If Gilbert had to authorize one more hospital admission, he was going to scream.
He scribbled his name in the bottom corner of a page – it felt like his thousandth signature that day – and pushed the paper aside. Gilbert couldn't read what he was signing anymore, and he didn't care. The words on the pages were more like smears after two days without sleeping, and he certainly wasn't going to take the time to read them. All Gilbert could do was hope he was signing the papers for the hospital and not agreeing to be put in front of a firing squad.
It wasn't Gilbert's fault the newest POWs brought typhus with them. And yet, he was the one to be punished and yelled at for it. The higher-ups handed Gilbert a box full of paperwork and told him to fill everything out, forced him into quarantine and segregation, and gave him a new book regarding Soviet prisoners. As if that wasn't enough, they had him order physicals for every guard and send the weaker ones off to "training" – presumably the Russian front. When Gilbert told them about the lack of guards, they sent in new men from Munich who were a little too eager to shoot a Soviet prisoner, ramping up the death rates.
"Gilbert? I know you're busy, but I think you made a big mistake," Elizabeta called from the other room, her voice as tired as Gilbert imagined his would be. "Can I come in?"
"What sort of mistake? If it's nothing too important, let it slip through."
"You cut the Soviets' rations again."
"That's not a mistake."
Elizabeta didn't bother with formalities when she came into the office, slamming a folder on top of Gilbert's endless paperwork. She didn't say anything, instead putting her finger on a blurry number. Gilbert waited for a moment, hoping she would go back to her desk. When Elizabeta didn't budge, he knew he was going to have to cough up an answer or risk more misery.
"Berlin wants me to cut the rations again. So I did. They gave me a book and said that if I didn't follow it exactly, I'd find myself with a noose around my neck," Gilbert said. "Now, what would you rather have? A dead husband or a few dead Soviets?"
"A few? There is at least one man dying every day in the Soviet compound," Elizabeta snapped. "And look at this number. I have never been a doctor, but even I know a man cannot survive on 700 calories in the middle of winter, never mind summer. And what's this here about using the death penalty 'generously?' Are you really letting men be killed for being late to work details?"
"So you want me to baby the Soviets and get myself shot? You want me to treat them like they're Germans? Listen, Elizabeta, I'm not going to risk my life for a bunch of damn Russians. I may not hate them as much as the Nazis want me to; they still aren't worth my time. They're strong and smart, they should be able to figure out the rules without me interfering."
"Human lives 'aren't worth your time'?"
"They're not exactly humans –"
"How are they not humans?" Elizabeta asked, her words quiet and trembling. "Don't they do everything humans do? Do they not eat and speak and breathe like us? Are they some sort of wild animal? If so, why are we keeping animals in a prisoner-of-war camp? Just because they're not perfect doesn't mean they're inhuman. Take yourself for example. Are you an animal?"
"No, I was born a Prussian and intend to die that way. Why are you so defensive of the Soviets?" Gilbert pushed the folder away, going back to his paperwork. He didn't have time to argue about mistreatment, not if he ever wanted to sleep again.
"I'm sorry I have a sense of what's right. You're killing real people, Gilbert. They aren't numbers."
"They are nothing more than numbers."
"I can't believe you," Elizabeta growled, snatching the folder off of his desk. She clenched it in her trembling hands, her knuckles turning white. "I thought you might have some shred of sympathy in you. Now I can see I was wrong. You're exactly like the rest of them, Gilbert. Sick. You and your brother, you'd jump off a cliff if Hitler told you to. Sometimes…sometimes I can't see why I ever fell in love with you."
"Because I'm a helluva lot better than von Wolffe and you are fully aware of that," Gilbert said, grabbing another form and scrawling his initials on a line.
Elizabeta turned to leave, her heels clicking on the floor in sharp staccato rhythm. She paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder at Gilbert. "Roderich wouldn't let Berlin tell him to kill anyone," she said, giving Gilbert a faked smile.
"Then why don't you go back to him? I'm sure that would make his day," Gilbert said.
"I should."
"Yes, you should. Leave me here in my typhus-ridden stalag, and go back to your ex-husband. When the Gestapo comes and arrests you two, don't come crawling back to me. I will have no interest in saving your life if you leave me."
"Why would they arrest us?"
Gilbert smiled, folding his hands and pretending to look professional. "He's a Jew, isn't he? Or a resistance member or a Communist or something that Hitler wouldn't be pleased to find out about."
"Are you back to this again?" Elizabeta groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "Get over him already. There's nothing wrong with Roderich. He's a normal person who happens to be in a much better position than you are. Move on with your life and accept that you will never be like Roderich, no matter how hard you try. God, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were in love with him."
"Who's in love with who now?"
Gilbert looked up again – that wasn't Elizabeta's voice. Alfred came into the doorway between the office and front room, flashing Gilbert a crooked smile. "Hey, Commandant, haven't seen you in forever. Did you hear we've got a war goin' on?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. "But seriously, what were you two talking about? Is there another affair?"
"It's none of your concern," Elizabeta said, her face red with shame. Despite never telling anyone, the whole camp seemed have heard about her affair with Gilbert. "Aren't you supposed to be restricted to barracks?"
"You'd be amazed what a bar of chocolate can buy you," Alfred said. "And don't freak out, I'm not sick. Got typhus once in jail, can't get it again. So, hey, Commandant, I'm supposed to tell you that Ivan wants to talk to you."
