listen. Send him right back to whatever Russian hell city he came from."
"You have a pretty big grudge against Russia, don't you?" Alfred laughed a bit, oblivious to the severity of Toris' situation.
"It's more than a grudge."
"You honestly don't strike me as the type to be so angry," Alfred said, drumming his fingers on the wall that separated the two. "You're so calm and collected and nothing like someone who'd ever be mad. And then I talk to you, and it's like you want to burn down all of Russia and punch a few Nazis while you're at it."
"That's the impression you're getting?" Toris smiled to himself, wishing he had Alfred's child-like thoughts. His parents used to tell him that he had the mind of a sad old man by the time he was four, never once having a happy thought or idea.
"No, it's just from the way you talk. You're too damn nice to do anything like that," Alfred muttered. "You're the perfect kid."
"That was a compliment, right? Thank you?"
"I have no idea if it was a compliment. Hey, can I ask you something kind of personal?"
Toris already knew where this was going, but he still answered. "I guess."
"Okay, before I ask, I am totally not judging you. But, are you and Ivan…romantically involved or something? I mean, you guys are always together and sometimes you sleep together and he calls you cute nicknames and stuff," Alfred said in one rush, the words slurring into one. But Toris didn't even need to hear the question to know what was going to be asked – it was the first thing anyone asked him once they saw him with Ivan.
"Ivan is a very manipulative person," Toris replied. "He's good at using people in such a way that they don't realize it. When he wants something, he wants it. Nothing will stop him from getting whatever he's set his mind on, no matter what lengths he has to go to. And unfortunately, I happened to be something he wanted to this extent. Somehow, he devised this whole sick plan that ended up with me owing my life to him. I, being the naïve person I was, fell for it all."
Toris took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep calm. "At first, it was almost a friendship, but not quite. And he started to grow more and more possessive of me, taking over little details he could control until it got to the point where he was telling me I couldn't leave my house alone. I think what it boils down to was that he was scared of losing me. He'd finally made a friend, and he never wanted me to leave. Not that I could've, anyway.
"But then we got separated when we went into the army. He was sent to Poland, and I was kept in Intelligence and Special Operations for a while. Then I got captured, sent here, and there was Ivan. He's definitely calmed down since when we were in Russia, but his affection for me is getting increasingly romantic. And I'm too afraid to tell him that I don't love him in that way, so I'm putting up with it for now. So, to answer your question; no, I do not love him, but I believe he loves me."
"God, that's bullshit," Alfred growled, the hate for Ivan in his voice just as evident as in Toris'. The two had never gotten along, save for when they were causing trouble. "Is there any way you could tell him to stop?"
"I told him no only once. He told me I was signing up for the army with him and didn't have a choice, and I told him to stop forcing me into things. And you can probably guess what ended up happening."
"I know you're not going to take this seriously since it's coming from me, but truthfully, I am sorry. I can't even think of someone owning me like Ivan owns you," Alfred said. "You're a good guy, Toris. You don't deserve half the stuff Ivan does to you."
"You're the first person to ever have sympathy for me," Toris said with a hint of a grin. No one ever felt bad for him – in fact, everyone he'd told about Ivan was on Ivan's side.
"Guess Americans aren't as demented as you thought, huh?"
"No, they're not."
"Do you have any questions for me?" Alfred asked. "I feel like I've talked too much."
"You want me to ask you something? I'll try, but I certainly won't have any good questions. So...um, what do you miss the most about America?" Toris said, rather uncertain of his words. He'd never been too good at holding a conversation, especially asking questions.
"Definitely the music," Alfred replied. "That and being able to speak English. But the music is wonderful in America, absolutely wonderful. I lived in Kansas City for a year or so, and you wouldn't believe all the music they had there. You had your jazz bands in the inner city, some fancy stuff I never could get into up in the rich districts, there was always music playing in the Balkan section, and the Germans and Poles had their polkas. You couldn't go anywhere without hearing music. I miss it."
"Does that mean you regret leaving, or…?"
