Snow swirled around Roderich's feet as he knocked on the door with peeling white paint. Lilli stood beside him, holding tight to a box full of maps, diagrams, important documents, and one pistol. Beneath her pink coat were more papers – they'd been unable to deliver things for a few weeks due to a surprising influx of Gestapo agents wandering the streets. It was a miracle they'd made it all the way to the back alley without being stopped.
From inside, Roderich could hear someone running downstairs. Mathias opened the door, his smile as bright as ever. He seemed to be oblivious to the winter weather, wearing a t-shirt and shorts like it was the middle of summer.
"Roderich, I found you a new wife," he said, sounding strangely proud of himself.
"…What?" Roderich asked, too startled to use formalities. "Do I even know this woman?"
"No. And she doesn't know you. That's why you're perfect!"
"Um, Herr Andersen, I don't know a lot of people, and that doesn't mean I should get married to them," Lilli said. "Maybe the two ought to meet first."
"Of course. Come on, Roderich, you'll love her." Mathias grabbed Roderich's wrist, leading him up the stairs to the apartment over the bar. The door was wide open, the hazy smell of smoke drifting out into the stairwell. Mathias shoved Roderich in front of him, pushing him into the all too familiar apartment.
Just by looking at the front room, anyone could tell Mathias and Lukas had extremely different personalities. It was easy to see that they'd split the room into their own territory, Lukas' being neat and organized, Mathias' being, for lack of a better word, a catastrophe. Lukas organized his books by colour and size, his desk was in order, and his half of the coffee table looked like it'd never seen dust. Mathias' side boasted an impressive amount of empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, pinup girl magazines, and disaster. And of course, his half of the coffee table was stacked high with sabotage plans written in Danish.
Roderich was so caught up on the chaotic order of everything that it took him a moment to notice Lukas, with his nose in a book of Norse gods. It took him another second to realize there was a woman sitting on the couch.
"Roderich, meet Fraulein Arlovskya," Mathias said, motioning to the woman. She glanced up at Roderich with indigo eyes strikingly similar to his own, studying him for a moment. Her platinum blond hair fell over her shoulders, blending in with the white fur of her stole. With her black dress and heels, she looked like a movie star, not a resistance member.
"I thought you said he was single. He has a daughter," the woman said in a thick Russian accent, gesturing to Lilli with her cigarette. "Not that I was interested."
"That's not his daughter," Lukas said, looking up at Roderich and Lilli.
"Guten Abend, Fraulein Arlovskya. I'm Lilli Zwingli, Basch Zwingli's sister," Lilli said with a smile.
"I like her. Very cute." She got up, going over to Roderich. The woman did not smile, her dark red lips remaining in almost a frown, but not quite. She put her hand on Roderich's chest, running her fingers over the fabric of his coat. "And you are?"
"Roderich von Wolffe, it's a –"
Before Roderich knew what was going on, he was looking down the barrel of a Nagant. He heard the mechanical click of the gun being cocked, hoping this was some sort of Russian joke.
"Herr von Wolffe," Natalya repeated in her smooth voice. "Hitler's musician. You've worked with him for a long time." She pushed the barrel closer to Roderich's forehead. "Eight years. You make me sick, von Wolffe."
"I see you already know who he is," Mathias said much too calmly for the situation. "What you don't know is that he's part of Vienna's Angels with us, he's part Jewish, and he's an alcoholic."
"Any other degrading things you'd like to mention before she kills me?" Roderich asked, cursing himself for not carrying a gun. He never thought he'd run into an angry Russian woman.
"Alcoholic I can see," Natalya said, lowering the gun but still keeping it pointed at Roderich's chest. "Hitler's people are drunks, simple as that. However, he's in your little resistance? He's a Nazi, Mathias. A cold blooded murderer. And Jewish?" She grabbed Roderich's jaw, turning his head to the side. "Doesn't look like a Jew."
"Well, I am. Or rather, I was," Roderich snapped, pulling Natalya's hand away. "Believe me, I am nothing like what you'd expect me to be."
"So you abandon your religion out of fear? Pathetic."
"Says the one who tried to kill me before you even knew who I was."
Natalya nearly smiled as she slipped the revolver back into her dress. "I had good reason. Now, you have papers for me, yes?"
"I have them all, Fraulein," Lilli said, holding out the box. Natalya took it from her, watching as the young girl unbuttoned her rosy coat and handed another stack of papers to the woman.
"Thank you, dear," Natalya said in a dramatically softer voice. "You look good in that colour. Goes well with your eyes."
"Danke," Lilli replied, her face the same pink as her coat.
"So you'll compliment her, but you try to kill me?" Roderich dared to ask. "Lilli's got more Aryan in her than I do."
Natalya muttered something in her mother tongue, going back to the couch without answering. She pulled a knife from her purse, ripping open the package. Roderich wondered how many weapons the woman had on her at any given moment – perhaps even more than Basch.