"Tell him I'm busy. And you shouldn't be talking to Ivan," Gilbert snapped.
"He came an' talked to me first. I think you'll want to have a word with him. He says he knows something about von Wolffe and is pretty damn willing to talk."
Gilbert almost smiled for a moment, grabbing his coat from where he'd thrown it over a chair. "You said von Wolffe had nothing to hide," he said as he pushed past Elizabeta, following Alfred out into the front room. "We'll see about that."
Elizabeta didn't say anything in reply, refusing to acknowledge that she was wrong.
The stalag was much quieter than Gilbert remembered – and he wasn't sure if he liked it or hated it. Something felt so wrong about the place, something Gilbert couldn't put his finger on. There was complete silence as Alfred led Gilbert over to the Soviet compound, not one shout or insult. It reminded Gilbert of a ghost town, empty and quiet and almost completely dead. If there weren't any guards, Gilbert would've thought Alfred was the only other person alive.
"I'm not allowed to go in there," Alfred said quietly when they reached the gates to the Soviet compound, trying to keep the eerie silence mostly intact. "Whatever Ivan has to say to you, it's real important. I hope to see you again, Commandant. It's lonely out here without you."
"And I hope to see you transferred."
"Thanks, I really missed your passive-aggressive comments," Alfred said, heading back to the British compound. Gilbert watched him for a moment, almost wanting to call out for him to come back. He didn't know if he could handle the unfitting quiet alone.
"Herr Commandant, what are you doing here?" a guard said, snapping Gilbert out of his thoughts. He quickly turned to face the guard on the other side of the fence, trying to look as awake as he could on twenty minutes of sleep.
"I need to speak with Colonel Braginsky," he ordered.
"I'll go get –"
"Let me in. Do not bring Braginsky to me."
The guard stared at Gilbert like he'd just shot the Führer. "Um, sir, I don't want you to risk getting sick."
"I will be fine," Gilbert said.
"I don't know, sir…"
"I promise you, you are not putting me at risk by letting me in," Gilbert assured the man; he was lying straight to the guard's face.
The guard knew it was worthless to try and argue with someone as stubborn as Gilbert, undoing the lock on the gate. He slid it open barely enough for the commandant to get through, mumbling something about a new commandant. Gilbert didn't bother to thank the man, walking past him without another word.
As he went deeper into the compound, Gilbert kept his eyes low to avoid hungry and livid glares. The dark eyes bored into him, reminding him that he was hated beyond reason. He heard a few words snarled, broken bits of Russian that Gilbert didn't want to translate. Their words got crueler the further he went into the compound, each barrack filled with more hatred than the last.
And just when he thought someone was going to come out of a barrack with a gun and end everything, he came to Barrack Twenty-Seven. Kicking the snow off his boots, Gilbert pushed open the door without any warning. Almost immediately he started gagging, pulling a handkerchief from his coat and holding it over his nose. The scent of death and sickness was thick in the barrack; how could anyone live there? Even through the handkerchief it was strong, enough to make bile burn in the back of Gilbert's throat.
Forcing himself back into composure, Gilbert marched past the hollow men. He could feel their empty stares, the broken and weak soldiers silently hoping it wasn't their final day. Gilbert went up to the small back room without once looking at anyone, knocking gently on the door. The spirit of the room somehow got darker as the men realized who Gilbert had come for.
"You came," Ivan said when he opened the door, his voice withdrawn and hoarse. "You actually came."
He ushered Gilbert into the tiny office, shutting the door behind him. Gilbert warily removed the handkerchief from his face, watching as Ivan went over to the bed. A thin figure was curled up beneath the blanket, dark brown hair tangled and stuck to his forehead with sweat.
"I need a favour. You take Toris to the hospital, and I will answer two questions about Roderich von Wolffe with complete honesty," Ivan said, looking back at Gilbert. "Please, Herr Commandant, I do not want him to die. I can't keep him alive myself."
"Man viskas bus gerai. Aš stiprus," he heard Toris mumble, the man sounding much worse than Gilbert imagined.
"Jūs esate labai stipri. Žinoma jums bus gerai, vaikeli," Ivan said in a soft voice, stroking Toris' hair. "He is delirious," he explained to Gilbert without taking his eyes off of Toris. "Cannot speak Russian anymore. I am not asking for much, sir. I just want help."
Gilbert couldn't answer. On one hand, helping Ivan could get Gilbert the information he needed for Roderich's arrest. And on the other, he could be shot for helping a Soviet. He didn't have any idea where his loyalties lied – with the Reich or with Ivan?
Toris cried out something in his native tongue, grabbing Ivan's shirt and pulling him close. The man held Toris to his chest, stroking his hair and saying calm words as Toris kept screaming, his sentences blurring into a mess of sounds and sobs.
"What's he saying?" Gilbert asked, taking a few steps forward. He'd never seen Toris so desperate for help, or for anything. Truthfully, he'd never seen the man cry before.
"It hurts," Ivan translated, his words as frantic as Toris'. "It hurts so bad. Please, sir, do something. Help me. They must be coming for me again and making me hurt. They know they made a mistake. I'm going to Auschwitz. They're going to hurt me and torture me and make me suffer. Not again, not again, not again."
"What is he going off about?"
"They tortured him, sir. When the Nazis captured him, they did so many horrible things to him. Worse than what you think I've done to him. Much worse things. Because he wouldn't speak, they tried to send him to Auschwitz. And then he told them everything," Ivan said. "He must think they're coming back for him."
