"Are you sure you know where you're going?"
Natalya stopped for a moment, turning back to look at Francis. The lamplight made a halo over her blonde hair, her violet eyes gleaming with unsettling excitement. "Was that fear I heard? Is the courageous Christian Kleiner afraid of a little adventure into Klein-Russland?"
"I'm not afraid. It's just that you aren't a very trustworthy person," Francis said, walking a bit closer to the woman. If worst came to worst, she was the one with a pistol. "Not to mention that we are in the mostly illegal part of town. Even I don't come here," he added, searching an alley for a pair of eyes or the gleam of a sawed-off shotgun. "And I have dramatically lower standards than everyone else."
"To you, it is illegal. To me, it is home."
They walked in silence for a while longer, Francis considering running. Every instinct of his was telling him to get out of the place; could he leave Natalya on her own? She certainly wasn't helpless and could fend off anyone who tried to attack her; however, Francis still had some standards. A woman was a woman, no matter how murderous and vengeful they were.
"You Russians are…interesting," Francis said as they walked by a wall painted with Cyrillic, cradling the stiletto in his pocket.
It wasn't that he had something against Russians – he'd helped plenty in the past and talked to Ivan at least once a month to make sure everything was alright in the stalag. But the Russians who lived in the back alleys of the city weren't the same people who came to him for help. They were mean and violent thieves, men and women out to kill and rob innocents blind. The Russians only accepted their own kind, which Natalya was and Francis was not.
In other words, everyone there wanted Francis dead.
"Better than you dull French," Natalya muttered.
"Excuse you," Francis said, his voice trembling more than he would've liked. "May I remind you that France is the country of romance –"
"And may I remind you that you lost the war before it even started?" Natalya interrupted. "You poor, helpless French didn't stand a chance in front of Germany. You let them walk all over your precious city of love. And look, they're cleaning out the unfit and shipping them out like they did here."
"You don't have to be so rude."
"Darling, I am rude." Natalya grabbed Francis' wrist, taking away his chances to run. "Now, when we get there, I have a few rules for you. Do not socialize. The women there may look pretty, but their lipstick is drugged. One kiss and they can take your wallet, papers, and dignity," she said, making Francis suddenly aware of Natalya's red lipstick.
"Do not speak. My people do not like German or French, and you know no Russian," she continued. "Do not accept anything from anyone, as it will probably be drugged and I have no interest in saving you from the people who do those things. And for the love of God, keep your hands in your pockets and put anything you don't want stolen in those pockets."
"Is there anything else I need to be aware of?" Francis asked, realizing why Basch made him go with Natalya.
"Just don't say or do anything," Natalya said, taking Francis down a somehow darker looking alley. Immediately Francis tensed up, and Natalya tightened her grip on his wrist. She wasn't going to let him escape.
For what seemed like centuries, the two walked down the alley, Natalya leading the way and Francis cowering behind her. Francis was sure someone was going to come out of the shadows at any moment, absolutely positive there would be a gun to his temple in a second. The two came to a group of men gathered around a back door talking in fast Russian, each of them with a cigarette in hand. He could see one man had a pistol on his hip, and another was passing around a bottle of vodka.
One of the men looked up.
The alley went quiet.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Francis knew someone was going to find his body in the Danube the next morning.
The man who saw them first called out something in his mother tongue, his smile unbelievably friendly. Natalya said something back, nudging Francis forward as she did so. Was she introducing him or offering him as a sacrifice?
"You speak no Russian?" he slurred in rough German, coming over to Francis. "Any other languages?"
"He speaks French," Natalya said when Francis didn't answer.
"I guess we are speaking the devil's language, then," the man said. "You are Christian Kleiner, yes? You get people out of here?"
Francis nodded, too scared to do anything else.
"First time here," Natalya explained. "Or anywhere like this. He is Christian. His real name is Francis Bonnefoy. He's the one who got me to Vienna."
"A Frenchman in Vienna. How odd. You saved my brother years ago, got him to Switzerland before the Gestapo got him. Do you remember a Dmitryev?"
"Yes."
"So he does speak!" The man laughed, dark eyes twinkling with real human emotion, not pure malice. "You are good man, Francis. Saved many of my people. For that, we will let you live."
"Oh, thank you, sir," Francis stammered, not sure whether to feel relieved or even more panicked.
"It's the least I can do for you after what you've done for us. So, Francis, what brings you and this darling woman to our little Russia?"
"We need news from Berlin," Francis said. "And Natalya took me here."
"You need to see the old man?" the man asked, looking to Natalya for an answer.
"Yes. We need to see him immediately."
The man nodded, not quite understanding the severity of the situation. He wasn't the one who didn't know if Roderich was dead or alive – they hadn't seen the man come back, and he wasn't at any of the usual bars. It'd been two days since he left for Berlin, and Roderich said he would be back by the next morning. Something wasn't adding up.