"Yeah, I do regret it. I was being dumb, thinking I could go be a hero. And look at me now, locked up and talking German to some Russian guy in an Austrian prisoner-of-war camp. If this is what being a hero is like, I don't think I'm cut out for it." Alfred's cheer from earlier was gone, disappearing to wherever Toris' faith in humanity was.
"I don't think any of us are cut out for it," Toris said. "Every one of us was being dumb. We all made stupid mistakes; how else would we be here? You probably weren't as –"
"Toris!" a little voice chirped from outside, two clumsy feet running down the stairs leading into the cells used for solitary confinement. "Good morning, Toris! I got on breakfast duty!"
"Why are you so happy about that?" Toris asked, going over to the steel door. There was a rusty sounding click as the lock was twisted open, the door's hinges squeaking as it was pulled open. Raivis rushed forward, putting his thin arms around Toris' waist.
"I missed you," he said in a hushed voice, looking up at Toris. "It's scary without you in the barrack."
"I can imagine. But it's probably a bit quieter without Colonel or Alfred." He ruffled Raivis' curls, flashing him a weary smile. Of all the people he'd met during his stint in the military, Raivis was the only one worth getting in trouble and quite possibly dying for.
"It's too quiet. Well, until Sadik called Heracles something. And then they started screaming, but I got Heracles to stop. He's getting much better at understanding 'halt'."
"Kid, we don't have all day to do this," the guard said with a roll of his eyes.
"Sorry!" Raivis pulled something from a little bag on his side, putting two slices of black bread in Toris' hands. "Commandant must be really mad at you," he said in a quiet voice, gesturing to the pathetic excuse of a ration. "I'll try talking to him today if that'll make a difference."
"Don't get in trouble for me, I'll be fine. It's Alfred you're going to have to worry about," Toris added.
"Rude!" Alfred shot back. "I'm not used to starving like you are, okay?"
Toris shook his head, looking down at Raivis. "Be a good kid while I'm not there to watch you. Don't let Eduard boss you around."
"I won't. I'm still teaching Heracles the alphabet, he keeps calling 'a's' alphas or something. But we'll get there eventually, I'm sure!" he said, blue eyes gleaming. "Hopefully before the war's over."
"Galante," the guard growled, shifting his weight from one leg to the other impatiently.
"Coming!" Raivis gave Toris another hug, slipping something into the man's pocket. "Don't starve," he mumbled as he walked out of the cell. Toris put his hand in his pocket, smiling as his fingers ran over the earthy skin of a potato.
"You little thief!" he called after the boy, showing a rare smile to make sure Raivis knew he wasn't mad.
"What can I do?" Raivis asked with a shrug. "I'm only fourteen, I don't know any better!"
Roderich stood on the back step with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, fingers curled around a warm cup of black coffee. The sun was barely up over the horizon, swathing Vienna in gold. Vienna was a different place in the morning, much better than its counterpart. Everything was silent in the morning, save for the lone bark of a dog and a few engines. Humankind stopped existing at six a.m. on a Thursday, leaving the city quiet and Roderich's thoughts melancholy.
Elizabeta sat with me that first morning, he said to himself, clenching the cup as the memory came back to mind. We watched the sunrise together. She talked about the life she wanted to have in Vienna, about children and work and all those miserably wonderful things that come with being married. Everything was going to be perfect, she said.
Why did she come to me looking for perfection?
Out of the people to go to for a perfect life, I'm certainly not the best choice. Still, we were happy. What changed? I don't remember any huge fights, and there weren't any traumatic events. In fact, I would say everything was going right for a change. What's there to hate about that?
Roderich took a sip of his coffee, a bitter reminder to dig his ration card out of the pile of papers on his desk and buy sugar again. Maybe it was for the best, though, he told himself in a sad attempt at consoling his broken heart. Now if I get caught for something, she has a strong colonel to protect her and won't get dragged to prison with me. And she's happy now, or at least I think she's happy. Whatever she is, I don't wish any ill will on her.