"I'll…I'll get him in," Gilbert said abruptly. "Don't tell me anymore. I don't want to hear it."
He didn't know why he agreed to it. Getting a Soviet into the Wolfsburg hospital could be lethal, and Gilbert wasn't prepared to die. But some part of him, some horrible, wretched part, felt bad for Ivan and Toris. He'd never felt sympathy for an Untermensch before; it felt wrong and sort of good and certainly illegal. He couldn't help it, though, not after hearing Toris' rant. Gilbert knew of the Auschwitz incident – it was nothing more than a footnote in Toris' papers. He'd never heard of the prelude to the Auschwitz threat, and he didn't want to hear any more.
"Are you serious?" Ivan asked, doubting Gilbert's sudden cooperation. Who wouldn't?
"Yes. I promise."
"Ar girdėjai, kad mažylis? Jūs ketinate būti bauda. Jie atsižvelgiant jus į ligoninę," Ivan said with a smile.
"Aš nenoriu eiti. Ne be tavęs. Jie mane ir man atsiųsti atgal į stovyklą, kankinti mane ir daryti eksperimentus ir mane nužudyti su jų poilsio."
"He says he doesn't want to go without me," Ivan said, wiping at Toris' tears with his sleeve.
"Then I'll get you in somehow," Gilbert said. "Now, about the questions. Where was Roderich's father really born?"
Ivan smile faded into a frown, his eyebrows furrowed together. "I can't answer that one. His father wanted me dead, never told me anything. I can tell you that he fought in the Great War, in the 27th regiment. Some mountain regiment."
"You better hope to your Russian god that you're not lying," Gilbert said. "I will take that as an answer, though. And what is von Wolffe's real last name?"
"As far as I can remember, it was von Wolffe. There was one night, though, that we couldn't sleep. So the two of us went downstairs and heard his father talking about someone named 'Edelstein'. He went on to talk about someone else and how lucky they were that they got their name changed before someone found out."
That was all Gilbert needed to hear.
"Get Toris up. I'm taking you two to the hospital, now. Don't say anything to anyone. Do not say one word. You two are German for today. I am sending a twenty-four-hour guard with you as well, so do not try to escape," Gilbert said without a hint of emotion, already imagining von Wolffe's arrest. And Elizabeta said he had nothing to hide.
She couldn't have been more wrong.
Roderich hung the phone back up on its hook, going over to the cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of scotch and a shot glass from his liquor cabinet, taking a quick glance at the clock. Was 9:47 a.m. too early to be drunk? By most men's standards, the answer would be yes. Only, they weren't working for Goebbels and had to finish a propaganda piece in a week. So he figured Goebbels' phone call evened out the playing field.
He twisted the cap from the bottle, watching it fall to the scratched floor. Not that he would bother to pick it up. Alcohol was gone too fast in his house – the half-empty bottle of scotch would be empty by the end of the day. And then again, he never bothered to clean anything up. Elizabeta had always been the one to keep the house in perfect order, and once she left, Roderich gave up. Everything was in a sort of chaotic organization, disastrous to the rest of the world and perfect to him. Roderich left everything where he could find it, even if it wasn't its "place."
Which meant he didn't put anything away.
Roderich poured himself a shot, wiping the scotch that spilled over the rim away with his sleeve. It was one of those mornings where he didn't care about his appearance, still in the white shirt from the day before and boxers. And he was almost sure scotch didn't stain, so what did it matter?
"Hey, Roderich!" a voice shouted from outside, accompanied by a few knocks on the door. "You awake yet?"
It took Roderich a second to recognize Mathias' voice – what was the man doing at his house? Roderich figured whatever Mathias had to tell him couldn't be good, so he quickly downed the shot and grabbed a pair of pants from a laundry basket he'd left to trip over on the stairs. With all the grace of the drunk he was, Roderich somehow pulled on the pants and got to the door.
"Ha! Look at that, he just rolled out of bed. Pay up," Mathias said as Roderich opened the door, elbowing Basch. Roderich couldn't decide what to be more concerned about; the fact that Basch and Mathias showed up at his doorstep at nearly ten in the morning or that they brought Natalya and Francis with them.
"He always looks like that," Basch snapped, shifting the weight of a box under his arm. "How long have you been awake?"
"And a Guten Morgen to you. What are you doing?" Roderich asked. He didn't think Basch knew where his house was, let alone Mathias and Natalya. Had Francis led them on their quest to make Roderich miserable?
"We need to talk, mon cher," Francis explained over Mathias and Basch's fight. "And Basch's house is not safe anymore. His neighbours are very suspicious of you and Natalya coming over so often. We worry they might call the Gestapo. And your house is safer than any of ours."
"You do realize that Ludwig lives a few streets down, right? And he's prone to stopping by my house for no reason?"
"Well, ja," Mathias said, shoving a handful of bills into his pocket. "So if he comes over, we'll make up a lie. Simple as that."
"Or we could kill him," Natalya suggested.
"Um, let's not do that," Roderich said, holding open the door for them. "Sorry I didn't clean up or anything," he apologized after Natalya came inside, locking the door behind him. "I wasn't expecting company for the next twenty or so years. And you showed up rather unexpectedly."
"I couldn't call you, not with the Gestapo watching your phone line," Basch said as he set the box down on the kitchen table. "So this is your home, huh? I would've expected it to be a bit cleaner, considering how damn strict you are." He paused for a second, looking around the room. Roderich already knew Basch was picking out all the wrong details and preparing a lecture.