He led the two over to the back door, muttering something in Russian to the other men. They stared at Francis, a bit wary of the man. None of them put a gun to his head or grabbed his throat, so they seemed to accept him. Francis looked back down at the ground, remembering Natalya's rules from earlier as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
Inside the building was just as decrepit as the outside. The whole Russian part of the bad side of Vienna was run-down, so it didn't come as a surprise to see broken windows and spider webs. Peeling wallpaper, a thick layer of dust on the floor, and smashed furniture made it look like no one had lived there in years. Francis suspected the house was a victim of Kristallnacht – the Star of David scratched into the wall with cruel Cyrillic beneath it was a dead giveaway. The only thing that told him there were humans somewhere in the building was the faint voice, thousands of words blurred into one.
"Be careful, Francis. The women in there will tear you apart if you're not careful," the man said, going over to a thick velvet curtain. Francis could smell the smoke from the other room, the voice much louder than before. Now he could hear individual voices – people fighting, people laughing, people talking of times long gone and times yet to be and everything in between.
"I've already warned him," Natalya said. "Thank you for not murdering him."
"You're welcome. It's always nice to see you, Natalya. You should come around more often, get better acquainted with me," he said with a suggestive smile.
"I have a job that requires a certain look. I can't be seen with you."
"Oh, and that makes you better than the rest of us? Well, if you ever want to have real fun, you know where I am. I'm on guard duty for another hour, so I can't take you in. It was a pleasure to meet you, Francis," the man said, going back to the door to the outside. He glanced back at Natalya, mouthing something in Russian before stepping outside.
"That's Fedorov," Natalya said. "I've only been here for a week and he wants me to marry him."
"When have you had the time to come here?" Francis asked.
Natalya shrugged. "Whenever. I come here to speak my language and see my people. The same reason why you would go to Paris. Are you ready for this?"
"I'm never ready for anything."
Natalya pulled back the curtain, looped her arm through Francis', and led him inside.
The room was dim, however, that didn't make it impossible for Francis to ignore the stares. He couldn't be sure if they were staring at him – the women certainly were, as they pointed at him and whispered to each other. The men were looking at the killer queen standing next to Francis, Natalya muttering a few words in Russian. She took Francis through the hazy room, thick with the musky smell of smoke, alcohol, and cheap perfume, disregarding catcalls. Francis couldn't tell if he heard a woman screaming or laughing. It was probably both.
Francis had been raised on the thought that Russians were no good, downright evil people. Perhaps they were leftover grudges from Napoleon's failures; whatever it was, everyone told him Russians couldn't be trusted. Over the years, he'd learned that Russians were usually sweet, innocent people, no different than the rest of the world. However, the men and women in the shady room, some half-clothed and most drunk, did not fit that sweet and innocent idea he'd conceived. He was right back in his Parisian home, listening to his mother talk about the demons who lived in a far off snowy country.
"Hey, Arlovskya, come here for a moment," one woman said in perfect German as they walked by. Natalya stopped, probably startled to hear the hated language. She turned to the woman, an eyebrow arched in silent question.
"That's a real cute one you've got," the woman continued, getting up from her table. She came over to Francis, examining the man like a priceless artifact. She touched one of Francis' curls, as if trying to see if it was real or not. "Looks expensive," she said, putting a hand to his face. Francis wasn't sure what to do as the woman ran her hand down his jaw, her red lips spread into a lopsided grin. "What did he cost?"
"He did not cost anything," Natalya said, her words sharp and cold.
"Come on, you can tell me. Where the hell do you find a whore that looks this good?"
Francis felt his face go red, looking down at the dirty floor to hide his shame. He'd been called plenty of things in his life, and considering the divorces it was no surprise that a woman would call him a whore, but it still stung.
"He isn't anything like that. I'm not like that," Natalya snapped.
"We're all friends here, Arlovskya. You should share a handsome bastard like him. What's his name again?"
"None of your concern."
The woman rolled her eyes. "What's your name, dear?" she asked Francis. "Or do you not have one yet?"
"My name is Christian," Francis answered, looking back up at the woman to show he wasn't afraid.
"What a saintly name for a man of your profession," the woman said. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind telling me who you work for."
"Do not answer her," Natalya growled, pulling Francis away from the woman towards a back room. Francis hid his face, trying his best to ignore the shouts and laughter.
"I am so sorry about that," Natalya apologized as they stepped into the back room, shooting a glare towards the woman. "The women here, they are obsessed with finding new lovers. And you are much prettier than the things they drag off the streets."
"Was that a compliment?" Francis said. "Or were you adding insult to injury?"
"Maybe both. Don't tell anyone I told you that." She turned away from him, her face as red as his. Natalya took him up a flight of creaking stairs, coming to a door with deep scratches in the wood. She knocked on it a few times, smoothing her dress.
"Privet, Natalya," a man said when he opened the door, his dark eyes immediately going to Francis. "You have brought a foreigner."
"He is with me," Natalya said. "Can we ask you about something?"
"Wait, you know him?" Francis asked before the man could answer – what had Natalya been doing when he wasn't around?
The man's lips flicked up into a smile. "Everyone knows everyone here. How much do you need to know?"
