"Elizabeta?"
The two froze, staring at each other like panicked deer. Ivan slipped the bottle of iodine into his duffel bag among other odd medical supplies, stumbling backwards. Gilbert reached for something Ivan couldn't see, a hint of metal gleaming in the dreary moonlight. Whether it was a knife or gun, Ivan didn't care to stick around and find out. If he could get to the door before Gilbert could put a bullet through his skull, he might have a chance of –
Gilbert flicked the lights on.
Now Ivan knew it was a knife in his hands, a rusty hunting knife with unsettling stains and a serrated edge that would have no problem ripping him open. It had probably been stabbed through Polish soldiers and Jews back east, well accustomed to tearing apart Slavs and Untermensch. Ivan scanned the room for a weapon within reaching distance, coming up with nothing more than a book. And it wasn't even a good book, some flimsy German propaganda thing Gilbert was probably required to read and didn't.
"…You're not Elizabeta," Gilbert said like it was surprising, blinking a few times.
"Uh, no, I'm not. Would you believe me if I said this was a dream?" Ivan asked all too hopefully as he took another scared step towards the door. He ran his hand along the wall, fumbling for the doorknob without breaking eye contact with the man. One glance could give Gilbert the time he needed.
Gilbert held up the knife in response. "Where's. My. Wife?" The Prussian enunciated every word with a jab of the giant knife towards Ivan.
"I promise there is nothing like what you're thinking of –"
"Oh, no, Elizabeta couldn't possibly be dumb enough to think of getting with a disgusting Red like you," Gilbert said, starting the slow stalk towards Ivan. One step closer. Two steps. Three; he was within striking distance, close enough to put the knife deep into Ivan's chest. "But there are plenty of other reasons she'd be with you. Bribery, escape, kidnapping and ransoms, that sort of thing. And considering what your soldiers do to the women out in Poland, I wouldn't be surprised if you had her tied up somewhere."
"I am not at all like them," Ivan said, backing away from the blade. "I have my dignity. I would never, not ever stoop so low as to be a rapist. And trust me, Elizabeta isn't in danger."
"So you're implying that she is with you?" Gilbert's words filled with a new anger, a new hatred and betrayal and absolute disgust. He lunged for Ivan, holding the knife up under the man's chin. Ivan pressed himself back into the corner, suddenly wishing he'd taken the propaganda book. At least he could dull the attack for a moment before he bled out on the floor.
"Yes and no and really, it's nothing like what you're thinking!" Ivan held up a hand in a show of innocence, the other one clenched tight around the doorknob. He needed a chance, a quick diversion to give him the opportunity to run.
"Where is she, then?" Gilbert pushed the tip of the blade into Ivan's vulnerable flesh. "Because she sure as hell isn't in bed with me or where she should be."
"I assure you, Herr Commandant, she's fine."
Gilbert narrowed his garnet eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I know you, Ivan Braginsky. I know you so damn well. And you expect me to believe that? You expect me to believe that Elizabeta is fine down there with you in solit..." His voice faded away as the puzzle pieces snapped together and he saw the whole picture. "You're…You're supposed to be locked up in solitary confinement, aren't you?" he stammered, pale eyebrows furrowed together. "Who let you out? And the guard, what did you do with him?"
"Will you kill me if I answer you?" Ivan asked, pushing the knife away from his throat. Gilbert's hand dropped to his side, his knuckles turning white.
"No, no. She didn't let you out. She wouldn't do that," Gilbert muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. "Elizabeta wouldn't do that to me. Why wouldn't she tell me something like that? There's something more than that going on, isn't there?"
Ivan wasn't going to let his one shot at escape slip through his fingers.
He threw the door open and ran.
The winds bit into his ever thinning coat, sharp flecks of ice scratching up his hands and face. Somewhere behind him, Gilbert shouted something. And then a guard shouted something. More shouts, more dogs barking, more escape sirens. The searchlights flooded the grounds, washing over Ivan in pale white. Did Gilbert shout something about shooting to kill? Ivan couldn't make it out through the howling wind; all he could do was pray that the guards were feeling merciful.
He crawled under the razor wire fence that surrounded solitary confinement, flinching at the report of a high-power rifle he knew was aimed right at his heart. Ivan wrestled his bag through the gap in the fence, scrambling to his feet. Stumbling through the snow drifts, he made it to the back door and slipped quietly inside.
"Ivan!" Gilbert snarled from an adjoining hallway – he'd already gotten through the front gate? Ivan didn't bother to wait for the man, taking the stairs down to solitary confinement two at a time. He could see the gloomy hallway coming closer and closer, until he could just about –
The last step came quicker than he thought, Ivan completely missing it and falling flat on his face. Something cracked that probably wasn't supposed to crack. The world went blurry for a moment. Something shattered. A voice growled a command, there was a loud jawohl, and then footsteps faded out of the room.