"Have you already been drinking?" Natalya asked, going over to the scotch on the countertop. She picked up the bottle, looking over the label. Her eyes lit up for a second; hopefully not a sign of an idea.
"I had time for one shot before you…" Roderich faltered, helplessly watching as Natalya emptied the bottle into the sink. There went a week's worth of pay he'd never get back, never mind the scotch.
"You are done being a drunk," she said, putting the empty bottle back on the countertop. "This is what you would call an intervention."
"Partially an intervention," Francis corrected.
"It's still an intervention."
"Can you intervene without wasting my alcohol?" Roderich growled, getting in between Natalya and the cabinet where the rest of the liquor was. "I worked for that, you know. More than you will ever work."
"Whatever. Natalya, sit down. Roderich, get your ass over here," Basch said, motioning for the two to join them at the table. Roderich had no choice to resist, as Basch wasn't in a tolerating mood and wasn't going to put up with any arguments. He watched as the man pushed aside sheet music and half-finished pieces, flinching as a few fluttered to the floor.
Basch looked over at Francis expectantly; Francis pulled a little tin from his pocket. He took five white pills from inside, handing them to everyone at the table.
"Welcome to Team Wolf of Operation Edelweiss. This is cyanide," Basch said, holding up the pill. "We've never had to use it before. Surprise, this operation is dangerous. If you are caught in a position where there is no way of escaping, I expect you to kill yourself. I will do the same. Keep this pill with you at all times, especially when you think you're safe. Are we clear?"
Roderich couldn't bring himself to do anything more than nod.
"Good." Basch reached into the box on the table, removing two books. He gave one to Natalya, pushing a weathered copy of Mein Kampf towards Roderich. "Those," he said, gesturing to the book in Roderich's hands, "Are going to be your lifeline for who knows how long. Every mission you are part of will depend on those books. Lose them and I will be forcing the cyanide down your throats. Any questions?"
"Why does mine say Atrocities of the Soviets?" Natalya asked as she held up the bruised book, her almost-frown threatening to slip into a full scowl.
"Irony, dear," Francis said with a smile.
"Next time you do something ironic, you're going to find my foot up your ass."
"And we're already starting on a good note," Basch muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, memorize those books. Do not share anything you read in them with anyone outside of us five. We are the only ones who know about this operation, and I want to make sure it stays that way. I haven't told Lilli, and I'm sure Mathias hasn't told Lukas."
"Not a word," Mathias said proudly – he was well known for not being able to keep a secret for more than two seconds.
"We are about to start the largest resistance movement in history," Basch said, his voice laced with excitement and fear. "So far, there are four teams. Team Valkyrie in Germany, Team Varpulis in Czechoslovakia, and Team Weles in Poland. Together, we may very well bring down the Reich or get hundreds of people killed. It's risky, considering most of our success rides on an alcoholic."
"You can't mean me," Roderich said after a long pause.
"We're riding a lot of this plan on you, Roddy. You've got to stop drinking, get real comfortable with Natalya and Ludwig, and kill a few Nazis indirectly," Mathias said, putting a hand on Roderich's shoulder. "It's a lot to take on. I think you can do it. Considering what you go through every day, Operation Edelweiss won't be a problem."
"You're almost the leader in this, Roderich. Which is why we named ourselves Team Wolf. Everyone else goes about their semi-normal lives, and you have to be more than you already are." Basch took Mein Kampf from Roderich's hands, opening it to a certain page. Instead of the usual anti-Semitic rantings, someone had painted over the pages and written in delicate cursive. Individual measures of music were scrawled beside the margin, cursive explaining what each one meant.
"You are going to be both our communicator and distractor. When we have a wide-scale attack, you will add one of these passages to your piece," Basch said, giving the book back to Roderich. "Each team has a music freak like you, someone who understands it a hell of a lot better than any of us do. They'll be able to decode it from whatever propaganda they're putting on the radio and act accordingly."
"And you're positive no one else has these codes?" Roderich asked, gently closing the book. He turned it over so Hitler's face was hidden from sight; he'd always found something about the man unsettling.
"Positive."
"Now for the fun part," Mathias said. "This operation's going to bring in a ton of families who need to get to Switzerland. We're actually getting people out of ghettos. And we're going to bring them through this area. The problem is, we've got two Gestapo men who patrol here on a regular basis."
"Those two are very interested in you when you're drunk, no?" Francis asked, twisting a blond curl around his finger.
"One of them blatantly offered to drink with me. I'd call them desperate," Roderich answered.
"Alright, that's perfect. What we want you to do is take up their offers whenever we need you to. How much can you drink and stay relatively sober?" Mathias asked.
"Maybe like, five beers? Six on a good night?"
"Well, congratulations, Roderich, you're now officially a lightweight," Mathias said. "You've got to pretend to lose it at around five. I mean, we want you to act pass-out and kiss a stranger drunk. Give whoever you're drinking with a bunch of bullshit until we the time that we tell you, maybe longer if something goes wrong. If you want to have some real fun with it, tell them unimportant details from your childhood. As long as you don't flat out tell them you're a Jew, I think anything'll go."