"Very little. There was a bombing in Berlin two days ago. How many SS men did it kill, and don't tell me what Hitler's been telling me. And where is Roderich von Wolffe?"
"Are you part of the Angels already?" the man said with a deep rumble of a laugh. It reminded Francis of his father's laugh, a memory buried deep in the slums of Paris. "Oh, dear, you better come in. And bring your boyfriend with you, you can't trust those girls downstairs."
Where was Roderich von Wolffe?
He couldn't answer the question himself. Lost was the only word that came to mind. Somewhere between Heaven and Hell. Oddly sober. Cold. And guilty, oh-so agonizingly guilty. Roderich hadn't felt this horrible in years. He'd once thought hangovers were the epitome of pain, the worst possible thing a man could feel.
He'd forgotten how bad guilt hurt. It wasn't aching or dull or anything like the mornings after drinking himself senseless. No, it was a sharp pain in his chest, the world bearing down on his shoulders, and a voice in his head telling him he was useless. The shame crushed him not only physically, but mentally. It twisted his thoughts and fed him lies and told him there would never, not ever be a man so lowly as him.
Roderich looked over at the bottle beside him, wondering why it was still sealed. Expensive Russian vodka, the high-end way to get drunk fast. He'd bought it thinking the morning would be just like any other morning after a performance, full of anger and regret. Maybe he'd realized that shame was a pain so bad even the most expensive vodka couldn't wash it away.
Two days he'd spent hiding from the truth, first in a cheap hotel in Prague and now in a park in Vienna. At some point he was going to have to go home; he didn't want to think about it. Roderich didn't want to face the inevitable.
"What the hell am I doing with my life?" he said aloud – it was early in the morning, there was no one on the bridge with him. It was Roderich, the vodka, Marlene, and the Danube. "I'm a murderer. A real killer. And what am I doing? I'm talking to myself at five a.m. I'm too scared to go home, what with a Gestapo man living next to me. I'm too scared to go anywhere, as someone's probably there waiting for me. I'm even too scared to get drunk. Me, an alcoholic, too damn scared to drink!"
Roderich ran his fingers through his hair, leaning against the railing of the bridge for support. "Oh, this is bad. This is bad, bad, bad. I've killed someone. I've killed seven real people. People with families and children and people who really loved them. And I took that away. I stole everything from those men.
"But they took so many more lives, so am I that bad?"
Roderich paused for a moment, thinking over everything yet again. He'd been stuck in the cycle of right and wrong for hours now, wondering if what he'd done was truly justified or downright evil. Yes, the SS generals were nothing short of demonic; that didn't mean they weren't humans. And then again, they were the ones responsible for the deaths of far too many people. It was all wrong. He shouldn't have killed someone, they shouldn't have killed thousands, nothing like it should have ever happened.
"Who am I kidding, killing even one of them makes me as bad as they are," Roderich said. "A murderer is a murderer, no matter what. Even though what I've done is almost justified, it's a murder. How is someone supposed to live with this feeling? I've ended lives before they were over. What if those men were going to do something wonderful? What if they weren't really horrible and were trying to save lives? I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have done it."
He looked back down at the river, its waters gleaming in the moonlight. So many times he'd come to the river to think over a piece or question his will to live. The Danube used to be calming for him, an anchor in the disaster that was his life. It was a timeless being, a spirit that had lived for centuries longer and seen so much more than Roderich ever would. And rivers listened. Rivers paid attention better than anyone Roderich knew. He could tell his worries to the waters and they would never talk back, never laugh or try and comfort him. The Danube only listened.
"Oh, God," Roderich whispered, tears stinging at the corners of his tired eyes. "Oh, God, I killed someone. I didn't even do anything to stop it. No, I willingly became a murderer."
He slumped over the railing, hiding his eyes with trembling hands. Was it even worth it? Was killing the seven general honestly worth the pain and torment it was causing him? How many lives did he save? As far as Roderich knew, none of the generals had died. And if he'd managed to kill at least one, there was always someone to replace a general, always another blond haired, blue eyed monster. Another man to order the deaths of thousands. Another man to hunt down the unfit and send them on trains to Poland.
There was always a replacement. Roderich had said it himself countless times; people were surprisingly disposable. Usually, he was telling it to Gilbert, reminding the arrogant bastard who he worked for. Only now, Roderich was saying it to himself. Just like colonels, there was always another musical prodigy. He couldn't be the only man in Vienna with talent. Hitler could pick out another music student with some promise, write off Roderich's death as something heroic, and the world wouldn't miss him.
"I see why you hear about murder-suicides," Roderich said, wiping at his eyes. "Killing someone puts life in a whole new perspective."
"Herr von Wolffe?"
Roderich looked up, his heart stopping when he saw the Gestapo man standing no more than a few steps away from him. He almost didn't recognize the man, not with the bruises on his face and neck. Ludwig took a step forward, his eyebrows furrowed together. "Are you alright?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
"When did you get here?" Roderich said, his voice barely audible over the rush of the river. "How long have you been there?"
This is it, he told himself. He's going to shoot me right here. He heard everything. He had to. Unless that man is deaf, I'm going to Mauthausen.