"Get up," Gilbert snarled with a sharp kick to Ivan's ribs. He dragged himself upright, wondering why there was a wet splotch on the side of his coat. Ivan didn't think he was bleeding yet. And the canvas of his bag was darker on one side than the other.
"Oh, no, no, no." Ivan ripped the bag open in an instant, throwing things out and praying what shattered wasn't what he thought it was. He nearly got the morphine syringe stuck in his hand as he pulled out a broken bottle, iodine spilling over his hands and down to the stone floor.
"Ivan!" A strong hand grabbed the back of the man's coat, cold fingers curling around the pink scarf. A mechanical click rang out in the hall.
"Herr Commandant, please, let me go," Ivan choked, cupping what was left of the iodine in his hands. "I'll do anything, just let me go."
"Where the hell is Elizabeta?" Gilbert ground his heel into Ivan's back, demanding the honest answer.
"Here. With me, in my cell."
Gilbert let go of Ivan, shifting his pistol to his other hand. The man leaned forward, plucking the remains of the iodine bottle from his hands. "And what are you doing with this?" he asked. "Iodine, huh?" He glanced down at Ivan before spilling the rest of the dirty liquid out onto the floor.
Ivan watched the murky stream run between the cracks, his hopes vanishing with it. Gilbert threw the half-bottle down, broken glass skittering across the stones. For once, Ivan didn't try to fight back. He sat there, his mind scattered like the broken bottle.
"Take me to Elizabeta," Gilbert snarled, nudging Ivan with the barrel of his pistol. Ivan nodded, gathering up the rest of his soaked bandages and rags.
"Oh, Ivan, thank God…" Elizabeta's voice cut short as Ivan came into the cell. She gaped at the pale ghost behind him, putting a protective arm over the figure on the cot. The colonel pulled the gun away from the back of Ivan's head, shutting the door.
"What's going on?" Gilbert asked in a quiet, scared voice. "That's not a corpse, is it?" He gestured to the tangled mess of sheets stretched out on the cot with his pistol, taking a step away.
Ivan didn't reply, kneeling down by Elizabeta. He handed the woman the duffel bag and pulled the sheet back. Toris' eyes were closed again, the man looking almost dead. Perhaps even dead. Ivan's heart stopped as he watched him, waiting for him to breathe again. One second. Then two. Three. Four – there, Ivan saw his chest rise ever so slightly.
"You're not dating a dead guy, are you?" Gilbert's voice broke the stifling silence again, this time directed towards Elizabeta.
"If you aren't going to be serious, leave," she growled, taking a roll of bandages and a rag from the bag. Ivan worked the sheet further away from Toris, trying not to stare at the red stains he never wanted to hear the stories about.
"Who the hell is that?" Gilbert said, coming over to the two. He examined Toris like he was some sort of felled beast, mouth drawn into a tight frown and head held high.
"Ivan, he's going to have to sit up. I can't do this with him lying down," Elizabeta said, pretending Gilbert was nonexistent. They couldn't be bothered with obnoxious colonels, not when Toris was so close to the fine line between life and death.
"Toris," Ivan whispered as he got up on the cot next to the dying man. He didn't move or open his eyes. "You're going to have to sit up. I'm sorry if I hurt you, I don't mean it."
Taking Toris in his arms like he was made of glass and paper, Ivan eased him upright, ignoring the soft groans and mutters in Lithuanian. He put Toris' anemic body against his own, the mostly unconscious man nestled in his lap. Ivan didn't dare to look at the bloodstains on the back of Toris' hands.
"When did Toris get here?" Gilbert came over to the bedside, putting down the wretched pistol. "I mean, that is Toris, right?"
"Gilbert, do you have sulfa powder with you?" Elizabeta asked as she picked at one of Toris' frayed bandages. Toris flinched, his green eyes starting to open. He mumbled a word that Ivan couldn't catch.
"Uh, no? I woke up around five minutes ago, and that wasn't on my list of things to get."
Only then did Ivan get a good look at Gilbert, startled to find the man in a navy blue robe. His white hair was a tousled mess, dark lines heavy under his eyes. Ivan could've sworn Gilbert was in uniform minutes ago when he was being hunted down. And then again, why would Gilbert be in uniform at four in the morning?
"I grabbed some tablets of that," Ivan said. "Sorry, I dropped the iodine. And I would've had more, if your husband didn't ruin it."
"No, no, it's fine." Elizabeta took a tin from the bag, pulling out white tablets. "Here, hold these," she ordered, giving Gilbert a handful of the sulfa tablets.
"What did they do to Toris?" Gilbert said, unable to look away from the bloody bandages. Ivan felt a twinge of anger; Gilbert had sent Toris to his death and he didn't bother to find out what happened?