"And Roderich, we'd like you to meet your new Parisian girlfriend." Francis pulled a stack of papers from the box, handing them over to Roderich. "Adeline Beaulieu, from the heart of Paris," he said, gesturing to Natalya. "You found her when you had that concert in Paris and kept her secret for months. Very romantic, cliché lovers. Everything you should know about her is in those papers; memorize them and then burn them. Adeline is going to accompany you on a few of your performances. We'll get you two a hotel room and –"
"I am not doing anything more with that man than I have to," Natalya growled. "He's a divorced man probably dying for some sort of action again. I'd rather cut out my own heart than get any more romantic with him."
"And you think you're any better? You've tried to kill me at least twice in one day," Roderich said, hiding his red face with his hands. "I may be desperate, but I'm not so desperate as to look to someone like you for love."
"Keep telling yourself that. I have a good idea as to what you're planning on doing."
"Why did you choose me to be with this woman? Better yet, why me for this whole damn plan?" Roderich asked, wishing he'd never got mixed up with any of them.
"Because you're so painfully unbelievable it just might work," Basch said.
"Painfully?"
"I may trust you, however, that doesn't mean I like you. Even thinking about you hurts," Basch explained with a smile. "Anyway, think about yourself. You're an alcoholic and divorced Jewish composer who works for Hitler and is part of the resistance. And you've got Gestapo connections. If you weren't you and I told you that, you'd think it was a joke, right? You've got so much going wrong for you that this is bound to go right."
"That and you're Hitler's friend and can't get arrested," Mathias added. "Not to ruin the moment or anything."
Traitor.
Ivan dug his fingers into his arm.
Traitor.
He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.
Traitor.
"Hold on a second, Luddy. Braginsky, are you alright? You look like you're going to pass out."
Gilbert's voice snapped Ivan out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the dimly lit office. He offered a sheepish smile as an answer, looking back down at his dirty boots. How many more hours would he be stuck in the office, listening as Gilbert talked to his brother about Roderich? How many more times would he be reminded that he was Roderich's Judas, his sell-out? How many more times would he curse himself and wish he'd never agreed to the plan because Toris was as good as dead anyway?
"If you're going to pass out, do it somewhere else…What? Oh, I was talking to Braginsky. Ja, ja, send me those," he heard Gilbert say, his words ecstatic for so late at night. "I'll take the pictures, too."
Ivan didn't mean to hand over everything about Roderich to the commandant. He hadn't meant to do anything more than help Toris. And now Toris had been sent to a hospital several towns over, the doctors telling Gilbert there was little they could do to save him. It was too late. Ivan was always too late. Too late to get off the train, too late to leave, too late to save Toris, too late to see he'd ruined Roderich von Wolffe.
They'd sent Ivan away from the Wolfsburg hospital with nothing more than a false promise and broken heart. Before he left, Ivan held Toris and whispered to him in soft Lithuanian, kissed his forehead and assured him for the thousandth time that day that everything was going to be fine. He had to be dragged away from Toris by the guard, Ivan knowing it was the last time he was going to see him. As if that didn't sting enough, the guard took a sobbing Ivan to the commandant's office and told him Gilbert wanted his help. For hours he'd cried in Gilbert's office, listening on as the world fell apart.
"You're the best, Luddy. Don't know what I'd do without you…Ja, I probably would be dead. So I'll see you tomorrow?"
Gilbert's brotherly rambling faded into white noise, the same white noise Ivan had heard for years. The white noise of pain and suffering, of death and laughter, sickness and hatred. Everything blurred into nothing.
"Auf Wiedersehen," Gilbert said, hanging the phone up. He kept quiet for a moment, looking over the sorry being in front of him. "I'm putting you in solitary confinement tonight. Not for punishment – I don't want to raise any suspicions in your barrack. I may have you moved back to Barrack Two, along with everyone else. You and your accomplices don't seem to be handling the separation very well."
Ivan didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to. How could he go back to Barrack Two if Toris wasn't there?
"Listen, I get that you're torn up about Toris right now, but you need to get over it."
"Get over it?" Ivan choked, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Get over his death? Toris is dying, sir. The only person who's ever cared about me is dying. The only person who bothered to learn my real name. He actually cared. And I'm supposed to forget any of this ever happened? I'm supposed to get over the fact that I'm losing the one person I had left? I'm supposed to accept that I sold out my own brother for Toris and he's going to die?"
"People are disposable, Braginsky. Maybe Toris wasn't meant to be the person he was," Gilbert said so calmly it hurt. He had no idea what hells Ivan had wandered through, how Toris was the saving grace in his mad world.
"He is. He is supposed to be with me until the very end. And if this is his end, then it must be my end."
"Oh, God, we're not going back to this suicidal phase, are we?" Gilbert asked, holding his head. "Grow up –"
"You grow up! You get out of this 'I hate Soviets' phase. That's why you're telling me to get over him, isn't it?" Ivan said, his voice a trembling, cracking mess. "He's a Soviet. You could care less about his feelings. You could care less about mine. At least I'm not some brainwashed Nazi, I'm not another damn brick in Adolf Hitler's wall. I know a human when I see one, and you certainly aren't one, sir."
Gilbert smiled. "I was always told the opposite. You aren't the human."
"I'm an animal. A gay, sex crazed demon. Absolutely disgusting. Toris is not like me. He's a person. He is a man with feelings and thoughts and so much more than you'll ever have. Would it hurt you to be concerned about him?"
"Why should I be concerned about another dead man? Why should I waste my time on one more corpse?"