"I haven't heard anything, if that's what you're so worried about," Ludwig said. He glanced past Roderich, catching sight of the vodka bottle. "Have you been drinking?" he asked in a soft voice, scared he might offend Roderich.
"I wish. But no, I haven't even opened it. So, what brings you here so early in the morning? Did you get in a fight or something?"
"I could be asking you the same question."
Roderich sighed, looking back at the river. "I needed to think over everything. You?"
"I wanted to get to work early." Ludwig came over beside Roderich, giving the man an uncharacteristically caring smile. "I think I can be a bit late, though. And I look like I got in a fight because I was in a fight. But that's not important. Do you mind if I ask what you were thinking about?"
"…Have you ever done something so horribly wrong you feel like you should be shot for it?"
Ludwig laughed a bit, leaning up against the railing. "I work for the Gestapo. How much worse could you get?"
"True. Only, what I did is worse than the Gestapo. And I can't stop thinking about how God awful and horrible and just wretched it makes me," Roderich said. "The only thing I can do is remind myself that I don't deserve to be where I am or even living. I'm worthless."
"We all think we're worthless. I think I should quit the Gestapo every day I when wake up. You think whatever you've done deserves the death penalty." Ludwig paused for a moment, looking down at Roderich. "It wasn't illegal, right?"
It was, Roderich wanted to say. It was, it was, it was. I deserve the death penalty. "No, it wasn't illegal," he answered without hesitation.
"Even if it was, I wouldn't have arrested you right here. And I know you wouldn't trust me with something like that. My point is, you don't see yourself through someone else's eyes. You see yourself as worthless, I see you as everything I've ever wanted to be. You're talented, you're intelligent, for God's sake, you work for Adolf Hitler!" Ludwig said with a smile. "You are exactly the person I wanted to be when I was younger. You're the kind of person the whole world wants to be."
"The whole world wants to be an alcoholic?"
"So maybe we ditch that part," Ludwig said. "But you're a real person, Roderich. What more could you want? You don't have to pretend to be someone else. You're honest and selfless and you listen. You don't have to be like me, where I pretend to be strong and brave and all those things I'm not. You don't have to hide behind a different name or a different personality. You're Roderich von Wolffe."
"What if I'm not?" Roderich said before he could stop himself. The irony of it all was killing him – he wasn't a real person. Roderich von Wolffe was something Francis dreamed up, a fictional character living Roderich Edelstein's life.
"What do you mean?"
"I…I mean, what if I'm really not Roderich von Wolffe? I'm a drunk who can't hold onto anything, some man from Salzburg with way too many dreams. That doesn't sound like the von Wolffe you're talking about," Roderich said in a desperate attempt to fix his mistake before Ludwig caught on.
"You can't have light without dark. For all the light you have with you and who you are, I find it amazing that you have even a bit of dark. So what if you're a drunk?" Ludwig asked. "That doesn't make you any less of a person to me. It shows me that you have troubles, too, and you're not perfect. No one likes perfect. You're a human, and a good one at that."
"I'm glad you see me that way," Roderich said, standing up straight again. It was strange to hear kind words coming from a Gestapo man; he didn't know Ludwig was capable of emotions. "I wish I saw things the same way you do."
Ludwig's face went pink, his blue eyes going back to the Danube. "God, I'm sorry for talking so much," he said, tugging at the sleeves of his uniform. "I didn't mean to waste your time."
"You haven't wasted my time. If anything, you've kept me from doing something rash. You're a good man, Ludwig. A lot better than your brother."
"Definitely." Ludwig smiled to himself. "Gilbert's not too happy with you, by the way. He ranted to me about how he absolutely hated you for a good hour. Told me you'd been coming to Stalag XVIII-A more often and talking to Elizabeta. What's that about?"
"It isn't anything like what your brother's suggesting," Roderich said. "We're arguing out things that didn't get settled. She took a lot more than she owned. Not that she needed it, she did it just to make me mad. I haven't been there for some time. I tried to go a while back, and someone told me the camp was under quarantine and I couldn't speak with anyone."
"Quarantine?" Ludwig echoed.
"Don't ask me, I was told to leave immediately. Didn't your brother talk to you about it?"
"I haven't talked to him in a while," Ludwig said. "I think I have to now. It was a pleasure talking to you, Herr von Wolffe. And whatever you've done, I'm sure it can't be that bad."
Roderich grabbed Marlene's case and the bottle of vodka, giving Ludwig a tired grin. "Maybe I was overreacting a bit."
"That's the spirit." Ludwig tipped his hat as a silent goodbye, walking off towards the city. He stopped a few paces away, turning back to look at Roderich. "Oh, and Herr von Wolffe?"
"Yes?"
"If you ever need someone to drink with, you know where to find me."
Roderich couldn't resist a smile – it was so painfully obvious Ludwig was setting him up. He almost found it cute, like a child telling a story every knew was made up. "I might take you up on that," Roderich said to spite him. "Until next time, Herr Beilschmidt."