"I'm sure you two will fall in love in a matter of days," Mathias said. "So what if it takes her some time to warm up to you? Natalya's only been in Vienna for five days, and she isn't too keen on, well…"
"Anyone," Lukas finished. Natalya nodded in silent agreement, taking a drag on her cigarette as she spread a map out over the table. Roderich remembered working on that one – Basch gave him a list of locations three pages long and told him to plot out every point precisely.
Mathias shrugged. "I think you two would be great together. I mean, you two are like the main characters in a romance novel. Natalya's the new girl, Roderich's the less-than-perfect man, there's tension between you two. Come on, just kiss already!"
"In your dreams," Natalya said. "I prefer a real man, not whatever fake thing he is. Are you sure he's a man?"
"How is she perfect for me?" Roderich growled, clenching a fistful of his coat. He'd put up with a lot of irritating people in his short lifetime; Natalya was already high on the list.
"She's just playing hard to get. Right, Nat?"
Natalya looked up from the map, glaring at Mathias. "Call me 'Nat' one more time and you'll end up like Fraulein von Wolffe over there. Dead."
"Come on, would you lighten up a bit?" Mathias asked. "I'm trying to be nice here."
"I'm not trying to be nice. I'm a fugitive. Fugitives aren't 'nice.'"
"She escaped from Russia," Lukas explained without looking up. "We're keeping her until Francis can make up some fake papers. Sorry, she's going to be staying in Vienna. We needed a member who could speak Russian. And she also has money."
"Oh, great, just when I was starting to get over being afraid for my life," Roderich said. "Now I'll have to worry about my safety again."
"I wouldn't worry about life if I were you," Natalya added. "I'd be worried about my death. I was trained in the NKVD, Herr von Wolffe. I know how to kill someone in twenty-nine different ways. And those are only clean murders. Who knows what I could do if I decided to get creative?"
"There is something seriously wrong with that woman," Roderich said in a low voice, wondering how Mathias had ever found her. Surely, she found him first. Mathias didn't go out looking for hell spawn like Natalya.
"I don't know, I think she's nice," Lilli said. "To me, anyway."
"I am so sorry you are in contact with Fraulein von Wolffe. Good girls don't deserve people like him," Natalya said, circling a town on the map in red ink. She scribbled something in Russian next to it before circling another town.
"As much as I'd like to stay here and have threats made on my life, I promised Basch we'd be back before nine," Roderich said. "So, Auf Wiedersehen, Fraulein Arlovskya. I hope I never see your face again."
"How sweet. It's sad we will have to see each other again, you being the most powerful member of this resistance and me being the most affluent and manipulative. Good riddance, Fraulein von Wolffe," she said as she rubbed her cigarette out. Her eyes locked with Roderich's as she grinded the butt into the glass – was it some sort of metaphor for his death or was that woman insane?
Probably both.
"So maybe you're not connecting as well as I thought…" Mathias admitted sadly, rolling an empty beer bottle across the stained floor with his foot.
"You think?"
"Oh, wait, Fraulein von Wolffe," Natalya said, reaching into the box for something. She pulled out the pistol, tossing it to Roderich. "You should carry a gun with you. Like a real man."
"For God's sake, could you not throw a loaded gun at me? How do you know I don't already have one?" Roderich asked.
"You would've pulled it on me when I tried to kill you. That and I searched your pockets. And the gun isn't loaded. Empty."
"Oh, right, I forgot to tell you," Mathias said, "she has a bad habit of doing that. Took my keys the first time we met. And the second." He went over to a tiny closet, grabbing a handful of something from a box inside. "Here, you can have these," he said, handing Roderich a cluster of shiny bullets.
"Danke," Roderich said, pulling the clip out of the pistol. Mathias took it from him, shoving in as many bullets as it would allow and handing the rest to Roderich. He slapped the clip back into place, a wide grin on his face.
"We ought to test this gun, make sure Basch did a good job," he suggested. Before Roderich could ask what he meant by that, Mathias went over to the window above the couch, pushing open the glass. He brushed some of the snow off of the sill, and then fired two shots into the air. Almost immediately, Roderich heard angry cursing.
"Try and get me evicted, Burkhalter!" he shouted back. "That's right, you can't! You have no reason!" Mathias slid the glass back, holding up his middle finger as he handed the pistol back to Roderich. "That's our neighbour. He's not very fond of me, because I'm 'an immature man who shouldn't be allowed to have his own apartment.' He likes to scream a lot. I hadn't made him mad in a long time and I was starting to miss getting yelled at. Be careful walking by his house, alright?"
"I hope he shoots you, Fraulein von Wolffe. Lilli can live," Natalya said, unfolding a paper detailing the North Africa campaign. Again, she started circling things, writing messy Cyrillic over the page.
"Aren't you the sweetest woman in the whole world?"
"You should come by sometime and get acquainted with her," Mathias suggested. "You two really are a good match."
"I don't think you know what the word 'good' means," Roderich said, looking back at Natalya. She glared at him, her expression saying much more than any words could.
Mathias smiled nervously. "Natalya's a little…cold at first."
"Whatever you say," Roderich said, walking out of the apartment with Lilli close behind.