"Because he wastes his time on everyone else. He took care of you when he came here; for God's sake, he taught you Russian!" Ivan snarled, clenching his hands into tight fists. "He didn't care that you were the enemy. Toris adopted Raivis, kept everyone from ripping each other apart, and stopped me from doing anything rash. So if you could pretend to care about him, that would be wonderful!"
"What can I do? He's dying, Ivan. I can't undo something like that. Sympathy won't save his life," Gilbert said. "I want him to be alright, I truly do. The difference between you and myself is that I can see when something cannot be fixed. Try to move on as fast as you can, and then it won't hurt so bad. If you linger on something like death for so long, you'll never forget. And trust me, it's better to forget than to remember."
"What would you know about death?"
"My mother died when I was ten. Ludwig's still hung up on it, I can tell. Me, I moved on faster than I should've. Father's dying, too. Hell, I've almost died a good twenty times in my life. Death's something you got to work around. It happens all the time, and there isn't much good crying over it. It's better to look heartless than to suffer for the rest of your life."
"Is that what you Nazis think now, that being heartless is respected?" Ivan asked. "You think people will see you as stronger because you don't care about people's emotions? You think the Reich will like you because you're going to such lengths to cut down Roderich and make my people feel like animals?"
"No one likes me, including the Reich. I am a lone wolf, and always will be. Elizabeta? I don't have any idea how long she's going to stay. No matter what I do, it will not make someone like me," he said with such an air of confidence it hurt. "Hunting down Roderich's past is merely revenge. He hurt Elizabeta, and I'm going to return the favour."
"He never hurt anyone. You're the one hurting people."
Gilbert shook his head, making Ivan feel like a child again. "He hurt her in the worst way possible. He forgot about Elizabeta. The Führer put so much work on him that he didn't have time for his wife, or so he says. I've always thought there was something else; a dark secret, another woman. The only thing Elizabeta wanted to do was have a life with Roderich, and he wouldn't give that to her. Which is why she came to me."
"Maybe you're wrong," Ivan said. "What if she was the problem? I can't ever see Roderich mistreating someone like Elizabeta."
"You could very well be right. But I wouldn't go against my wife, no matter what. Even if she killed someone, I'd stay by her side until the end. And the only place I see Roderich is with a gun to his head." Gilbert grabbed a stack of papers, shoving them into an envelope. "Which he soon will be. Thanks to what you told me this morning and what I got out of you tonight."
"What did you get out of me?"
Gilbert got up from his desk, his grin cold and mocking. "You're weak, Braginsky. I can get to you so easily when you're torn up like this. I didn't want to use you, and you made me," he said. "I do care about you, though. To be honest, when I saw you today with those Soviets…it didn't look right. I don't want see you with them."
"Where do you want me to be, then? Locked up?" Ivan asked, feeling the tears come back to his eyes. He hated crying in front of Gilbert; he didn't want to seem so fragile.
"I want you to be happy. Although you annoy the shit out of me, I kind of like you," Gilbert said. "Never mind that. I like you, a lot. Without you, I'd probably be the same person I was after the accident. You put some kind of fire back into me when you made me mad. Maybe we're good for each other."
"Maybe."
"Can I trust you in here alone for a few minutes while I go get a guard?" Gilbert asked. "There's no use trying to steal something."
Ivan nodded, wiping at his eyes yet again.
The minute Gilbert was out of earshot, he broke down into hysterics.
"So this is how you write music?" Basch asked, blatantly ignoring how many times Roderich had told him to shut up. Roderich didn't bother to answer his question, tying a quarter note to an eighth and moving on to the next measure. Giving Basch a reply gave him some sort of satisfaction, something no one had any interest in giving the man.
"It looks weird," Basch continued. "Are you sure that's going to sound alright?"
"What do you care?" Roderich immediately cursed himself for saying something, scratching an angry looking sixteenth note into the page.
"Uh, this piece is going to bring on the ruin of an empire? It should be absolutely perfect."
"Maybe it won't be," Roderich said. "Perfect is boring. Imperfect is what makes an interesting piece."
"Are you trying to get philosophical with me?" Basch asked, leaning over for a closer look at Roderich's work. He put his finger beside a half note, looking up at Roderich. "You wrote that one wrong."
"And since when did you know anything about music?" Roderich growled as he pulled his composition book away from Basch. He nearly screamed when he saw the smudged ink; he would've if Lilli wasn't sleeping in the next room. Roderich quickly scribbled over the smudged note, writing in a new note next to it.
"I've seen enough of your music to recognize when you've done something wrong," Basch said. "And that was wrong. The loop didn't quite connect."
"Heaven forbid something like that happen," Roderich muttered under his breath, pulling the codebook closer so he could read the measures he was supposed to fit in. He found the measures for Valkyrie, bomb, train, 25, and Hamburg – on Christmas morning, Team Valkyrie was going to bomb a train full of munitions passing through Hamburg. "You aren't a composer and never will be, so don't tell me what to do."
"Who says I'll never be a composer? I composed those music things in your codebook."
"They're called measures. And you told me an hour ago you copied these down from scraps of my sheet music I'd left here. That's anything but composing."
"I wrote the little dots on a page," Basch said, putting his finger over a bar. "See that? I composed that."
"You copied it from work I'd already done," Roderich corrected, pushing his hand aside.
To say Roderich was regretting coming to Basch for help was an extreme understatement. He didn't say much when Lilli was awake, keeping quiet and working on some plans for something. However, the minute Lilli went back to her bedroom, all hell broke loose. Basch wouldn't stop interrupting Roderich's work, sitting beside him and correcting every minute detail. How did he ever expect Roderich to stop drinking?