Waiting was not one of Basch's strong points. He'd always done things like he was running out of time, and expected everyone else to do the same.
Unfortunately, most of the world didn't think the way Basch did.
Basch was quickly becoming aware that he'd made a mistake sending Francis out alone with Natalya. They'd left at five; it was seven-thirty. It was only a ten-minute trip to the Russian part of town; it shouldn't have taken them more than thirty minutes to find out what happened and come back. Maybe an hour if they went to go look for Roderich. Two hours and thirty minutes was borderline unreasonable.
"You're making the face again," Lilli said, snapping Basch out of his thoughts.
"No, I'm not." Basch went back to picking at his meager breakfast to avoid looking at the girl.
"Yes, you were. What are you worrying about?"
"Shouldn't you be at school?" Basch growled.
Lilli shrank back, not used to being snapped at by her brother. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to help."
"It's fine. I'm a little on edge, that's all. Something's wrong. They shouldn't have been gone for so long," Basch said. "And there's a million things that could've happened."
"I'm sure they're fine."
"You're sure. But am I sure?"
Lilli shrugged. "Francis is smart; he can get out of anything. Fraulein Arlovskya wouldn't let anyone hurt him. There's really nothing to be this upset about."
"Think about what happened with Francis and that Gestapo man. Everyone makes mistakes, and some of them aren't as easy to fix as breaking into Gestapo Headquarters and replacing every single file," Basch said, holding his head. "We can't risk doing something like that again. That could've got every one of Vienna's Angels shot."
"I don't like to be so blunt with you," Lilli said, twisting one of her braids around her finger, "Just…you can be such a downer sometimes."
"That's who I am."
"Could you try not to be you?"
Basch smiled, looking up at the girl. "Well, then, who should I be? Hitler?"
"No," Lilli said with a hint of a laugh. "Be like…Mathias."
"You want me to be absolutely obnoxious?" Basch asked.
"Not the obnoxious part. The happy, cheery part."
"Please, Lilli, that'd kill me. Or do you want me dead?"
"Just give it a try," Lilli said as she got up, grabbing her books from the table. Basch hated to see her with books like "Racial Studies" in her arms; if he could stop her from going to school, he would. She came over to Basch, giving her brother a hug. "Will you be working tonight?"
"It depends on when Natalya and Francis get back," Basch said. "You be careful, alright?"
Lilli nodded, flashing a reassuring grin. "I'll be fine. Try to cheer up for me."
She turned on her heels to leave right as the door was thrown open with a bang! Francis came inside with a huge smile, Natalya and Roderich not quite as thrilled. Roderich was holding a bottle – he'd probably been interrupted in the middle of his drinking and decided to bring it to Basch's house. And Natalya had her trademark cigarette between her dark lips, having no regard for Basch's rules about things they were allowed to do in his house.
"Guess who killed seven generals?" Francis asked, blue eyes twinkling with slightly morbid excitement.
"I did," Roderich muttered, looking tired and completely done with humanity. "Can I go home now?"
"No, you're going to explain where you were," Natalya said, shoving Roderich forward. "Start with when you left Berlin."
"Before we hear that, I've got a question for you two," Basch interrupted; he was going to get his answer first. "What took you so long?"
"We were only gone for two hours," Francis said.
"Two and thirty minutes. More than it should've taken."
"Have you ever been to Klein-Russland?" Francis asked. "I thought I was going to die on at least ten different occasions. And then Natalya decides to talk to this man that we meet up with for a good hour. In Russian. So, I was sitting there, bored out of my mind, while she" – he pointed to Natalya accusingly – "Didn't stop talking. And then she tells me Roderich should be somewhere near a bridge over the Danube but we can't be for sure. So we go wander around the city at six in the morning looking for Roderich, until we finally find him. And then we came back to you."
"What a nice story," Natalya said, sitting down at the table. "Shame it isn't true. You see, this man and I were discussing Roderich's mission. Yes, he did kill seven generals, the last one alive died today from his injuries. And yes, the Gestapo is hunting for a Jean Traver in Marseilles. This man told me Roderich has a habit of going tothis particular bridge –"
"Who is this man and what does he know about me?" Roderich asked before she could continue. "Do I know him?"
"No, you don't know him. He's the leader of most organized Russian crime in Vienna –"
"I was in a room with the leader of the Russian mafia?" Francis snapped. "Why didn't you tell me that?!"
"Because you would've panicked like you're doing right now," Natalya said, tapping the ash off the end of her cigarette. "Anyway, this man has eyes everywhere. It's how he knew about Berlin and where Roderich would be. So, we go to said bridge, and Roderich wasn't where we were told he would be. Then we have to actually look for him for a good hour until we find him. And may I mention that Francis complained the whole time."
"And how was that any different from my story?" Francis asked.
"I have a much better perspective on things than you do. Roderich, do you want to explain where you were? None of this would've had to happen if you'd come home on time," Natalya growled, looking over at the musician.
"You don't want to hear my story," Roderich said, taking a few steps back. "It's boring and –"
"Tell. Us." Natalya grabbed Roderich's wrist before he could get away, pulling him back to the table.