"They took lots of blood," Toris slurred in German. Ivan held back a smile – Toris could discern languages again. Could he possibly be getting better? "And then they cut me open. Kept me awake with morphine. Made me see my own internals and bones. Took tiny parts of me for their tests. The doctor didn't bother sewing me up. He left it to the assistants. One was seventeen. He was the one who did the stitches."
Gilbert's pale face went somehow whiter. He swallowed hard, going back to poking at the sulfa tablets.
"It was for the good of German science, they said." Toris rubbed at the bloody marks on the back of his hand. "I don't know if keeping me conscious was for that same good. I hope it was."
"How are you feeling?" Ivan asked, looking away from the large row of zigzag stitches running up Toris' chest. "You seem to be much more talkative than before."
"I can talk fine and well, that's easy." Toris winced as Elizabeta worked off a bandage that was plastered to his skin with blood. "I feel like I've been awake forever." He rested his head against Ivan's shoulder. "Like maybe if I closed my eyes, I'd fall asleep and never wake up again."
Ivan took Toris' bloody hand in his own. "You're just fine, malyutka. Just fine. Please, don't say things like that."
"…I'm dying, aren't I? Is that why I'm so tired?"
No one answered. Not even Gilbert. Elizabeta took a rag that was soaked in the iodine, beginning to wipe at the stitches running up Toris' chest. Toris bit into his bottom lip, his hand tightening around Ivan's.
"I'll take that as a yes, then," Toris continued. "Oh, well, I was pretty sure this was going to happen. It's a nice day to die, though. Too bad I won't make it to Christmas, I'd been meaning to give Raivis some things I'd saved up. Does anyone know when Raivis is coming back?"
"We have him scheduled to return on the 28th, he's being kept by a family in town for now," Elizabeta answered. "He's being used for menial labour, nothing too heavy."
"Good, that boy could use a job or two to keep him busy. He gets bored easily and needs to learn to work. And Eduard?"
"…Labelled unfit." This time Gilbert spoke as he ground the tablets with the butt of his pistol. "They sent him out to Banjica. Um…I'm sorry? I don't know if you two were close or anything, but I'm pretty sure he's dead."
"Oh." Toris nestled closer to Ivan. "Yes, he was sort of like a brother to me. It won't make any difference if I cry over him, as I figure we're headed to the same place. Hey, when Raivis gets back, would you not tell him what happened to Eduard and I? Can you say we got transferred? I don't want to break his heart."
"Malyutka, you're not dying," Ivan said, his voice betraying him more than any words could.
"Yes, I am. I'm not stupid anymore." Toris looked up at Ivan, giving him a tired grin. "I appreciate you trying to clean me up and take care of me, but it's not going to matter once I'm dead. I'll be in a pit with the rest of them. So, take good care of Raivis for me, alright?"
"Stop being so calm about this. Aren't you scared?"
Toris shook his head. "When they were doing the operation, all I wanted was to die –"
"Toris," Ivan said, feeling his heart split in two.
"I didn't want to live anymore. I was alright with everything I'd done."
"Toris, please," Ivan insisted.
"And I don't have much, if any regrets, so –"
"Toris."
The man looked up, only then noticing the lone tear sliding down from Ivan's violet eyes. His smile faded. "Listen, Ivan, I know you like to be the authority here. I'm going to tell you something for once, and I hope you listen. Death isn't this demonic monster we've made it out to be. At this point, death is a savior."
"And how do you greet Adolf Hitler?"
"With a smile and a bullet through his stupid mustache."
Roderich held his quickly crumbling composure, wishing the woman would pay attention. Two hours, two infuriating hours he'd spent in Basch's kitchen, trying to work some etiquette into her. "You're with me, so you don't have to do the full salute. Actually, never mind that, it's better to play it safe and use the full salute. We can't risk anything on this trip."
"You want me to heil the crazy old bastard?" Natalya looked up from her blood red fingernails, pointing the nail file at Roderich. "I'd rather be locked in a closet drunk with you than be within a meter of the devil you Germans adore. No, I'd rather dine with Lucifer himself in the depths of Hell than be in the same building as Hitler. At least Lucifer's interesting."
"Please do not refer to Hitler as a crazy old bastard or make any comparisons to the devil. Unless, of course, you're aiming to be shot. Which would be lovely, except I have no interest in dragging your body back here. Now, show me your salute."
Natalya put the file down and held her right arm out straight, sticking up her middle finger.
"I swear to God," Roderich growled through clenched teeth. He took a deep breath, straightening the woman's fingers out into the stiff salute. She held her hand up and made an o with her thumb and forefinger, her face as emotionless as always.
"Sieg Heil," she said, going back to shaping her nails.