"Alright, so maybe I'm no Beethoven," Basch said. "You got the fun talents. I only know how to put a gun back together and blow up a bridge."
"Are you looking for sympathy?" Roderich asked, putting in the train measure. Basch was right for once; the measures didn't work well together at all.
"No, not sympathy. I wish I had what you had. Maybe I'd be somewhere better than this shit hole of a city."
"You are really talkative tonight," Roderich said, not bothering to hide his frustration. "Did you get into the vodka I have here?"
"Please, I'd rather talk to Ludwig for an evening than become an alcoholic like you. And I'm doing this to piss you off. Which seems to be working."
"Getting drunk once doesn't necessarily make you an alcoholic," Roderich reminded him, drawing a lazy fermata; it was more of a blotch than a bird's eye. "I've met plenty of people who've been drunk and I would never consider them anything like me."
"Like who?" Basch asked, making Roderich think of a young girl asking about her friend's crush. Didn't a grown man have anything better to do?
"You cannot tell anyone I said any of this," Roderich said, his words lost to the howling winds outside. "Goebbels and Heydrich are always one of the first to get drunk at parties. I did see Himmler drunk, only once. That was interesting, to say the least. Told me about his mistress and shouted something along the lines, 'my wife's such an ugly bitch' at the top of his lungs."
"You have any pictures?"
"What, were you going to blackmail Himmler like you've blackmailed me into this?" Roderich asked. "I don't think he'd join as easily as I did."
Basch almost laughed for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "You say that as if you had a choice. Hell, I forced you into everything. Although, Francis suggested you become part of the Angels. It was my idea to put you in Operation Edelweiss."
"And what a wonderful idea it was."
"Ja, it really was good on my part," Basch said. He either wasn't good at picking up on sarcasm or was ignoring Roderich again. "You're just…Roderich. You're too much for one man, which is why you're perfect. No one would ever suspect you. And by the way, I want you to go out painting with Lilli tomorrow."
"You mean I still have to be part of the Angels?" Roderich asked as he put down a crescendo – the piece was so close to being finished, and it had to end perfectly.
"Why wouldn't you be?"
Roderich glanced over at Basch. "You wouldn't want to keep me far from trouble?"
"Listen, one of our best agents got arrested last week. We need all the help we can get, and you're capable of helping. So you're going to go paint, whether you like it or not. I'm not letting Lilli go out on her own."
"Why doesn't Francis take her?"
"Why do you ask so many questions if you're such a genius?" Basch mocked. "Francis is scared to do anything because of the Gestapo break in. He's laying low right now."
"Maybe next time, don't break into Gestapo Headquarters. But that's my suggestion."
"A shit suggestion –"
Basch was interrupted by the wail of an air raid siren. A low, haunting scream, slowly got louder as planes rumbled in the distance. There hadn't been an air raid since September – Roderich had nearly forgotten the way the sirens made everything stop for a second. Even the normally loud house went silent as Basch got up from his chair, going over to the kitchen window.
"They're on the other side of the city," he said with a frown, looking back at Roderich. "There's no fun in that."
"What do you mean, fun?" Roderich asked, slamming his composition book closed. Possible death by an air raid wasn't the way he wanted to end his story, at least not with Basch. "Shouldn't we be, you know, going to a bomb shelter?"
Before Basch could answer, the door to the bedroom was thrown open, Lilli running over to Basch. She put her arms around his waist, holding on to him like they were about to be separated forever. Basch whispered something, prying the girl from him. Lilli shook her head, her long golden braids swaying back and forth.
"Come on, I'll show you it's alright," Basch said loud enough for Roderich to hear, taking Lilli's hand in his. "Come outside with me. You too, von Wolffe."
"No!" Lilli tore Basch's hand from hers, backing away from him. "I don't want you to play that game again!"
"It's not a game. And trust me, I'll be fine. You'd be fine if you played it with me." Basch propped open the front door, looking out at the skyline. Between the roofs of run-down houses, searchlights scanned the sky and occasional bursts of orange and white lit up the horizon. And yet, Basch was so relaxed about everything.
"Please, Herr von Wolffe," Lilli said, going to Roderich. "Make him listen. I don't care if we stay at the house, just don't let him play his game."
"Basch, whatever you're going to do, don't," Roderich growled, glaring daggers at the man. Basch shrugged, sauntering out to his front yard without a care in the currently mortifying world.
"Oh, no. No, no, no." Lilli grabbed the edges of her nightgown, clutching the silky fabric in tight fists. "He's going to do it, he's going to die, this is it, this is it, this is it."
"Surely it can't be that –"
"Go look for yourself and tell me if it's all that bad!" Lilli pointed out the open door, her hand trembling. "He's going to die tonight, I know it!"
Roderich went over to the open door, partially curious as to what Basch was doing and mostly intending on stopping the brat. He hated to see Lilli being hurt in any way; shouldn't Basch be the same? Did he not see how scared he made the poor girl with the game?
Basch was standing out in the middle of the street, his head tilted towards the sky. He looked over at Roderich standing in the doorway, a smile spreading across his face. "Do you want to try?" he shouted, waving at Roderich like a madman.
"What are you doing?!" Roderich could see why Lilli was so disturbed by the game – it made Basch look like he'd lost it.
"Testing fate!"
