The pale ghost of a man slid down from the car, stalking over to the group. "It would be in your best interest to do as I say," he said, gesturing to Basch with the pistol. "I have every damn right in the book to put all three of you up against that wall and shoot you. Please, don't tempt me. Put your hands where I can see them and don't you dare move."

"Legally, you can't kill us," Basch said. The colonel turned on his heels, his pistol aimed right for Basch's head. Basch kept perfectly still, locking eyes with the man. If he was going to die, Basch made sure the man would remember it.

"My, you're rather bold." The colonel went over to Basch – much to Basch's dismay, the colonel was much taller than him. Despite being at a disadvantage, Basch looked up at him with an unimaginable amount of hatred. "Clearly, you've never been held at gunpoint before. You're supposed to be quiet."

"I have a right to speak," Basch snapped. "You can't force me to do anything."

"I fought against Polish partisans, Zwingli. I know every trick rebels like you have." Gilbert put the gun level with Basch's forehead. "Empty your pockets."

"Make me."

"Make you?"

"You heard me right. Make me."

"You're injured, aren't you?" the man asked smoothly.

"How would you know?" Basch shot back as he lowered his hands, curling them into fists.

"You've got a bloodstain on your coat, before I told you to put your hands up you were holding your side, and you got very defensive when I mentioned an injury," he said, pointing to said bloodstain. "It's simple. Now, if you don't empty your pockets, I will make you."

"You have no power over me. Go ahead, do what you want."

"I heard the same damn thing from every single partisan brat I shot. You're weaker than most of them, Zwingli, especially with that injury. I'm not one for blood, however, you're forcing me to turn to violence. This is your last chance to comply with my orders."

"My brother's stronger than you'll ever –" Lilli started before Francis put a hand over her mouth. Francis stepped in front of the girl, giving the colonel a flustered grin.

"She doesn't mean it!" Basch stammered – Lilli never spoke out like that. "She's just a girl. Don't hurt her."

"How old are you, Lilli Zwingli?" the colonel asked, going over to where the girl was hiding behind Francis.

"I'm fourteen."

"I am twenty-eight years old. That makes me twice your age, Lilli Zwingli," the man said. "You have no authority over me, and you shouldn't even think about talking to me like you just did. If you'd like to live past fourteen, you should shut up."

"Stop talking to her like that," Basch snarled, his hand reaching for the P38 shoved in his coat. He couldn't stand there and wait for the madman to murder his sister. Basch had to do something, and he had to do it at that second.

He'd barely gotten the gun out of his pocket before the colonel turned on him.

Basch didn't quite register the gunshot until he saw the empty casing in the snow. He dropped the P38, taking a few steps back. Why was he still standing? If there was really a bullet in his heart, why did nothing hurt? He dared a look down at his chest. It wasn't torn up or bleeding. There wasn't a hole in his coat.

And then he realized his left hand was bleeding. There was a rough scrape across the back of his hand, one that hadn't been there before. He wiped the blood off on his pants, standing tall once more like nothing had happened.

"Oh, you're innocent, are you?" the colonel asked, lowering the pistol. "And on what accounts? I am working with the Gestapo at the moment, I am a decorated military hero, and the Führer would happily overlook the deaths of three people who were staying in a Jew's house. You've insulted me and pulled a gun on me, a sweet colonel who meant no harm. So," he continued after a pause, "What do you have to defend yourself?"

"The fact that we've done nothing wrong should be enough," Basch said, amazed there wasn't a hole in his hand. The colonel had some talent.

"Did you not hear the part that you were staying in a Jew's house? In case you've been living under a rock for the past ten years, the Jews are the enemy. Get your pacifist mind out of whatever fantasy world you're in and wake up already."

"I think you've got the wrong man," Francis said in his soft German. "That's Gerhard von Wolffe's house, and his family –"

"I don't care what bullshit lies you've made up," the colonel said. "You must think I'm an idiot. I've heard what you're doing, Christian Dietrich Kleiner. Or is it Christian Francis Kleiner?" He put a hand to his face in mock thought – all the while keeping his pistol aimed at Basch.

"How would you know about that, Gilbert Beilschmidt?" Francis said without a hint of worry. "You don't exactly pay attention to details. You somehow overlooked Elizabeta's wedding ring."

"A name mysteriously changing is hard not to notice. And I knew very well that she was married. That's what makes an affair fun."

"Wait, who are you?" Basch asked; he couldn't have heard that name right.