Maybe a little.
What am I saying? I still haven't forgiven her. I haven't forgiven myself, and I never will. I'm a horrible person and proud of it!
Francis was right, wasn't he? I'm too hard on myself. But I am a rather easy target – and it's much easier to insult yourself than compliment yourself. Perhaps I should try to find that mythical "bright side."
So…I'm still alive? Is that a positive thing? Roderich asked himself as he took another sip of the much too dark coffee. No, I have to think like Francis thinks. I'm lucky enough to have my talents, I have a wonderfully paying job, albeit a bit despicable, I've met every Nazi high official and haven't been shot. I'm not locked up in Gestapo Headquarters, I have a Gestapo man who's obviously taken quite a liking to me, I wasn't killed or arrested during Kristallnacht, Elizabeta's still keeping my religion a secret, I had a good marriage, and I've got a lovable bastard like Francis to keep me safe.
Well, shit, when you put it that way, I don't have it bad at all. I guess there still is a dim bright side, even in the middle of a war. Francis knows what he's talking about for once.
Roderich smiled, pulling his blanket closer. It'd been a long time since he thought even vaguely positive – and it felt oddly satisfying.
"Roderich?" Francis called out as he slammed the front door closed. He heard the Frenchman go upstairs, coming right back downstairs. "I know you're not in bed, so stop hiding! I want to talk to you!"
Strange, Francis sounded almost upset. Did something happen on his rendezvous? Surely he's mad at me for not going back to bed. I had work to do; I couldn't lay in bed feeling bad about my life.
"I wasn't hiding," Roderich said as he went back inside, going into the living room to find Francis on his couch, holding an off-white folder.
"Right." Francis shook his head, seemingly disappointed with Roderich's honest answer. "So, you'll never guess who I found out is in Gestapo Headquarters."
"What?"
"No, not what, Roderich, who."
"Basch?" Roderich said, secretly wishing the short hell-spawn was locked up.
Francis rolled his eyes. "Don't go for the obvious answer. Think way, way outside of the box."
"Gilbert Beilschmidt?"
"A bit closer," Francis said. "But still no. It's a man you haven't heard from in a long time."
"My father?" Roderich couldn't help but smile at the thought of his father at the mercy of someone like Ludwig. When Francis shook his head, Roderich had no choice but to say, "I give up."
"Colonel Ivan Leonidovich Braginsky."
Roderich looked up, wondering if he'd heard Francis right. "What the hell is he doing in Vienna? No, what the hell is he doing alive? You mean Ivan Braginsky is actually here, in Gestapo Headquarters?"
"I wouldn't lie to you about something like this. And yes, he's still alive, and he's in Vienna to be interrogated, obviously," Francis explained. "I haven't seen him myself, but my informant told me about Ivan. Supposedly, Ivan stole this folder." He handed the folder to Roderich without saying anything, letting the writing on the front tell the story. The small happiness Roderich found that morning died almost instantly when he saw the name.
"Stalag XVIII-A, Wolfsburg," was stamped in the upper corner, and beneath it was, "Commandant Gilbert H. Beilschmidt."
But that was only the beginning. Right in the middle, in smudged ink were the words, "Roderich von Wolffe."
"I didn't know what I was expecting," Francis said, taking the folder back and flipping through the pages. "I was only told it was a file on you. But this, this seems more like he's plotted out every detail on you. It's a little worrying, no?"
"How did he even get all of that?" Roderich asked, too fazed to come up with a better question. He knew Gilbert was borderline insane, however, this was pushing it.
"Public records, perhaps his brother in the Gestapo. Wherever he's getting it, it's things I've fixed. There's nothing there that could lead to the truth." Francis stopped on a page, skimming over the paragraphs detailing Roderich's life. "I couldn't find anything worthwhile, although, a page did seem to be torn out. Hopefully, it wasn't anything actually useful," he added. "Not that they could find anything after what I've done to your story, seeing as I am flawless."
"Narcissist," Roderich muttered.