"I stayed in a hotel in Prague and then came back here. I was probably going to come home today before you two came and dragged me over here," Roderich said, taking Natalya's hand from his wrist.
"And why did you stay in that hotel?" Basch asked.
"I don't know, I was scared? I just killed seven people and maybe thought someone would be waiting for me in Vienna," Roderich said. "I didn't even use my own name at the hotel, if that makes you less mad or something."
"No, no, I'm actually not mad about you staying in the hotel. I would've liked to know where you were, but you did the right thing not to raise suspicions," Basch said. "If something would've gone wrong and they were hunting you down, it would've made for a lot easier escape. Next time you do something like that, though, tell me exactly where you are."
"So you're not mad?" Natalya asked, sounding almost disappointed that Roderich wasn't getting lectured.
"What do I have to be mad about? So, Roderich, how do you feel knowing you killed seven people?"
Roderich let his gaze fall to the floor. "Bad. And good. Mostly self-loathing. And I feel like I need a really long shower. And a drink."
Basch almost smiled – everything had gone over exactly as he'd expected. He'd set up the mission, a minor one in terms of missions, to test Roderich's mental strength. Before the man left, Mathias and Basch took bets on whether he'd crack or pull through. Mathias owed Basch two hundred marks. All that was left to do was see if Roderich could make it through the guilt that comes with killing.
"Can I go home now?" Roderich asked yet again.
"Sure. And thank you, Roderich, for following through with the mission," Basch said.
"You're welcome. Thank you for destroying my mental stability," Roderich said with a faked smile, turning to leave.
"Herr von Wolffe, do you want to walk me to school?" Lilli asked, going over to the man. "It isn't very far from your house and Basch doesn't like me going alone."
"Will they let a man carrying vodka come anywhere near a school?"
"Keep it here," Francis suggested. "Basch doesn't drink, and I can't stand vodka."
Roderich looked back at him. "What about Natalya? She's a Russian."
"Just because I'm Russian doesn't mean I'm a drunk like you," Natalya said. "I am not your stereotypical Russian woman."
"Is this some sort of plot to keep me from drinking?" Roderich asked, putting the bottle down on the table. "If it is, it's not going to work. That vodka isn't the only alcohol I own."
"We're taking little steps, mon cher," Francis said. "And yes, it is a plot."
"Suit yourself. I'm telling you right here, it isn't going to work. If you don't see me tomorrow, please, don't bother coming by my house. I'm probably alive. And I'll be back for my vodka. I paid good money for that."
Once the two were gone, Basch got up and locked the door. He wasn't going to work that day, not when the real work had begun. Basch pulled the curtains in the front window closed, going back over to the table.
"Is everything ready?" Francis asked in a low voice, his smile from before long gone.
"We just need the cyanide. You said Ivan was getting that for you?"
"You wouldn't believe what that man can do from a prison camp," Francis said. "Even though they're in quarantine. I'm going to pick it up tonight."
"I could've gotten it," Natalya added. "Why didn't you ask me?"
"Ivan has a special way with poisons and sedatives. And I trust him more than one of your Russian dealers," Francis snapped. "They're out to kill me."
"Isn't Ivan a Russian, though?" Natalya asked.
"Yes. You wouldn't know he's a Russian, considering how sweet he is. And he's actually trustworthy."
"So are we getting the cyanide or not?" Basch interrupted before the two could continue arguing. He didn't know about Natalya, but Francis had a bad habit of going on for hours about anything.
"Yes, we are," Francis said, looking away from Natalya.
"Then it looks like Operation Edelweiss is a go."
Stalag XVIII-A was silent for the first time in years.
Ivan wasn't sure if he liked the quiet.
And then again, he wasn't sure of anything.
He nudged the window open, looking around for guards. The yard was quiet, void of any sign of life. The barbed wire fences separating the compounds glistened in the early morning light, making Ivan wonder how everyone else was doing. Somewhere, across those fences, Sadik and Heracles were fighting in their native tongue, and Alfred was telling stories of his time in America while Arthur read another one of his Agatha Christie novels. They no longer cared about Ivan.
No one did. As long as he was in the Russian compound, no one would remember Ivan. He was nothing more than another face in the crowd, albeit healthier than most. Senior POW officer meant nothing more than he got his own room separate from the others. Ivan was another Ivan. One of the thousands of Soviets they wanted dead. One of the thousands of Soviets they refused to treat. One of the thousands of Soviets doomed to starve in the Russian compound.
Hoping to God that there wasn't anyone watching him, Ivan shoved handfuls of snow into an old rag. He quickly slid the window shut, making sure to lock it. The guards who did the inspections were quick to beat Ivan if anything was out of place – an unlocked window could mean a week in solitary, a week Ivan couldn't risk.
Ivan went back over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. He folded up the rag full of snow, placing it gently on Toris' forehead.
"How do you feel?" Ivan asked.
"Do you want my honest answer?" Toris' voice was hoarse and weak as he spoke, ruined by the night spent coughing.
"Lying won't make things any better."