"I'm Colonel Gilbert Beilschmidt," the man introduced himself with a grin. "For the time being, you can call me Gilbert. Pleased to meet you."

"You're the bastard that stole Roderich's wife?"

The words tumbled out of Basch's mouth before he could stop them. It wasn't his fault Gilbert introduced himself and Basch recognized the name. Roderich cursed Colonel Gilbert Beilschmidt so much that everyone in Vienna's Angels was accustomed to throwing in a snarky remark of their own. And the man was so dreadfully infuriating that Basch couldn't help but snap back.

"Everything always goes back to Roderich, doesn't it?" Gilbert asked without looking at Basch. His words were monotone, each syllable colder than the last. "None of us would be here if it wasn't for that man. I hate to think that the three of you were once good people until Roderich dragged you down to his level. Would you care to explain what idea of Roderich's sent you out here?"

"It isn't any of your business," Basch said. "Why don't you run along and let us go our separate ways?"

"You are aware that I am the one with the gun, right?"

"Ja. You've had it pointed at me this whole time."

"I was just checking," Gilbert said. "I thought grazing your hand would get you to stop whatever act you're doing. And you've kept going. So, would you like to start the questions or do you want to skip to the part where I kill you?"

"I don't have to answer anything."

"What brought you three out to the Jew's house?" Gilbert leaned up against Francis' Mercedes rather nonchalantly, as if he was asking a friendly question.

"We came to speak with Roderich's father about some things," Francis said. "There were a few issues that we needed to talk out."

"Like what?"

"Roderich's divorce," Francis answered bitterly. "The one you caused."

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his snowy hair. "You keep pinning the blame on me. This is about you, not me. Leave the divorce out of this."

"You were the one who started the affair, which led to this. You wouldn't be standing here if you'd minded your own damn business."

"Believe what you want, Kleiner. An affair is an affair. It's nothing personal and it doesn't involve you," Gilbert said. "Why did three of you have to come out here when one could've done the job just as well?"

"Because neither of us can trust Roderich to watch Lilli." This time Basch spoke up, taking a step towards his P38. "And why do you need to know this?"

Gilbert raised his pistol again. "Touch the gun and you're dead."

Basch backed away from the P38.

"See? It isn't that hard to follow orders. You could do rather well in the army," Gilbert said. "You're a little too short to be a soldier, though. That and you have a criminal record."

"Then how did you get into the army?" Francis asked before Basch could rip the colonel open for calling him short.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Gilbert said, sounding as confused as Basch was. His red eyes looked away from them for a second – the sign of a liar.

"You have a criminal record, ja?" Francis said. "You shouldn't be a colonel."

Gilbert stood up straight, his smirk gone. "How do you know about that?" he hissed, moving the pistol's aim from Basch's heart to Francis'. "The one person who ever saw those papers was Ludwig."

"Ludwig and the Gestapo and the government," Francis corrected. Gilbert took a deep breath, trying to organize his words he'd so carefully planned.

"How exactly did you get into the army?" Francis continued. "Why was your time in jail suddenly forgotten? I don't believe I ever found out."

"Because it was only a month and my father proved me innocent. I spent half of that month in the hospital, anyway."

"Your beloved father proved you innocent because I messed with the evidence. I took pity on you, Colonel Gilbert Beilschmidt. I changed the papers and made it look like you'd done nothing wrong. You owe your current life to me."

"You didn't do shit," Gilbert said. "They let me out because I didn't purposely kill that man. You don't consciously run into someone with a motorcycle."

"How about you take pity on us?" Francis asked with a smile. "We're not part of anything that may be going on here. And by the way, I kept those original papers. I could always let them…slip back into the system."

Gilbert put his pistol down for the first time since Basch met him. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

They stood there waiting for an answer, no one speaking but somehow understanding each other. Three lives and a job were at stake; which would it be?

"Fine," Gilbert whispered, backing away from the man. That one word was full of a strange desperation, one Basch hadn't heard in a long time. "Go. Get out of here. I won't tell Ludwig anything if you keep my arrest quiet. Are we clear, Kleiner?"

Francis nodded. "Danke, sir. I'm glad we came to an agreement."

"Shut up and get the hell out of here before I decide to shoot you."

For a minute, Basch was too dumbstruck to move. Everything had happened so quickly it was hard to keep it straight. One moment, Gilbert was going to kill them and the next he was letting them go. Francis had talked his way out of a trial and firing squad in less than five minutes.