Roderich and Lilli stepped back out into the December night, neither of the two surprised to find it had started snowing again. Mathias mumbled a goodbye and a few more things about Natalya before shutting the door, leaving them all alone in the cold winds.
"He's very determined, Herr von Wolffe," Lilli said quietly, pressing closer to Roderich. "I don't think he can see how much Fraulein Arlovskya hates you."
"Mathias has always been a bit on the clueless side," Roderich replied as they turned the corner back to the main street.
Something was wrong.
The strip of beer halls and odd shops was always busy during the evenings, no matter what day. And at one time, there were people up and down the street, made evident by the countless footprints. Roderich could've sworn there was at least one person out when they slipped into the alley to go to Mathias and Lukas'. No, he knew there were people.
So why was the street completely empty?
At first, Roderich wondered if it was an air raid, until he remembered there weren't any sirens and the Brits weren't dumb enough to fly in a snowstorm. Then he thought it was another clear-out, where the Gestapo purged an area of anyone they didn't like, only there weren't any trucks or soldiers. After that, he ran out of reasons for everyone to disappear. It was almost like the city's inhabitants ceased to exist. There was no noise, no signs of life, absolutely nothing. It was Roderich, Lilli, and the snow.
"Herr von Wolffe…?" Lilli looked up at Roderich for an explanation.
"I…I honestly don't know what's going on," he said. "Whatever it is, we need to go home. Now."
Roderich forced himself to walk – he knew not to run. Running made people look more suspicious, and if there were people out there, he didn't want to draw any more attention than he already did. Basch had told him thousands of times to never run unless he was being chased, to always remain calm in the face of danger. Easier said than done, Roderich thought.
He felt Lilli grab his hand, her cold fingers interlacing with his. She'd never been so scared that she looked to Roderich for comfort before, even when they'd been stopped by the Gestapo. Lilli looked up at him, her green eyes full of fear. If Roderich could have said something to calm her down, he would've. But he didn't know what to tell himself, never mind tell a young girl.
"What do you think happened?" Lilli asked in a small voice.
"I don't know," Roderich replied. He was starting to wonder if this was some sort of setup, a way to get him arrested. Was there something they weren't warned about, a curfew or one of the pointless drills the Nazis did? Roderich curled his finger over the trigger of the pistol, hoping to God there wasn't a Gestapo agent hidden away in the shadows.
They walked by a beer hall with the front door was slightly ajar, bits of muffled conversations floating out into the street. Roderich couldn't be happier to hear human voices – there were still people in the world. He caught the words America, Japan, and pearl before they were too far away to hear.
"I think we're fine," Roderich said hesitantly. "I can't be for sure; I'm guessing America and Japan signed a treaty or something like that and everyone's making a big fuss over it."
"What if America joined the war?"
"I doubt they would. It's bad for their economy, never mind their image they're trying oh-so hard to keep up."
Lilli smiled, looking down at the dirty snow. "They are sort of self-centered."
"Self-centered? America believes it's the only country that should exist. According to them, all countries should be exactly like America," Roderich said. "I'd rather marry Natalya than be forced to speak English."
"Come on, you two are rather cute together," Lilli said, giving Roderich a playful nudge. "If you forget that Fraulein Arlovskya wants you dead."
"You sound like Mathias."
By the time the two came to Basch's doorstep, they weren't fearing for their lives anymore; they were laughing about America and Mathias and all the other ridiculous things the world had to offer. Lilli pushed open the door, stepping into her house. Roderich followed her, not surprised to see Francis sitting at the kitchen table with Basch. One of the two was always waiting for them when they returned, no matter how late.
"Did Mathias tell you?" Francis asked with a smile. He seemed happier than normal, if that was possible.
"Is this about why there wasn't anyone out tonight?" Roderich said as he sat down at the table with the two. "I swear to God, it was like everyone disappeared."
"Japan bombed Hawaii today. Some place called Pearl Harbor," Basch said with a hint of real excitement.
"So?" Lilli asked. "It's just an island."
"They have to join the war, Lilli. America has to. The Allies are going to win. The war's going to be over in less than a year."
"Toris, could a pheasant kill a stag if he really tried?"
Toris slammed the journal closed, looking up to find Raivis standing in front him. He'd been so focused on his latest letter to Feliks that he didn't even hear the boy come up to him. Sliding the book full of letters between the wall and the mattress, Toris sat up straight and pretended like nothing had happened. "Um…what was the question again?"
"Could a pheasant kill a stag?" Raivis said, holding up the carving of a pheasant Toris made.
"Why do you need to know that?"
"He got bored and made a colosseum for your carvings," Eduard answered before Raivis could, gesturing to the wooden animals and people scattered about the table. Raivis had set up sticks in a ring for the animals to fight in, and made benches out of two cigarette boxes for the fighters-to-be. It was rather childish for a fifteen-year-old boy. However, it was a snow day, and snow days caused extreme boredom.
"I had the pheasant win against the stag, and Eduard told me it was impossible," Raivis said. "He's wrong, isn't he?"