"I'm scared. And not for my sake. I'm scared for Raivis."
Ivan didn't know what he could say. Raivis was one of the last ones to be sent to the hospital before the commandant decided to separate everyone by nationality. They hadn't heard anything about the boy in a long time, and none of the guards were planning on talking.
"I'm sure he is fine," Ivan said. "He is young. He can survive."
"What if I die? Who'll take care of him then?" Toris said, sounding like he could cry. "I have to be there for him. Without me, he'll…" His voice faded into the quiet of the stalag.
"I won't let you die," Ivan assured him, even though he knew there was a big chance Toris wasn't going to come out of it alive.
"I have so many things I still have to do." Toris looked up at the leaky roof, tears sliding down his face. "I can't die. I can't leave Raivis on his own and leave you by yourself, because who knows what you'll do all alone? Who knows what I'd do alone?"
Ivan wiped away Toris' tears, giving the man a tired smile. "You worry too much, malyutka. It isn't good for you."
"How am I not supposed to worry? We're nothing to them, Ivan. Nothing. They don't see us as humans anymore. It's a miracle you got Raivis into the hospital. But me? I'm just another brick in the wall," Toris muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Another worthless brick. They don't care about me or my story or even my name. I don't want to be a number forever."
"You aren't a number to me," Ivan said. "You're Toris."
"I am not Toris to the Germans. I am a number. They have no problem killing a number."
Ivan laid down beside him, knowing it was useless to try arguing. The Russians truly were nothing more than numbers to the Germans. Since they'd been separated from every else, Ivan had learned the full extent of German hate. And the commandant did nothing to stop the beatings and low rations; he stayed in his office, acting like there wasn't a thing wrong.
"I want to live," Toris whimpered, pressing close to Ivan. "I want to live. I don't want to end up like the rest of them. I've seen the bodies outside the fence. Please, sir, don't let me be one of them."
Ivan put an arm around Toris, stroking the man's dark hair. "I promise I won't let you die. I'm going to try and get you to the hospital today, alright? And if I can't, then I will take care of you. No matter what, you will not die."
"If I do die, will you promise to take care of Raivis for me?" Toris asked.
"If worst comes to worst, I will take care of him."
"And you won't kill yourself?"
Ivan smiled. "You know me too well. I promise I won't try anything like that."
"Good. I had to tell Feliks that, too. He's just like you. Couldn't live a day without me."
"Tell me more about Feliks," Ivan said, trying to take Toris' mind off of his almost inevitable death. If anything, it would ease his pain and make the whole ordeal a little less unbearable. It was the same strategy Ivan's mother used so many years ago, asking him to talk about sunflowers. Ivan didn't realize it at the time, but his mother was trying to ease him into death, knowing Ivan was as good as dead.
"His family came from Poland, and he's an only child. Feliks has blond hair and the prettiest green eyes that look just like a forest. And he's always laughing or smiling," Toris said wistfully. "We did everything together. I made him a matryoshka doll when we were young, and he used to write notes and hide them in the dolls. We'd use the tiny dolls to talk to each other when we were working, leaving them in a little hollow in the barn. I wish I kept some of those notes. They were hilarious.
"There was one day when I was maybe five that I couldn't find Feliks. So I went to the river, and he was there, crying. And I didn't know what to do, so I did what my mother always did for me. I kissed him. I didn't know it was wrong to kiss another boy, I was little and naïve and too sympathetic. Feliks said that when he grew up, he wanted to marry me, and his mother told him that he couldn't, so that's why he was crying. And I told him that we could run away and get married and have this life we weren't supposed to live even though I was only five. And he said we would have to wait until we were older.
"I wonder if he still wants to take me up on that offer," Toris whispered. "I don't think I do. Maybe a long time ago when I didn't know anything…only, now it seems so wrong. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. All I know is that I'm probably going to die in some miserable prisoner-of-war camp and I'm never going to see Feliks again." He closed his eyes, eyebrows curved up in concern. "If you make it out of here, can you bring my letters to Feliks?"
"Of course," Ivan said with a smile.
"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I rant on about things like that."
"There's no reason to be sorry. I found your story cute."
Before Toris could say anything, three sharp knocks interrupted him – roll call. Outside of his room, Ivan could hear the rest of the prisoners scrambling to attention. Ivan got to his feet, grabbing his coat from the end of the bed. Punishment for being late was severe, so Ivan couldn't joke around like he used to in Barrack Two. There was no joking in the Russian section.
"Don't leave," Toris said as Ivan opened the door.
"I've got to. If I don't, there's no way I'll get you to the hospital," Ivan hastily explained; he only had a minute to get into place. "I'll be back, alright? You stay here and do not, under any circumstances, make any noise."
"I'm scared alone. No, no, no, don't leave me by myself," Toris pleaded. "Prašom, prašom, pone, nepalikite manęs čia."
Ivan sighed – Toris had slipped back into delirious Lithuanian. "Viskas bus gerai," he said before slamming the door and running out to roll call.