"I'm only self-confid…" Francis' voice trailed off midsentence, his joking smile gone. "Qu'ai-je fait de mal? Oh, Seigneur, qu'est-ce que je manque? Il connaÎt votre nome."
"Francis, you're speaking French again. What's wrong?" Roderich asked, looking over at the page Francis was so concerned about. He pointed to four letters, not even a whole name, written in the margin.
Edel.
"Someone told," Francis said so quietly Roderich thought he imagined it. "Someone gave away the first part of your name."
"It can't be that bad, can it? They don't have all of my name."
"Roderich, any detail, no matter how small, is bad. That's something a madman like Colonel Beilschmidt can build off of. But don't worry about it," he added hastily. "This never made it to the public, so only Colonel Beilschmidt and whoever told knows about it. I'll talk to Ivan later and find out, he's good at silencing people. Everything will be absolutely fine."
Francis pulled a lighter from his pocket, setting the corner of the folder on fire before tossing it into the fireplace. "Everything will be fine, I promise," he said in the same voice Roderich used when lying. "I won't let anything like this happen again."
"It isn't the end of the world. Everyone makes mistakes, and it's not like he knows my entire life story. You're already doing too much for me, don't burden yourself with more," Roderich said, watching the last of the folder burn. "I'm not worth the effort."
"Unfortunately, you are."
"Please, not one person would care if I died."
Francis looked over at Roderich, tired blue eyes full of an emotion Roderich didn't think he was capable of – regret. "I would. Ivan would. There are two people."
"Only two people, though. And one of them may be dead long before I die. How is Ivan? Better yet, how did you find him?" Roderich asked, memories of the wild little boy he'd grown up with coming back to mind. The last he'd heard of the man was that the Soviet Union, Finland, Romania, and Poland wanted him dead.
"I found almost everyone connected to you back in '33. Ivan was definitely one of the hardest, being a wanted criminal nearly everywhere. Actually, I only learned of where he was recently – Stalag XVIII-A. I wrote a few coded letters to him, and he told me that he was keeping his promise and would do whatever he could to help. That included stealing the folder," Francis said. "I'd been a bit wary to tell you for a while, seeing as you might want to talk to him again."
"And what's wrong with me talking to someone I considered my brother for most of my life?"
"You might forget something and slip up, and I didn't want anyone to get suspicious."
"Well, could I at least have his address?" he asked, hoping there was some way he could fix the long severed relationship. Criminals and music prodigies didn't tend to mix well – they'd lost all contact by the time Roderich was fifteen.
"Sorry, I don't want any chances of mistakes. And besides, if we're going to Gestapo Headquarters before Basch's house, you'll see him anyways. But you have to act like you've totally forgotten about him," Francis said before Roderich could ask. "We can't risk another accident like this one."
"Just when I was really beginning to like you, you have to go be a jackass," Roderich snapped. "Hell, I even thought positively for you! I haven't seen my brother in twenty-something years, and you tell me I can't even talk to him?"
"I'm not saying that you can't talk to him, you have to act like he's a total stranger. Hey, maybe he knows an American you can talk to."
"Are you ready to answer my questions again?" Hochstetter asked. The man standing in the far corner of the room looked up, his one violet eye that wasn't swollen shut looking from Hochstetter to Ludwig confusedly.
"Well, are you? Because I can leave you there for longer."
Ivan nodded eagerly.
"And you promise to handle things like an adult?" Ludwig added, glancing at the teeth marks on his hand. He'd dealt with plenty of convicts, but not one of them had ever bit him. And then again, most of them weren't total madmen like Ivan.
Once again, Ivan nodded, although Ludwig had a suspicion he was lying.
"Bring him back over here, I have a new idea," Hochstetter ordered – of course he wouldn't want to do it himself; Ivan was liable to bite him, too.
Ludwig went over to Ivan, dragging him over to the chair in front of the desk. A trail of bloody footprints followed behind, little pieces of glass making them glisten. Hochstetter was going to have to clean that up – it was his "ingenious" idea to make Ivan stand on broken glass. Reluctantly, Ludwig undid the gag, stepping back immediately.