"You're being a baby," Eduard said.
"I'm not being a baby."
"You're whining to Toris, who is literally your mom. That's being a baby."
"I am fifteen years old, which makes me almost an adult, so I can't be a baby."
"You're barely fifteen," Eduard reminded him. "Barely. And just because November 18th is the day you joined the army doesn't mean it's your birthday."
"I'm counting it as my birthday," Raivis said, crossing his arms.
"Who knows how old you truly are, though? You could be eight and think you're fifteen. Or maybe you're really seventeen." Eduard paused, looking over Raivis. "No, you're definitely eight."
"I know I'm fifteen. I was born in 1926 in Riga."
Eduard pushed up his glasses, giving Raivis the same look everyone gave Alfred when he did something stupid. "Prove it, then. Oh, wait you can't. No one has any records on you. As far as the government's concerned, you don't even exist. How do we know your name's Raivis? You could be a Juris or a Pjotrs."
"I know for sure my name is Raivis. That's what everyone's called me for my whole life." Raivis turned back to Toris. "Make him stop," he said like a child would, defeating his earlier point.
"Going right back to mother, are you?" Eduard asked.
"Make him stop!"
"Eduard, cut it out," Toris said, using his strict voice. "Leave him alone."
"And what's mother going to do about it? Run to father?" Eduard smiled, resting his head in his hands. "Go on, then. I'm sure father will be glad to see you. He's been locked in his room for months now." He nodded towards the door to Ivan's office.
"Stop."
"What? I'm telling the truth. You can't make me stop, but you know Colonel Braginsky can. You'll run right back to him like you always do."
"You don't know anything about us."
"I know just enough to make a good assumption."
"See? He doesn't stop," Raivis said, sitting down on the bed next to Toris. "You should go get Colonel."
"I'm not going to do what he wants." Toris clenched his hands into tight fists, reminding himself that Eduard was always looking for attention and fights. He surely didn't mean anything he said.
"You'll do what Colonel Braginsky wants," Eduard said a bit too suggestively.
"Will you shut up?!"
Eduard froze for a moment, startled by Toris' outburst. He'd never been screamed at, and certainly not by Toris. "Well, God, you don't have to get rude. I was only joking."
"It wasn't funny," Raivis said, glaring at the man.
"At least I'm not a bastard child," Eduard muttered, looking down at the table colosseum to hide his smile.
Raivis clenched his hands into tight fists, his face growing red. "That's n-n-not funny at all. I'm not a b-b-bastard child."
"Of course you're not," Toris said in a gentle voice, putting an arm around Raivis. The boy rested his head against Toris' shoulder, tears forming in his blue eyes. He buried his face in Toris' sweater, refusing to look at Eduard.
Toris never knew what to say when the insults went to the "bastard" level. He could say that Raivis wasn't an illegitimate son, even though it was lying, and that was about it. No one knew where Raivis came from. Raivis claimed he'd grown up in Riga; there were no records that mentioned his name. When Raivis was captured, Toris spent a week in the commandant's office, helping him translate Latvian birth records from around the time they guessed Raivis was born, but none of them listed a Raivis Galante. The boy seemed to have never been born.
"I remember th-th-there was someone," Raivis said. "I had s-s-someone. A w-w-woman, too."
"What did she look like?" Toris asked, although he'd heard the same story over and over again. It was Raivis' one defense that he truly did have a family, someone needed to listen.
"S-s-sort of like me. She was t-t-tiny, had blonde hair, a-a-and green eyes. She u-u-used to take care of me. B-b-but then she got sick."
"I'm sorry."
"And th-th-then I had t-t-to go work in the factory." Raivis ran his fingers over the scars on the back of his hand. "They're m-m-mean in factories. They made me fight. Wh-wh-whipped my hands i-i-if I wasn't fast enough," he choked, wiping at his tears with his scarred hands.
"You're here with me now, right? No one's going to hurt you anymore," Toris said. "You belong with us, Raivis. We're a family, and sometimes families fight."
"Don't pin the blame on me, he started it," Eduard snapped.
Toris glared at the man, silently telling him to stop. Eduard mumbled something in Estonian, looking back down at the table.
"Never mind Eduard. He's just looking for attention," Toris said, looking back at Eduard to make sure he wasn't trying anything else.
"I wish I had a mom," Raivis whispered, rubbing a scar that was larger than the others.
"Somewhere out there, you do have a mother."
"Named Toris," Eduard added.
Toris sighed, wishing Eduard knew when to stop. "And I'm sure she's a lovely person who wonders where her son is every day. You know, Eduard's mother was a real mean old lady. That's why Eduard turned out to be such a jackass."
"Really?" Raivis asked, looking up at Toris.
"Really. And you know what?" Toris took Raivis' hand, prying the little wooden pheasant from his fingers. "I think a pheasant could kill a deer if it tried hard enough," he said, looking over the figure. It was one of his older ones, rough around the edges and not quite as delicate looking as the newer carvings. He handed it back to Raivis. "Why don't you keep that one? I already have too many for Feliks."