"You've got to admit, that would be interesting to see," Francis added, oblivious to the situation. "I mean, telling Hitler to piss off could be the revolution we've been waiting for, our siege of the Bastille. Or the downfall of our huge resistance and the death of a majority of us. Either way, it would undoubtedly make the news."
"Thank you for your constant optimism, Francis. You just know how to brighten my day, don't you?" Roderich said. Francis shrugged, returning to his paperwork. He stamped a name in one of the fake passports along with a swastika, humming some probably "illegal" song.
"If there's nothing left for me to do here, I'm going home." Natalya shoved the file back in her purse, starting to stand up.
"No, we aren't through with your lessons," Roderich said, snatching up his riding crop from the countertop. He put the tip of the crop on her chest, pushing her back down into her chair. "How do you greet Hitler?"
"I already answered that."
"I want the correct answer."
Natalya slipped into an almost-frown. "I refuse to."
"Natalya, dear, if you'd just salute, this would go over a lot easier," Francis said, pushing one out of seven passports aside. "It isn't like you're sacrificing yourself to the devil."
"And I see you've given into the Nazis already," Natalya muttered. "It is as bad as sacrificing myself to the devil. I refuse to pretend to support them."
"Natalya, heil," Roderich said, tapping the crop impatiently against the table.
"You can't make me, jackass."
"I can."
"You wouldn't dare hit me, Fraulein. Unless…why exactly do you have that whip?" Natalya folded her hands under her chin, looking up at Roderich like a too curious child.
Francis held back a laugh with a suggestive smile. "He's a very kinky –"
"I was raised by a general," Roderich snarled before Francis could continue, feeling his face flush red. "He made me learn how to work with horses, and so I've had a crop since I was about five. That and he taught me discipline this same way, which is why it stuck with me. It isn't for whatever repulsive things you two were thinking. And seriously, how old are you two? You're acting like a bunch of damn fifteen-year-olds."
"You're the one getting so worked up over this," Natalya said. "Which means you must be hiding something."
"I am not hiding anything other than my previous religion," Roderich said, putting the riding crop down on the table.
"And your fetishes."
"Will you stop with that?!"
Natalya crossed her arms, her way of saying she'd won.
"Back to our lesson," Roderich said before things could somehow get worse. He grabbed the riding crop again, using it to point to the place setting he'd somehow arranged out of what little usable dinnerware Basch owned. "I assume you know absolutely nothing about table manners, so I'm going to teach you everything I can tonight."
"So I've gone from fifteen to four?" Natalya rolled her eyes. "I know how to act in public."
"This isn't about your behaviour. This is about if you know how to eat a civilized dinner."
"What do you take me for, some sort of animal?"
Roderich paused, putting the crop under his chin for emphasis. "Um, ja, I do. You have the barbaric manners of a Russian, not a petite –"
"Francis, I swear if you put petite down on my file you're going to wake up without several body parts tomorrow," Natalya hissed, her hand itching for something in her purse. Probably a grenade, which wouldn't surprise Roderich in the slightest.
"So what if I did?" he asked as he finished the third passport. "Think about a cute mademoiselle. You see a petite woman, no?"
"I see the polar opposite of me. And how do you feel about being castrated?"
"Stop making threats towards Francis," Roderich groaned, rubbing his temples in a sad attempt at warding off an already bad headache. "Forget I ever said petite, alright? That never happened. Now, would you show me the cake fork?"
"Uh, no?" Natalya said with an air of superiority that Roderich wished she didn't have. "Find it yourself. I'm not your maid."
"Find the fork before I slap you."
"Fine." Natalya looked over the place setting before her, going to grab the salad fork. Roderich immediately brought the crop down on her fingers, the evil part of him wanting to grin as she pulled her hand back to her chest. She buried her hand deep in the fold of her dress, looking up at Roderich like he'd told her she was about to be executed.
"Jesus, was that really necessary?" she asked, her voice monotone and colder than before.
"Yes, because you'll never learn if I don't make a point. Show me the cake fork," Roderich said, holding up the crop as a reminder.
"You and Francis…" she muttered, carrying on in Russian. Natalya slowly took her hand from the safety of her dress, searching the table for the cursed cake fork. She reached for the small fork above the chipped plate, watching Roderich like a dog stealing food from its master's plate. A thin finger pointed to the fork, Natalya ready to get out of the way if she guessed wrong.
A few seconds passed, Francis humming his irritating tune as the two stared at each other. Roderich twitched the riding crop ever so slightly; Natalya flinched and pulled her hand away.
"Very good," Roderich said. "I'm surprised you didn't go for the entrée fork. And if you use the cake fork before there is actual cake, don't expect to be coming back to Vienna with me. I will leave you there for sure. Show me the red wine glass." He gestured to the three cups he'd laid out.
"There's three glasses." Natalya hid her fingers in her dress again. "Pick one and put red wine in it."