"Are you ready to play games with me again?" Ivan asked in a hoarse voice, trying to wipe his bloody nose with his shoulder.
"Ludwig's done for now," Hochstetter said. "I want to talk to you about something that doesn't even have to do with Roderich or Basch. And all I want you to do is answer. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You're getting much better about lying. Maybe some of my talent rubbed off on you." Ivan gave Hochstetter a grin, showing off the empty space where a tooth once was, said tooth being somewhere on the floor of the office.
Ludwig reached for the whip, but Hochstetter grabbed him by the wrist. "No, we're not going to intimidate him," he said, motioning for Ludwig to sit down. "You stay out of this."
Ludwig fell back in his chair, feeling like he'd been cheated. Hochstetter wasn't going to get anywhere with words – they'd tried several times before. Then again, violence didn't seem to be much of an answer either. Ivan was still the same arrogant man he was when he arrived the day before with fewer fingernails, more broken bones, and plenty of blood spilled.
"You used to be a conman, ja?" Hochstetter asked, leaning up against his desk. "You were big in Russia?"
"I did what I had to do to survive. If that meant cheating people, I was going to cheat people."
"I don't have a problem with that. And your business was making people believe they could buy their way out of the gulags?"
Ivan shrugged. Where was Hochstetter trying to go with this?
"Around five years ago, you go to a little town in Lithuania. You had no reason to go, there wasn't any money to be found. It wasn't worth your time. So," Hochstetter said, "why did you go?"
"I don't know. I needed a break, and no one knew about me there. No one was going to arrest me or interrogate me for hours like you two," Ivan explained.
"You met a boy there, barely seventeen. He worked on a farm with his parents and a good friend. You took an interest in this young man, didn't you?"
"He was nice to me. No one had ever been nice to me. We are good friends, and that's it."
Hochstetter got up, keeping a blank face. "Did you feel something more than friendship?"
"No. Toris is only a friend," Ivan shot back, his face bright red.
"Then why would you go to such lengths to stay with him?"
"I've been alone for most of my life. You wouldn't understand how horrible it feels to be by yourself from the time you were ten. I got attached to Toris because he was the first one to care about me. It was and is strictly on non-romantic terms," Ivan growled.
"You were in love." Hochstetter laughed as he poked Ivan in the chest. "And you know it. You know how you feel for that man. But at the time, you didn't know how to deal with those feelings. So you set up a twisted plan. You framed that poor boy's parents, set them up to make it look like they had plans to kill Stalin. They didn't even know who Stalin was, let alone want to kill him. But you had to have Toris all to yourself, so you got them taken away to the gulags."
"Lies. I made up nothing – his parents were part of a resistance movement to kill Stalin. Sooner or later someone was going to find out. You can't hide something like that forever. I happened to be there at the wrong time."
"You said you were going to protect him. But the only things you've done so far is tear him from his family and make him into your little toy. Who knows what you've done to him that isn't recorded." Hochstetter grabbed Ivan's jaw, looking the man over. "What exactly have you done in private? What sort of sinful things have you forced upon a once innocent boy?" He tilted Ivan's head to the side as if examining him. "Have you kissed?"
"I'd rather drown than kiss a man," Ivan spat, glaring daggers at Hochstetter.
"Slept in the same bed?"
"Again, I'd rather drown."
Hochstetter smiled, leaning in close to Ivan. "Of course, I get it now. How could I think that way? You're a bold man, you'd go right for sex without even trusting Toris. Was it worth it, Ivan? Was that handful of pleasure worth the suffering you've caused Toris, who would've had a normal life if it hadn't been for you? Was it even good? Did he beg for more? Better yet, have you done the boy more than once?"
"I thought Hitler was repulsive, but obviously, the lower ones are the sicker ones," Ivan snarled. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to rip Hochstetter apart, and he would've if his hands weren't tied behind his back. "And I could be saying the same for you and Ludwig. You two look awfully close."