"Thank you," Raivis said, running his thumb over the tiny bird. "He's my favourite one. Colonel Braginsky showed me how to catch pheasant when we were still in the same regiment. Before he ran away."
"He tends to do that."
Raivis nodded in agreement, going back to the table with Eduard. He picked up the stag from where he'd left it, starting the battle over again. Toris watched him for a moment to be sure Eduard wasn't going to try anything else, and then pulled his journal from its hiding place.
"It's hell here, Polski," he wrote in his delicate cursive, picking up from where he'd abruptly left off. "Absolute hell. But a sort of nice hell. What would you call it…purgatory? Whatever it is, I'm not quite sure if I hate it or accept it here in Stalag XVIII-A. Life's certainly strange in a POW camp. A few days ago, Hitler's musician, Roderich von Wolffe, was back here, asking to speak with our only American prisoner again. Why this man is so interested in swing music, I don't know. Anyway, Gilbert chased him off and had a long screaming match with said American prisoner.
"Sometimes, I wish you were here. I miss talking to you more than anything. You know how you never appreciate things until they're gone? I never realized how much you meant to me until I came here. You're the one I can trust with everything, and now I don't have anyone to tell my secrets. It's hard to keep so many things hidden from everyone. I'm managing as best as I can. I can't wait for this war to be over, and then I can come home and tell you everything and not have to worry about someone else hearing.
"Speaking of wars ending, have you heard what happened with America? Two days ago, the Japanese bombed one of their harbors in the Pacific, one in Hawaii called Pearl Harbor. Believe me, I know every detail. Three hours of nonstop patriotic ranting from our resident American, Alfred, has educated me more about the country than school ever did. Alfred says America's going to win this war, and soon.
"I hope he's right."
"I heard someone saying the war'll be over by January," Hochstetter said as he pushed a red pin into the map of Vienna. Another one of Basch's "artworks" had been found painted on the side of a bakery, the man going so far as to sign the work with an illegible signature. Once again, they'd dragged Basch into Headquarters, beat him senseless, tried sodium pentothal for good measures, and weren't allowed to finish the arrest due to "lack of evidence."
"And let me guess, you believed them?" Ludwig asked. "How old was this person? Five?"
"I wasn't saying I believed them, I was saying that some people are thinking the war's going to be over soon. All I know for sure is that America's going to put up a helluva fight. They're pissed with Japan, so I don't think they're going to come after us for a long time. Hopefully when they do, the Reich can stop them."
"You say that like you doubt the power of our military," Ludwig said as he sealed an envelope full of old records and phone calls, along with a few odd papers Gilbert requested. His brother was getting impatient, asking for new information every week. Ever since Roderich started showing up at Stalag XVIII-A asking to speak with some of the prisoners, Gilbert was working faster than ever on finding out what was wrong with the man. Ludwig could care less.
"Maybe I do. I doubt almost everything, though. It's not just the Reich," Hochstetter replied. "And don't tell me you're not a tiny bit worried about America ruining the Fatherland. You worry about your dog."
"Berlitz is old, what if he hurts himself while I'm gone? That's a reasonable worry. America isn't. That's a country seven thousand kilometers away who doesn't care about destroying our country at the moment."
"Berlitz is a dog. Why should you worry about a dog? You can always get a new one."
"He's more than a dog to me. He's the only one I have left with me out of my small family."
Hochstetter sighed, sitting back down next to Ludwig. "You're such a kid, Beilschmidt. In a good way. I wish I was as naïve as you are. How the hell did an innocent man like you wind up in the Gestapo with a man like me?"
"You tell me," Ludwig said. "I'm here because it's what my father wanted me to do."
"See? You're such a good kid it hurts. The sole reason I joined the Gestapo was to piss my parents off, because they didn't want me working for the government. I was supposed to be a farmer for the rest of my life. I never imagined I'd be stuck working with a saint."
"Please, anyone who's part of this war can hardly be considered a saint. Sure, I'm better than you, but that doesn't make me that good."
"Whatever. Have you made any progress with von Wolffe?" Hochstetter asked, all too eager to change the subject. He didn't like to give Ludwig too many compliments, saying it would make him think someone actually liked him. Hochstetter wasn't big on helping self-confidence.
"Three months. Three months we've been working on this, and yet I've never caught him drunk," Ludwig admitted. "And I know he's been drinking, because I've stopped by his house several times while he was hungover. If we don't catch him by January, I'm going to start asking him to come drink with me."
"Shame he doesn't trust us enough for that to work," Hochstetter said. "And he doesn't have a confidant we can talk to?"
"We could try Christian Kleiner or Elizabeta Beilschmidt. Neither of the two seem willing to talk, though. It'd be a waste of time."
"Wouldn't Elizabeta want to tell us everything about her ex-husband?"
Ludwig shook his head. "I've tried talking with her before; she doesn't want to say anything about von Wolffe. I think she's still bitter over the divorce and doesn't want to even think of the man. Of course, she could be hiding something. However, there isn't anything to hide. Roderich von Wolffe is perfect. Everyone except my brother knows that."