"He'll stand there until the air raid is over," Lilli said, keeping her back to Basch. "Sometimes he'll yell at the planes to kill him. One of these days, someone is going to shoot him down. Don't do it, Herr von Wolffe. Please don't do it."
"Stop being a baby and get over here!" Basch's eyes went back up to the sky as another explosion rumbled the earth, his shoulders thrown back and head held high.
He looked so strong. Roderich cursed himself for thinking it, but Basch looked brave and courageous and unafraid of anything the universe had to throw at him. Basch was just a man standing in the middle of the street with the stupidest grin Roderich had seen in a long time – and yet, he was a hero. A fearless hero, standing up to the Brits. Asking for them to kill him.
And only then did Roderich realize what Basch was truly doing.
He was letting all control go for a moment, a sliver of his lifetime. Letting life pull at the strings again and doing nothing to interfere. Basch wasn't letting fear and faith hold him back, instead trusting that fate wouldn't lead him astray.
Roderich stepped away from the doorway, walking slowly across the snowy front yard. Lilli shouted something; it fell on deaf ears. Basch glanced over at him, not saying anything and holding out his hand. When Roderich made it to the street, he took Basch's hand, the man's cold finger's curling around his.
"This is what it feels like to be helpless," Basch said, his words forming frothy clouds. "We can't control anything right now. It's you, me, and destiny. And I love it."
"You're insane," Roderich shot back, looking up at the starry sky. It was oddly beautiful in the midst of the chaos, stars and a few planets dusted across the heavens. A bright spot in the horribly dark world. As air raid sirens howled in the distance and blasts from bombs shook the ground and flak guns tore through the clouds, the sky was as gorgeous as ever.
"That would make you insane, too."
"You're the one holding my hand."
Basch let a small laugh slip through his fearless façade. "I'm scared. And I'm making sure you stay here. If we die, we'll die together."
"How nice," Roderich said. "You care about me so much it almost makes me want to care about you."
"Don't get your hopes up, lover boy. I'm saying that if I'm going to die, it won't be alone. I don't want to be alone in whatever comes next. At least you'll provide some entertainment."
"Way to be positive."
"We're all aware that I'm going to die soon, being who I am," Basch said. "I set up Operation Edelweiss so that I have almost no part in it. If I get caught or something, the rest of you have to continue. They can't trace the Angels to Edelweiss, I made sure of it. You have to carry on with this plan until the war ends and the Reich is buried deep in history." He clenched Roderich's hand tighter. "We've got to win. We've got to win this one."
"For once, I agree with you. If we don't win, I'm going to be stuck with Hitler forever. That or something will slip through and I'll die," Roderich said quietly, still a bit overwhelmed by the power of being helpless. It was so much fiercer than anything he'd ever felt before, crushing and choking and making Roderich feel horribly lonely. He wasn't sure whether to be afraid or laugh or cry out for a British bomber to end everything.
"And everyone would hate to hear about your death. Hey, if something happens to me, can you promise me something?"
Roderich sighed, keeping his eyes on the stars. It was so much to take in for a man who was too much. "What is it?"
"Nothing big. Just…if I disappear, will you take care of Lilli for me? Francis, he doesn't need an extra person around with the work he's doing. But you, you have an empty house. Hide her for me. Keep her safe until the end of this damn war. Keep her safe until we win. If I lost that kid, I'd never forgive myself. She deserves to live."
"I promise I'll take care of her."
"Thank you," Basch whispered. "Thank you so much."
History notes:
Soviet mistreatment – All Soviets were considered Untermensch, no matter what rank. Because of their supposed "impurity" and their refusal to ratify the Geneva Convention, Germans treated the prisoners any way they felt necessary. Stalag XVIII-A was one of the more generous camps; some Soviet prisoners were housed in open fields or huge shelters without walls. They could legally be shot for anything. When Soviet prisoners were taken, they were screened for certain attributes – say, if they were Jewish. The ones who failed the screenings were taken to concentration camps or secluded areas and shot. A Soviet soldier was lucky to make it into a stalag, as they were commonly sent to Auschwitz, Mauthausen, or Bergen-Belsen.
The team names – Valkyrie: an Old Norse female figure who brought slain heroes to Valhalla. Varpulis: the god of storm winds from Bohemia. Weles: the Slavic god of earth, forests, water, and the underworld.
Heydrich: Reinhard Heydrich was one of the key orchestrators of the Holocaust. Bascially Himmler's right-hand man, he helped organize things like the Wannasee Conference (where they finalized the plans for the Final Solution) Kristallnacht, and the SD, whose primary purpose was to seek out people against the Nazis and silence them.
Translations:
Man viskas bus gerai. Aš stiprus – I am strong. I'll be fine.
Jūs esate labai stipri. Žinoma jums bus gerai, vaikeli – You are very strong. Of course you'll be fine, little one.
Ar girdėjai, kad mažylis? Jūs ketinate būti bauda. Jie atsižvelgiant jus į ligoninę – Did you hear that, little one? You're going to be fine. They're taking you to the hospital.
Aš nenoriu eiti. Ne be tavęs. Jie mane ir man atsiųsti atgal į stovyklą, kankinti mane ir daryti eksperimentus ir mane nužudyti su jų poilsio – I don't want to go. Not without you. They'll take me away and send me to a camp, torture me and do experiments and then kill me with the rest of them.
Thank you to Forbidden Tomatoes, EllaAwkward, twinklefarts, Shokoko, and Comix and Co! I love that I'm seeing some new usernames!
See you all next chapter!