"This is about you, not me. So, tell me, was it good or not? He is only a boy, after all, inexperienced in these matters. I bet Toris was scared at first, having someone of your strength on top of him."
"That's absolutely disgusting that you can even think of that."
"And don't tell me you haven't. Perhaps Toris had a girlfriend, someone he intended to get married to. Shame his first had to be a bear like you," Hochstetter said with a mock pout.
"I have done nothing to Toris. He is the same damned person as he was when I met him."
"Did he enjoy it, Ivan? Or did you have him gagged and bound so he couldn't escape you? Did you even ask permission? I imagine it was rough, seeing as you are quite a brute. Oh, dear, I hope you didn't hurt the boy. He is rather fragile, you know. A man like you could do quite a number on him."
"You are the most revolting person I've ever met," Ivan growled. "How sick to you have to be to even come up with something like that?"
Hochstetter paused for a moment. "Can you even imagine what his parents would think, finding out their dear son slept with a gay, sex crazed demon? I know I'd be ashamed. But you don't seem to have shame at all – no, you'd be proud of yourself. You keep Toris like a trophy."
Ivan looked down at the floor, refusing to say anything back to the man. Ludwig had to admit that he was impressed – this was the first time they'd ever gotten silence as an answer from Ivan.
"Have you no shame?" Hochstetter said, trying to get Ivan to make eye contact. "Have you no shame at all?"
Ivan didn't say anything.
"Don't you feel some sort of remorse or guilt? You forced a guiltless kid into a relationship he never wanted. He was perfectly fine until you came and ruined everything. Without you, he'd still be with his parents, untainted by your sinful hands."
Ivan glanced up for only a second, face completely void of the arrogance he'd carried himself so proudly with. He looked empty without the pride, an abused shell of a man. The fragile threads that held a person together were so close to snapping in him, so painfully close.
"How do you live with yourself?" Hochstetter whispered, running a finger along the Russian's jawline. "How do you sleep at night, knowing what you've done? How can you face Toris after everything? Do you even have a heart?"
Still no response.
"You're not answering my questions. That's one sure sign of a liar," Hochstetter said in a sing-song voice.
"What do I have to lie about?" Ivan asked, all emotion gone from his words. "I have done none of those horrible things you've accused me of, and I know it. For once in my life, I am not lying."
"Just admit to everything; the plans, the relationship, the clearly quieted sex life. That's what I want out of you."
"I've never done anyone in my life. Is this what you're wanting, for me to shame myself?" Ivan looked up at Hochstetter. "Yes, I am still a virgin at almost twenty-six. I'm afraid of spiders. I still cry myself to sleep almost every night and have endless nightmares. I have a problem with alcohol. I'm deathly scared of losing the few people I have. I've tried to end my life on numerous occasions. I am nothing more than a lowly liar. You can't shame me any more than I've already shamed myself."
"That's not what I'm looking for," Hochstetter said.
"Then what is it? What sick things do I have to say to you so I can go back to whatever life I have left?" Ivan asked, almost showing a hint of desperation.
"You know what I want, Ivan. All you need to do is say 'I had sex with Toris Laurinaitis and I loved every minute of it.'"
"I may have been a liar for most of my life, but I refuse to lie about that."
Hochstetter laughed, tracing a finger down his scarred neck. "Maybe you really are telling the truth. How could I know? We need someone I know isn't a liar. So, who could we find that does know you?" He paused, pretending to think. "Your parents are dead."
"Stop," Ivan muttered.
"Your sisters wouldn't remember anything."
"I said, stop."
"You have control over everyone in the camp."
"Lies."
"Oh, wait, I got it," Hochstetter said. "We could go get Toris! He'd tell us everything about you, every one of those explicit details in a heartbeat!"
Ivan turned to Hochstetter, mouth curled into a snarl. "Don't you dare lay your filthy hands on him."
"I will," Hochstetter shot back. "I will rip your little lover to pieces. And you will wish that you never messed with me."