"And Christian Kleiner is too loyal…" Hochstetter sighed again, putting his head down on the desk. "This is hopeless. Why don't we give up already and drop the case? We could pretend like it never happened, forget about Zwingli and move on with our lives."
"Are you saying we forget about the man who probably runs every one of the resistance movements in Europe?"
Hochstetter looked up at Ludwig. "Maybe we've been wrong about Zwingli this whole time. What if he is a normal man and we've been paranoid?"
"I can promise you he's not a normal man," Ludwig said. "He has more weapons than a whole army needs. And all the evidence we've ever gotten points to him. I know it's him, but he's good at covering up. Someday, we'll catch him off guard."
"After the war, I bet. I'll be, like, fifty-something, married, and have children by the time Basch finally makes a mistake."
"So what? We'll have caught him."
Hochstetter sat up straight again, blue eyes gleaming. "Let's catch him off guard right now. You know where his house is. Take me with you."
"…We're going to do what?" Ludwig asked. He was hoping he hadn't heard Hochstetter right – he wasn't really intending to go to Basch's house, was he?
"You said we have to find him when he's not prepared. He can't be more unprepared if we show up at his house without warning. Hell, von Wolffe may even be there! Genius, right?"
Ludwig didn't know how to respond to that. The idea itself was certainly a spur of the moment sort of thing, something Ludwig wasn't fond of. He preferred plans that had a basis to them, with a bit more thought put into them than Hochstetter's plans. The whole thing could crash and burn simply because Hochstetter didn't think about the different scenarios that could play out when Basch answered the door.
"Why did I ask you?" Hochstetter muttered, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. "Come on, Beilschmidt, even if we don't get anything out of it, it'll be fun!"
"What about this is going to make it fun?"
Hochstetter paused, not knowing how to answer. "Please come with me. What if we find out everything tonight? You'll feel really stupid because you didn't want to follow along with my plan."
"And what if you get shot?" Ludwig said. "I'll feel smart because I knew this plan was bad from the beginning. And I'll also be alive."
"Come on, kid, you've got to take some risks in your life."
"Getting shot by a madman is a risk most of humanity isn't willing to take."
"Well, then, I guess I'm not part of that 'most of humanity,'" Hochstetter said, pushing Ludwig's coat into his chest. He gave Ludwig a tiny smile, turning on his heels and heading out of the office. "Show me the way, Beilschmidt."
Somehow, Ludwig found himself walking to Basch's house with Hochstetter at nine p.m. Every bit of sense left in him was telling him to go home, to forget about the plan and go to bed. If only Hochstetter wasn't with him – Ludwig would've gone straight home and made up a lie about Basch the next morning. Hochstetter kept urging him forward, rambling on about pointless things and asking way too many questions. Ludwig just wanted to go home, and that clearly wasn't going to happen. Already he knew Basch was going to answer the door with a loaded gun, if he even answered. Who was to say he wouldn't shoot?
The things Ludwig did for the sake of the Gestapo were going to kill him someday.
"Are we almost there yet?" Hochstetter asked. Ludwig took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to shout.
"Yes."
"Why the hell did you walk to work today?"
Ludwig turned to look at the man. "You could've taken your car. You do realize you're going to have to walk back, don't you?"
"Oh, God, you're right." Hochstetter stopped, realizing what he'd done. He kicked at a clump of snow, muttering profanities. Ludwig couldn't resist a smile, happy to see Hochstetter lose his obnoxious cheer.
"It's not my fault you didn't think," Ludwig said. "There's Basch's house, go do whatever it is that you wanted to do." He gestured to the tiny house, looking back at Hochstetter. His grin was gone, arms crossed like a child.
"Come up to the door with me, we're more intimidating together," Hochstetter ordered, walking up to Basch's front door. Ludwig had no choice but to follow.
"…think drinking in my damn house is acceptable?" he heard Basch shout when he was close enough – the man was livid. "I've put up with the music and cigarettes, however, I'm drawing the line right here. You're not dragging your alcohol in here as well! I already put up with drunk Roderich more than I would like! I have work to do in the morning, I can't keep babysitting you whenever Francis finds you passed out somewhere!"
"You can't even get drunk on brandy. And it's not like I'm offering it to Lilli," Roderich said, much calmer than Basch was.
Hochstetter glanced at Ludwig with an I-told-you-so look.
"Calm down," a different, refined voice said. Ludwig vaguely remembered the voice, assuming it was Christian Kleiner's. "I'm helping him drink it, so it isn't like he's drinking a whole bottle of brandy by himself."
"Of course you're fine with this, Francis. You don't care what goes on in this house, because it isn't yours. You're probably a closet alcoholic," Basch snapped. "Don't act like you're going to stop a drunkard from drinking."
Who was Francis?
Hochstetter had the same idea, looking at Ludwig for an explanation. Ludwig couldn't answer – he'd never heard of a Francis before. There was no one named Francis in Basch's impressive repertoire of contacts. Basch seemed to be referring to Christian as Francis, which raised more questions. Was it some sort of family joke, something that wouldn't be down on record?