"That's not how this works. One of them is specifically for red wine."
Natalya nudged the middle one. "Put wine in that one, if you would. And please, poison it so I can end my misery here."
"Very –"
"Roderich!" Mathias shouted as he threw the door open, grabbing Roderich by the wrist. A Star of David with a J stitched into it slipped from his hand, fluttering to the ground like a yellow snowflake. "Oh, God, we really screwed up. We really, really messed this one up. Francis, you got the passports done?"
Francis shook his head. "I need about an hour."
"An hour?!"
"Oui. Maybe forty minutes if I rushed, but I don't want to be doing that."
"Oh, no." Mathias growled a few curses, his hand clenched tight around Roderich's wrist, the musician still totally confused. "Alright, alright, I can work with that. Roderich, go home right now and look like you've been drinking for a good six hours. Our man said one of the Gestapo brats is out of town for something, I think it's the slightly less blond one. Either way, I called and did a stellar impersonation of you. He's coming over to your house in twenty minutes."
"You did what?" Roderich tried to ask as Mathias shoved him out the door, yelling a few goodbyes and instructions over his shoulder. He slammed the door behind him, giving Roderich a few encouraging nudges.
"You better run," Mathias said, stepping down from the porch. He gave Roderich a lopsided grin before running off towards the inner city.
Roderich stood on the porch in total silence; a shell-shocked soldier who'd seen too much. A thousand things came to mind, profanities and questions and who-knows-what. The winter winds tore into his bared skin, howling as they ran through the streets of Vienna. He heard a baby crying, a sad little plea for help in the too confusing world.
He walked down to the sidewalk, his mind number than his fingers. His debut performance was about to start, his first step and possibly last step into the acting world. That night could ruin his life forever. It could end it. Perhaps it would start something. It was full of so many possibilities and outcomes, so many different paths to take and choices to make.
Quite frankly, Roderich didn't know what to think, other than he should start running.
And so he did.
Feet pounding against the sidewalk, heart beating like a frantic war drum, Roderich ran. His feet carried him past ruined streets and vandalized buildings, past propaganda posters and rusty sidewalk stains. Past the houses he'd seen every day for the last ten years. Past the places he wrote a certain piece or held onto a fence for support when walking home drunk.
He ran across the street to his house, throwing the door open and quickly locking it behind him. Forcing old Viennese memories from his mind, he tore his tie off and partially unbuttoned his shirt. Roderich pushed things out of his way, shoving a stack of old music to the floor. If Ludwig was going to believe he was drunk, he was going to have to play everything out perfectly. Absolutely perfectly.
Oh, Lord, what did I get myself into? Roderich thought as he opened the liquor cabinet, taking a few glasses and a bottle of something Mathias gave him a while back. The Dane had said something about it being "able to get those German assholes drunk in about two minutes" – Roderich hoped he was right.
The muzzle of a semi-automatic dug into his back, a jackboot pressing him down to the earth. Wild grasses scratched at his nose as the two soldiers above him spoke back and forth, their language blurring into sounds and syllables. He opened his eye a sliver, looking out through blond lashes at the gloomy Sunday evening. Dark clouds hung in a corner of the sky, a brutal winter storm eastern Europe was so famous for. Right in front of his face was a blood-spattered shoe, so close he could almost make out the name stamped into the heel.
"You want to do the honours?" a smoker's voice asked, the muzzle's weight disappearing from his back. The rifle's safety clicked.
"Doesn't he look dead enough?" The second voice was younger, sounding no older than seventeen. A child. An innocent child in Waffen-SS uniform. How dreadfully ironic.
"You never know. He's bleedin'; that doesn't mean he's dead." There was a pause. "An' then again, they're all so damn sick on that train they die days before they get there. Might have even been dead before he jumped."
"What is he? A Jew?" the babyish voice said, giving the body a nudge in the ribs. He tried not to flinch.
"Don't look like a rotten Jew to me. Don't got the nose for it. Maybe a Polack? Resistance? Oh, I've got it. He looks like a gay, don't he? Seems like the type to have a boyfriend."
"I've never known a gay before, how would I know?"
"You'll get to know a lot of 'em at the camp." The bloodstained boot turned away from him towards the second voice. "Of course, they're dead in about five minutes. So you better be pretty damn good at learnin' someone's name in five minutes 'f you want to talk with 'em. We don't get a lot, not as much as the Jews."
"Do you mind if I look at him? Or is that forbidden?"
"General probably wouldn't want you pokin' around a dead body. I don't care if you get some disease. Look 'f you really want to."
He felt something inside of him – his hope – wither away. This was the end of him. After all his efforts, the meticulous planning, he was going to die at the hands of a curious SS man. He held his breath, hoping being shot in the head wasn't as painful as he figured it would be. He'd like to have a painless death.