"Don't do a thing to Toris. He wasn't part of this," Ivan ordered, trying to sound harsh when he was about to fall to pieces.
"Ludwig, call your brother," Hochstetter ordered.
Ludwig grabbed the phone from Hochstetter's desk, holding it up to his ear.
"Hello, number please," the operator said.
"Connect me to Stalag XVIII-A. Now." Ludwig glanced over at Ivan, a bit startled to find him looking on the verge of worry.
"One moment, please."
"Do you hear that?" Hochstetter asked, putting a hand on Ivan's shoulder. "In a moment, Ludwig's going to have Toris sent to us. And this time, we can murder him. No one cares about a littler farmer boy from Lithuania, well, except you."
"This better be good, Ludwig," Gilbert growled from the other end of the line.
"You have a man named Toris at your camp, correct?" Ludwig asked.
"Don't," Ivan said in an unfittingly shaky voice.
"Does this got somethin' to do with Ivan?" Gilbert asked with a yawn.
"Ja. We need you to send Toris up to Vienna."
"Don't!" Ivan yelled, sounding on the edge of crying.
There was a long pause from Gilbert. "Oh, my God, you broke him, didn't you?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You honestly broke him."
"Of course we did. So you'll be sending up Toris today?" Ludwig said.
"Damn, why didn't I think of that? You got the good brains of the family, Luddy! Ja, I'll put him on a train at eight. Oh, God, that is going to be so good! I wish I could see him now."
"So he'll be here by, say, noon?" Ludwig asked, looking back over at Ivan. A few stray tears were sliding down the side of his face, his head hung in shame.
"Ja, maybe sooner. What do you even want to do to him?" Gilbert said.
"We're planning on killing him," Ludwig replied, twisting the cord of the phone around his finger. "Start with some simple torture and work our way –"
The strings inside Ivan snapped.
"I'll talk!" Ivan shouted at the top of his lungs, unable to look up at Ludwig. "Leave Toris alone, you swine!"
A/N: I hope you don't mind this was a bit shorter chapter than the last couple. I'm honestly trying my best here.
History Notes:
Kristallnacht – Literally "crystal night" in German, alluding to the broken glass that covered the streets after windows had been smashed. On November 9th, 1938, an attack on Jews was arranged by the SA paramilitary (the Nazis' paramilitary, responsible for protecting the Nazi rallies) and German civilians. Jewish homes, hospitals, schools, businesses, and synagogues were ransacked and burned. Of the 1,000 estimated synagogues burned down, 95 of those were in Vienna. At the time, the fatalities were said to be only 91, but by adding in the post-arrest abuse and suicides, the numbers become much higher. 30,000 Jewish people were arrested that night and send to concentration camps. Kristallnacht is considered the starting point of the Final Solution.
The Final Solution: referring to the plan conceived by the Nazis to eradicate all Jewish people. The policy was formed on January 20, 1942 at the Wannsee Conference. There's not much more to be said about it.
Gulag: A word commonly used to refer to the Soviet forced labour camps, but is actually the name of the government agency in charge of the camps. The first camps were created in 1918, and they housed convicts, be them political prisoners or someone who made a joke about the Soviet Union/Stalin (yes, even these were punishable. Imagine how many Americans would be in jail if America ran on this system). Between 1929 and 1953, 14 million people were sent to the gulags. They were forced to do mundane tasks such as digging trenches as a form of "reeducation." Many, many people starved to death because of the low rations. If you want a more in-depth, firsthand account of the gulags, I recommend One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.
Translations, for those of you who are wondering:
Qu'ai-je fait de mal? Oh, Seigneur, qu'est-ce que je manque? Il connaÎt votre nome – What did I do wrong? Oh, Lord, what did I miss? He knows your name.
Big thank you's to EllaAwkward, idrinkwaterjuicesoda, FlamingFyre, seenlee93, Vegtam the Wanderer, Swing-Stole-My-Heart, and Comix and Co!
See you all next chapter!