No, Ludwig knew there was something more to the name. He'd studied Christian's whole life, listened to all of his phone calls, and there was never any mention of that nickname. There was something about that name – like Roderich's last name – that felt wrong. There was more to the story than just a name.
"It's the only way I can edit music, too," Roderich said. "You can't review something sober. And with the type of work I'm doing, I have to take as much pressure off as I can. I'm performing for Himmler tomorrow and this piece isn't perfect yet."
"Big deal. You either put that away or you get out of my house right now. I don't care if Himmler strangles you. No, I'd like that."
"I guess I'm leaving, then. I'll see you tomorrow before I leave for Berlin."
"And don't you dare go home and get drunk," Basch snarled. "You've got a date with Natalya at whatever fancy hotel they don't let people like me into."
"It's called Hotel Sacher, not that you would know."
"Because I haven't wasted my life with a bunch of damn Nazis! I may not have class, but I'm also not going straight to hell!"
"I've got an idea," Hochstetter whispered, stepping away from the door. He motioned for Ludwig to come with him, flashing a grin as reassurance.
"What are we doing?" Ludwig asked as Hochstetter led him farther from Basch's house. "I thought we were going to catch Basch off guard."
"We were. But now they've got me curious as to who this Francis person is. You go back to Headquarters and pull up every paper you can find on Christian. I've got a few questions to ask."
Three soft knocks broke the silence of Ivan's office, so quiet that he wouldn't have heard them if he hadn't been waiting for them. He got up from his bed, putting the wolf carving back on his desk. The watches lined up along the edge read several different times – it was either 1:00, 2:17, 6:30, or 11:29. Ivan never could set watches right. He figured it was closer to 1:00, as the electricity had been out for a long time and the guards had changed minutes ago.
Whatever time it was, there was only one person in the whole stalag brave enough to talk to Ivan after lights-out.
Ivan wrapped his scarf around his neck, trying to collect his thoughts before he spoke to Toris. The last time the two had a conversation was back in September, when Ivan was locked up in solitary confinement. After that, he'd avoided everyone, staying in his office and coming out when he had to. Toris didn't try to talk to Ivan anymore – until now. Ivan had been patiently waiting for him to make the first move, hoping their relationship wasn't entirely severed.
"Privet, malyshka," Ivan said as he opened the door.
He wasn't expecting Elizabeta to be standing there in a silky nightgown and robe.
"What are –" Ivan was cut short as Elizabeta put a hand over his mouth, stepping into the office. She closed the door behind her before looking up at Ivan, examining the man before her.
Thousands of things came to mind in that moment. Was Elizabeta going to set him up for something, ask for help, demand information about the latest escape attempt? Or was she working for her husband, doing some sort of investigation into why Ivan hadn't been the same since September? Even thoughts of a secret love confession weren't out of the question.
"I need to talk with you about some things," she whispered, which clarified absolutely nothing. "Privately. Promise you won't say a word about this to anyone else, especially Gilbert?"
Ivan nodded, too confused to do anything else. Elizabeta slowly took her hand away, still not quite trusting the man.
"What do you have to tell me that's so important you come all the way here in the middle of the night?" Ivan asked, going back to his bed. He sat down on the edge, watching as Elizabeta took in the chaos that was his office. She went over to his desk, looking over the countless papers and books.
"You might want to start hiding these," she said, holding up vague escape plans Ivan had written out the night before with help from Alfred, their escape artist. "Gilbert is fluent in Russian, as am I."
"They're not serious. I was intending to use them to throw you off track when the real escape happened, and now I can't. And what's it to you if I get caught?"
"You're rather fond of solitary confinement, aren't you?"
Ivan smiled to himself. "I live for trouble. Did you just come here to tell me that I should hide my escape plans?"
"No. I wanted to talk to you about Roderich," she said, turning to face the man. Her expression had softened, the woman looking down at the floor instead of at Ivan.
So that's what this is about.
"Are you realizing you made a mistake marrying the commandant?" Ivan asked. "I saw you talking to Roderich the last time he was here. You looked rather close with him. I hope you're not going into another affair."
Ivan could see Elizabeta's face go red in the pale moonlight. "Don't talk about that. We were discussing who has rights to what, because he thinks he owns everything. It wasn't anything like what you're suggesting. Believe me, I am so over him."
"I don't know, you looked –"
"This isn't about my past marriage," Elizabeta interrupted. "I could care less about my relationship with him. I wanted to talk to you about Roderich's…religion."
Ivan tensed up at the mention of the word. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't try to lie to me. You know better than I do that he's Jewish."
"Really? I had no idea. Is this one of your husband's theories?"
"Ivan," Elizabeta said, going over to the man. "Stop it. I know for a fact that his name isn't even von Wolffe. It's Edelstein."
"…You're going to go to the Gestapo, aren't you?" Ivan asked, already coming up with plans for a quick and easy murder and escape. He had the knife tucked in the heel of his boot, and a nine millimeter pistol somewhere underneath his bed – it didn't even have to be a clean kill. All he needed was a diversion and he'd be out of Austria.