He barely made it into his place at the front of the group in time, earning himself a slap in the face from one of the guards. Ivan tried his best not to flinch, knowing flinching meant more beating. Thankfully the guard stalked away after the first hit, calling out last names from a clipboard.
"Dietschenko?"
"Dead," someone answered.
"Novikov?"
"Dead."
"Bandarenko?"
Ivan held his breath, praying the answer wouldn't be "dead". He hated morning roll calls, as their only purpose seemed to be to remind the Russians that every night, half a barrack died. Maybe, just maybe –
"Sick," a voice called out.
"Well, can he stand?" the guard growled.
There wasn't an answer to that one.
"Scholl!" the guard said, pointing to the barrack. A young-looking private saluted him, going into the barrack.
Please don't bring out Toris, please don't bring out Toris, oh, God, don't let him bring out Toris, Ivan said to himself, trying to ignore the crashes coming from inside the barrack. He'd seen what happened to the sick too many times. If the guard found Toris, the man was dead. There would be no chance to save him, not if Ivan wanted to stay alive.
"Get out here!" the private shouted, throwing a man to the ground. Ivan knew not to look. Not that he wanted to. He stared blankly ahead, the man's cries for help and the snap of bones blurring into white noise. How long was he going to have to listen to the white noise? Until the war ended? Until he starved to death or got sick or did himself in?
And then there was the gunshot.
Everything fell quiet after the gunshot.
There were a few more names called after that, a few more lost lives and one or two survivors. Ivan made sure to enunciate perfectly when they called his name, dropping his accent as much as he could. Some sad part of him still hoped that if he could prove he had a little bit of Aryan blood in him, someone might let him go back to Barrack Two.
"Laurinaitis?" the guard said.
Ivan took a deep breath. "Dead," he said, exactly as he'd rehearsed so many times that morning.
The guard didn't even look his way, continuing on with roll call. Ivan forced back a smile – he'd gotten through the first part of his plan flawlessly. There was only one more step, one step that could end his life.
After they were dismissed, Ivan went straight to the fence that separated the Russians from the British. He scanned the groups of men standing in lines, searching for Arthur's bright blond hair or Alfred's RAF uniform. Where were the two?
"Oh, my God, is that you Colonel?"
Ivan immediately tensed up, startled to find Alfred standing right in front of him. How did he miss the American?
"Shit, they're doin' a number to you in there," Alfred said. "Are you even allowed to talk to me?"
"No," Ivan said, turning away from the man. If a guard caught him talking, it would be the same punishment as every other Russian. Shot in the back. His rank no longer protected him. "I shouldn't even be here. But I need a favour."
"Hey, man, are you alright?" Alfred asked, sounding too worried about Ivan's sake. Usually, he wanted him dead. Was there a shred of sympathy in the American?
"Go get the commandant, Alfred. That's an order from your superior officer, so don't you dare deny me. Tell him I have information on Roderich von Wolffe in exchange for help."
History Notes:
Quarantine at Stalag XVIII-A: In December of 1941, there was a huge typhus outbreak in the stalag, resulting in a quarantine. Few could come into the camp, and no one could go out until March of 1942. Typhus is an extremely deadly disease common in places like jails and third-world areas. It usually occurs during wars and famines. Epidemic typhus is caused by lice and is characterized by a high fever and rash, and 60% of those infected die. Thankfully, you can only get typhus once, but you're lucky to survive it untreated.
Racial Studies: Studies of "pure" and "impure" races were encouraged in Nazi Germany – most, if not all schools offered some sort of class about them. Racial studies started at a very young age, and children were constantly reminded of their racial duties to the Reich. Children were taught what sort of people to avoid, who to marry to produce Aryan children, what races were "worthy", and about hereditary diseases. They would measure their heads and noses with tape measures, and check their eye and hair colour with charts. Children also made family trees showing off their biological heritage to show they were "pure".
Separation in Stalag XVIII-A: Stalag XVIII-A was separated into areas for each nationality, and had been since 1939 when it accepted its first prisoners. Every area but the Russian area followed the Geneva Convention. Because Russia did not agree to the Geneva Convention, the Germans took it as a sign that they could do whatever they wanted to the Soviet POW's. Three million Soviets died in German custody. At Stalag XVIII-A during the typhus outbreak, the majority of men killed were Soviets due to the bad conditions they were living in.
Yes, I know I made a mistake. But at this point, I cannot fix it without tearing up everything I've already done. I'm taking a creative liberty here, though, as it is fanfiction. So sue me.
Russian last names called out: This is not so much a history note as something I would like to mention. The three last names Dietschenko, Novikov, and Bandarenko are the names of real prisoners who died in November of 1941 in Stalag XVIII-A. After November, the recorded dead seem to stop.
Translations:
Prašom, prašom, pone, nepalikite manęs čia – Please, please, sir, do not leave me here
Viskas bus gerai – Everything will be fine
Big thank-you's to EllaAwkward, GoneInASecond, Swing-Stole-My-Heart, and Comix and Co! (Oh, my God, you're alive!) Thank you for supporting this historically inaccurate fic!
See you all next chapter!