Someone rolled him over with their foot, his glasses sliding away from his face. He kept his eyes closed, praying and begging to whatever god was out there for help. He could tell someone knelt down beside him, grasses crunching under the weight of a built young man.
A gloved finger touched the bottom of his eyelid, pulling it up. He panicked, trying to roll his blue eyes up as far as he could. Now he could see the presumed younger of the two SS guards – he looked like a scared boy playing soldier in his father's uniform. Too young, much too young to be shooting Jews in fields. Maybe he'd still have some mercy about him, being so new.
"He has amazing eyes," the boy said to the older man. "They look like the Führer's."
"Did you compare some gay's eyes to Hitler's? You've got me thinkin' some odd things about you, boy."
"I was only saying that they're very blue. I wish I had his eyes instead of mine." The boy let him close his eyes again, standing up. "He looks like any other German. I don't see what's wrong with him."
"C'mon, kid, this guy's obviously gettin' to you. That's no Aryan, that's someone who deserves to be rotting in this field. Let's get back to the train."
"Hold on, I want something of his."
The older man's rumble of a laugh cut through the emptiness of the field. "Alright, get yourself a trophy. I'll be back at the train. If you need help, scream. I might be able to hear you."
"Some help you are," the boy said as footsteps faded away. The young soldier knelt back down beside him, putting a hand on his chest.
He waited for a gunshot, for the gentle release of death.
"I know you can hear me. You're not dead, not yet. What's your name?"
He didn't dare to answer.
"Hold on, you've got tags, right? You look like a soldier." The boy reached for the tags, pulling them free from the bluish-grey of the uniform. "Oh, you're a Russian? Ed…Eduard? Is that right? Eduard von Bock, it looks like. I've never been too good with Cyrillic."
He didn't acknowledge the soldier. He was not Eduard, not anymore. Eduard von Bock was something of the past, an intelligent human with emotions and thoughts. He, he was a panicked shell of Eduard. A hunted animal, running from the men with guns. A lowly, worthless being. Not Eduard von Bock, the proud Estonian who'd rather be hung than follow a German's orders.
"I promise I'm not going to kill you," the boy whispered. "I know you think I'm another heartless bastard, but I don't want to kill you. Katz, the man with me, might want to. I just want to go home. I'm from Czechoslovakia, you know. I'm an outcast, like you. They let me in the Waffen-SS because my mother was German. I'm guessing you don't have a German mother."
Again, Eduard kept his mouth shut.
"Well, whatever, I wasn't expecting a conversation anyways. I'm going back to the train. Hey, do you care if I keep your tags? I need a trophy or something. Oh, hey, what's this?" The soldier stuck his hand into Eduard's pocket, removing the lump of wood. "Did you make this? It's beautiful. You've got some talent to make something like this. Shame you're who you are."
Eduard wanted to open his eyes and beg for the stag back. He wanted to rip the carving from the boy's hands and hold it so tight no one could ever take it from him again. Toris – God bless his selfless soul – had slipped the wooden deer into Eduard's pocket before they dragged him away to the "hospital". He'd told Eduard to stay strong. That stag carving was the only thing that kept Eduard alive, the only thing that made him try to escape the train to his death. His will to live was buried deep in that figure, without it, he had no purpose.
"This looks important, though. I'll take your tags instead." He laid the deer back down on Eduard's chest, removing the dog tags from his neck. "May God be with you, wherever you intend on going. Home, I guess. I hope you make it. Maybe you really are dead, though, and I've been talking to a dead man. In which case, thanks for listening. You're good company, Eduard. Goodbye."
The too young soldier got up. He went back to where strings of German were being shouted by the tracks. Someone screamed a command, one of those austere general sounding people. He heard doors being pulled shut and locks clicking, the moaning train starting to drag its weight forward again. The cattle cars rattled down the tracks, taking their wails and pleas with them. The stench of death and sickness no longer hung over him.
For the first time in a while, he felt free.
Eduard von Bock opened his eyes again.
The field around him was empty, a prairie sea full of grasses and dirty snow. Train tracks ripped through the ocean, the metal path to hell. Hills rose in the distance, gray slopes against the gray sky. Wherever he was, it looked like a black and white picture; there was nothing that even vaguely resembled colour.
He pressed his glasses to his face and eased himself upright, clutching a hand over the jagged wound on his ribs. How the bullet managed to clip his side and not bury itself deep in his lung, Eduard would never know. Some would say it was a miracle, Eduard figured it was destiny. Destiny kept that young SS man from putting another round into his skull, from beating him within an inch of his life and leaving him to die. He was meant to do something more than be shot in the back.