Just like every other time he'd had to off someone, Ivan would be gone before anyone noticed.
"Good God, I wouldn't ever do something like that," Elizabeta said, sitting down beside Ivan.
"And I wouldn't dream of causing trouble. Come on, stop trying to lie to me. You hate him and you want him dead, don't you? So you're either going to tell the commandant or go to the Gestapo and have him shot," Ivan snapped. "You're a cruel person to use Roderich like that."
Elizabeta held up her hands in a show of innocence. "I don't want anything bad to happen to him. Yes, I am slightly upset about the divorce and the events leading up to it. That doesn't mean I want him dead. I'm trying to protect Roderich."
"Prove it," Ivan said.
"You've been in contact with a man named Francis Bonnefoy, correct? He also goes by Christian Kleiner," Elizabeta said. "I've known him for a long time. He's been talking to me ever since the divorce about Roderich. Francis is the one who got me into this; if something goes wrong, I'm part of the plan to get Roderich to Switzerland."
"You're good, getting Francis to trust you. However, I'm not quite so easy to manipulate."
"Please, Ivan, you've got to believe me on this one. I came here to make sure you and I were on the same page with this. I wanted to know if you had intents of telling Gilbert about Roderich, because I never can be sure with you."
"We made a promise," Ivan said, folding his arms over his chest. "I cannot tell the commandant anything, even if I wanted to. You, however, are free to do as you want. Which makes you a threat to my promise. Therefore, I might have to do something I regret for Roderich's sake."
Elizabeta sighed, running her fingers through her thick hair. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?"
"There's nothing you can do. It'll take time. Keep up your end of all of this and I might start to believe you. However, if I hear so much as a word about Roderich, it's over. Your pistol isn't the only one I have in my collection," Ivan said.
"So you'd kill me?" Elizabeta asked with a half-hearted laugh. "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"
"Considering what you could and have done to Roderich, I don't see it harsh at all."
"Fair enough. And could I have my pistol back?" she said.
"I would let you have it back, but you're the enemy," Ivan said. "Sorry, it's the rules of war."
"There are no rules in war."
"There has to be a few. And I'm sure not arming the enemy is one of them."
"If you say so. Listen, I've got to go back before someone gets suspicious," she said, going over to the door. "If you ever need to talk to me about this all, come get me. I'm more than glad to talk out terms with you that don't involve my death."
"I'm not supposed to talk to the enemy."
Elizabeta smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Enemy or not, I'm serious. And if you just need someone to talk to, I'm always here. Something's been wrong with you for the past couple of months. I'd be willing to listen."
"No, I'm fine," Ivan said too quickly, the words slurring into one. "I've always been fine."
"Suit yourself. Gute Nacht, Ivan," she said.
In that moment, Ivan saw her true colours. Elizabeta was scared, and not just for Roderich's sake. She was worried about Ivan, much more so than her words let on. Underneath all the Nazism and backstabbing, Elizabeta was a real person, a real person who cared for Ivan's sanity. Ivan could tell that she wanted to say something that she truly meant – and he did, too. He wanted to tell her the whole story, to tell her about the nightmares and the pain and the feeling that maybe he was supposed to be dead.
He wanted her to stay.
Ivan watched Elizabeta leave, not knowing how to feel about anything.
History notes:
Nagant – Technically the Nagant M1895, this revolver was designed by Léon Nagant for the Imperial Russian Army in 1895. It carried over into the Red Army, where it stayed in service until 1952. The pistol never truly died out, as it kept being used until 2009.
NKVD – The Soviet Secret Police, responsible for the deaths of millions. They were brutal, executing anyone who they had reason to believe was doing something wrong. There are mass graves everywhere because of the NKVD. Headed by Yevgeny Tuchkov, they were also responsible for the destruction of religion and ethnic minorities in the USSR.
Pearl Harbor – On December 7th, 1941, 7:48 a.m. (which is 6:48 p.m. in Vienna) Japanese planes launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor in Oahu, Hawaii. It killed 2,403 people and wounded over 1,000, ruining and damaging hundreds of planes and sinking several battleships. The attack on Pearl Harbor marked the entrance of America into WWII. On December 8th, America declared war on Japan. By December 11th, both Germany and Italy declared war on America. There were actually Japanese diplomats in Washington D.C. when the attacks happened, who were exchanged for American diplomats in Japan. All in all, Pearl Harbor is "a day that will live in infamy" for Americans.
Son of the regiment – Orphans like Raivis were sometimes adopted into regiments, therefore the name "son of the regiment." They were mostly used to bring things to the soldiers like water and ammunition, but sometimes they did engage in actual combat, depending on age.
Well, aren't you glad I have such happy history lessons here?
Thank you to idrinkwaterjuicesoda, Calvy (we're in some deep doop now), EllaAwkward, and Swing-Stole-My-Heart! You guys are fabulous!
See you all next chapter!