"What am I doing?" Eduard asked himself, picking up the stag carving Toris put so much time and effort into. He ran his thumb over the smoothed grain, smiling at the delicateness of the little deer. Toris was right, the pheasant could've easily killed the stag. The pheasant, although small, was solid and strong. A formidable little soldier. The stag was intimidating on the outside, however, he was fragile.
Oddly like Eduard – cold and mocking on the outside, alone and terrified on the inside.
"I've got to go back," Eduard said without a second thought, tucking the stag into his pocket. "I've got to go back."
He somehow got to his feet, stumbling through the waist-high snarls of weeds splattered red with his own blood. One thought took over everything, one primal urge. Eduard needed to get back to Stalag XVIII-A. Of course, he had no idea where he was or how to get back, but that didn't matter. Somewhere, on the other end of the tracks, his family was waiting for him. Ivan and Toris and Raivis, they were waiting for news of his death. Eduard needed to prove them wrong for so many reasons.
Eduard made it to the train tracks, looking off into the seemingly endless horizon. It was him, the field, and fate. A sad gust of wind tore through the prairie, ripping the golden ocean of grasses. All at once, Eduard felt more alone than he ever had. There wasn't a sign of life anywhere. A sign of humanity. A sign of some conscious being.
He took a deep breath. His hand went to his pocket, calloused fingers running over the delicate stag.
And he took a step forward, a step closer to a place he called home.
Ludwig lay awake, listening to the opera unfold downstairs. He'd never been too fond of operas – he found them boring and excruciatingly painful to sit through on the rare occasion he'd been dragged to one – but this one was different. It wasn't written with the dramatic intent of men such as Wagner and Verdi. No, it was bitter and soft, a piece heavy with remorse. He could almost hear the regret and anger in each note, like a man talking about an old flame. Maybe that's what it was.
It was rather strange to think that the man who'd been slurring things about his father the previous night could write up such beautiful things. How could a drunk put together an opera that kept Ludwig's attention? Roderich held so much more talent than the Reich knew. Ludwig almost found it sad that he'd been reduced to nothing more than another gear in the German propaganda machine. The Nazi empire didn't hear the stunning operas and symphonies, they heard the brittle music the propaganda ministry wanted. People didn't know what Roderich von Wolffe really wrote.
The opera took a darker turn as Ludwig pushed himself up, the melody an octave lower and much angrier. He wondered what it meant, picking his shirt up from where he'd left it. Roderich ushered him into the spare room the night before, muttering something about how Ludwig shouldn't be driving so late at night. Ludwig felt he had no choice but to stay, even though he wasn't nearly as drunk as Roderich was, just a little disoriented.
"Damn it!" he heard Roderich shout, accompanied a cacophony of notes that shouldn't have been together. "Oh, Roderich, you idiot. This is why you can't write an opera."
Ludwig wanted to go downstairs and tell Roderich his opera was wonderful – that would ruin the last step of his mission. He didn't go to Roderich's house to listen to music and tell him how brilliant it was.
He'd come for information.
After making the bed like polite guest, Ludwig buttoned up his shirt and stepped out into the hall. The hallway was thankfully empty of life, but certainly not things. Papers and boxes were lined up against the wall along with empty bottles with exquisite names on the labels. Testaments to Roderich's less than Nazi-ideals lifestyle. Ludwig wouldn't be surprised if the divorce papers were among them.
Downstairs, the piano music started up again. Ludwig felt like some sort of villain out to kill Roderich with the dark music playing in the background. He forced those thoughts from his mind before opening the door to Roderich's bedroom, slipping inside.
"Oh, my," Ludwig said as he locked the door behind him, not sure what to think of the room. The bedsheets were in a pile on the floor, more bottles lined up on the edge of the desk. The desk itself was nothing short of a tragedy, with books and pages scattered everywhere. A few photographs were pinned up next to the desk – Ludwig decided to start there.
The first was of a dramatically younger Roderich, somewhere around nine or ten. A tinier version of the Russian was next to him, the two sitting in a meadow of white flowers. Roderich was hidden in a book of German history, Ivan leaning on his shoulder with a stupid smile pasted on his face.
God, Ludwig hated Ivan, no matter how childish he looked.
The second was a window to the Tirol mountains, a postcard-esque scene. The mountains where Roderich grew up, the setting for his confusing story.
And the third was new. Very, very new.
It looked to be at a bar, Roderich with a beer in hand. Basch sat beside him, pointing to something in a book. Christian sat on the other side, with Lilli leaning over in front of him to see what Basch was talking about. There were two other men, one with wild hair and a bright smile and the other with his nose in a book of philosophy. And lastly, there was a woman with a fur stole and a cigarette in her mouth, looking at Roderich like he was the most revolting thing she'd laid eyes on.
Beneath the scene, Roderich had written something in his almost illegible cursive: Angels that fell a little too hard from Heaven. 1941.
"Angels?" Ludwig said out loud, pinning the picture back to the wall. He hadn't seen some of those faces before.
"No, no, no!" Roderich yelled. "Angels, Roderich, angels! Not Satan!"
Ludwig took that as his cue to go downstairs. He grabbed a few papers he figured Roderich wouldn't miss, folded them up, and shoved them in his pocket. Hochstetter was going to want evidence of this trip or Ludwig would never hear the end of it.
"Are you alright?" Ludwig asked as he came into the living room. Roderich didn't look up from his notebook, taking a bit of the large slice of chocolate cake balancing on the edge of a nearby table.
"Oh, ja, ja, I'm fine. I didn't wake you up, did I?" Roderich said halfheartedly, less concerned for Ludwig's sake than Ludwig was for his.
"No, I was already awake. What are you writing?"
"An opera. Not that I have plans of going back to that sort of thing," he added. "It's just a force of habit. And I don't have anything else to do, so I figured I might as well write something I want to."
"And do you normally eat cake for breakfast?"
Roderich smiled, scribbling another note. "You ask a lot of questions. Makes sense that you're in the Gestapo. At my house, I do whatever I want. Usually I'm not dressed yet." He glanced up, pushing his glasses up. "You can help yourself to whatever you want. I don't mind."
"I'm not going to intrude on –" Ludwig started.
"You aren't intruding. You are my guest," Roderich said. "I don't have a hell of a lot to offer you, but I'm making my best efforts here. There's coffee on the stove if you want something to sober up with."
"No, really, I'm fine," Ludwig insisted, sitting down on the couch. "Don't you feel horrible?"
"Last night was nothing. I mean, yes, I am considering my will to live at the moment. It isn't as bad as it could be. Rarely does it get to those levels. I apologize for anything I did last night that you may remember, I don't mean it," he said before turning back to the grand piano, running a quick series of notes.
"I can't remember you doing anything."
"Good. I've been known to be very romantic and was hoping you didn't remember anything of that sort."
"Something could've happened and I've forgotten," Ludwig said, watching Roderich tear out a whole page of the beautiful music and place it in a pile on the couch.
"Then I guess we'll never know. Are you sure you don't want something?" Roderich looked over his shoulder at Ludwig, eyebrows pressed into a thin line. "It isn't good to not eat. I can make you something, if you want."
"I'm fine, I promise. Can I ask you another question, though?"
"Sure."
"Why were you shouting about angels earlier?"
"They're in my opera, and they're a very hard thing to personify," Roderich answered, seeming clueless as to what Ludwig was doing minutes ago. It could be an elaborate act, though. Roderich looked like the type to do something like that. "These are angels that have fallen from Heaven, too. Not demons, though. Somewhere on the line between good and evil – saints to some, Satan to others."
The angels that fell a little too hard from Heaven.
"Listen to me ramble on about angels." Roderich sighed, holding his head. "I'm not a people person, if you couldn't already tell. I couldn't hold a conversation to save my life."
"I don't know, you seem to be alright talking to me," Ludwig said. "And I'm a horrible Gestapo man."
"You're not horrible."
"Ja," Ludwig said, his eyes going to the floor, "I am horrible. I'm surprised you don't want me dead."
"Why would I want you dead?" Roderich asked, pushing his notebook aside.
"Doesn't everyone want Gestapo men dead?"
"I don't see you as a Gestapo man, though. I see you as Ludwig Beilschmidt, a wonderful human being. You cared enough about me to come over last night. And admittedly, not a lot of people do," Roderich said. "How could I want you dead if you're so good? You're practically a saint. A saint, talking with some fallen angel like me. You're too nice for your own good, and that's what makes you Ludwig." He stood up, grabbing the plate with half a slice of cake on it.
"Come on, I'm going to make you breakfast, whether you like it or not."
History notes:
Sulfa tablets: Sulfonamide tablets were like the miracle product of WWII. These tablets were antibiotics, much easier to carry than iodine. The only problem is, a lot of people were allergic to them, and they can cause a type of brain damage and lots of hypersensitivity, which isn't good. Still, the world kept using them because they were convenient and there weren't any better alternatives.
Banjica: a concentration camp in Belgrade, Serbia. Opened in July of 1941, only around 3,500 died there. It was famous for its constant executions carried out by the Gestapo, and the torturous methods that they used to kill their victims. Before arrival, inmates would have to spend some time being interrogated by the Gestapo, only to be killed. It certainly isn't a famous as Auschwitz, but it was brutal. It's sad to see places like this forgotten.
Big thank you's to my dears DeciduousForest208, FlamingFyre, EllaAwkward, and Comix and Co! You guys know how to make my day awesome!
And thank you all for understanding me having to move to every two weeks. Believe me, it's helped with a lot of stress.
See you all next chapter!