Francis, still not quite trusting Gilbert, grabbed Basch's P38 from the snow and came over to his cousin. He put the cold pistol in Basch's hand, a tiny grin on his face.

"I had no idea he had an arrest record," Francis said in almost inaudible French. "I saw his file when we changed my name at Gestapo Headquarters. It was hidden in Ludwig's desk, so I thought it must've been very secretive."

"You lovable bastard," Basch said, giving the man a playful shove.

Basch took Lilli's hand, leading the girl past the colonel to the car. It felt strange to walk out of a death sentence with their executioner right in front of them. He'd never worked his way out of certain death without a gun – and Francis got them out alive with lies. Basch made a mental note to buy Francis the nicest French wine he could find.

"I didn't say you could go."

Gilbert grabbed the back of Basch's collar, pulling him into a headlock. Basch heard the familiar click of a pistol's safety catch.

"I need someone," Gilbert said, his words trembling. "You think I'd be so stupid as to let you all go?"

"Gilbert, where are you?!" a voice called out: Ludwig's voice. Gilbert flinched, pulling Basch closer. Was he scared of his own brother?

"You said –" Francis started.

"I lied. Get out of here right now if you want Basch back alive. I can make sure his interrogation goes flawlessly," Gilbert said, looking around for Ludwig. "I need a witness so Ludwig doesn't think I let all of you get away. I promise, I'll return him to Vienna without a scratch on him. But if you don't go, I will kill him here."

"Go," Basch said, looking down at Lilli. Her green eyes were welled up with tears, hand clenched tight around Francis'.

"Basch, we can't trust this man," Francis said. "I'd rather we die together."

"Won't you listen to me for once?! I want you two to live!" Basch snarled, trying to keep himself from crying. He could not look weak, not in the arms of the enemy.

"And I want you to live!" Francis shot back.

"Take Lilli and go. You've got the keys to my house."

"Basch," Lilli whimpered as she took a step towards him, "I want to stay with you."

"I know. You've got to be brave and do this for me," Basch said with a faked smile. "I'll be back soon. I trust the colonel to keep me alive."

"I won't let anyone hurt him," Gilbert assured the girl – Basch couldn't tell if he meant it.

"Gilbert, we have a problem! Where the hell are you?!" Ludwig shouted, sounding closer than before.

Francis finally understood. He ushered Lilli into the Mercedes before getting into the driver's seat. He glanced back at Basch as he started the engine. Basch wondered if it would be the last time he saw his cousin. Would he never see those brilliant blue eyes again or hear that gentle voice talk about divorces? Would that last glance be the end of so many years spent together?

And what about Lilli? She depended on Basch for everything. Would she be alright living with Francis? Would she go back to school? Would she ever forget when she left her big brother in the arms of a madman?

And before Basch knew the answer, the Mercedes was gone.

"Get down on your knees. My gun's empty, I swear," Gilbert ordered, letting Basch go. The man did exactly as he was told, wiping away his tears with the back of his sleeve. If Ludwig saw him crying, it would be over. He had to be the same emotionless figure Ludwig was used to interrogating.

"There you are," Ludwig said, coming around the corner of the house. He was holding a dog on a short leash, the white beast snarling at Basch. "Who is that?"

"Basch Zwingli. It's a long story," Gilbert replied. "So, what were you yelling about?"

"Hochstetter and I may have accidentally closed this case before it officially opened and we have zero evidence to support anything. Hochstetter's inside, looking through everything to try and find something to prove our point. Although," Ludwig said, "what does Basch know about this? And why is he even here?"

"Nothing," Basch snapped. "It doesn't matter to you."

"He's not very cooperative. How did this case close?" Gilbert said, giving Basch a nudge with the barrel of his gun to make him stop talking.

"Von Wolffe sort of pulled a gun on Hochstetter and Hochstetter might've panicked and shot him. In the head."

"Why did you come, grey fog, grey fog," the soft voice sang to the rhythm of the train, snapping Eduard out of his thoughts. "You, who covered the path to my loved one?"

Eduard didn't speak Polish, but almost immediately he recognized the song. It was one of the songs Toris sang when he was working or trying to get Raivis back to sleep after a nightmare. He'd taught Eduard and Raivis all the quiet melodies to sing when they were cutting wheat in a farmer's field, dying of heat in the middle of July. Most of the songs were gloomy compared to Estonian songs, however, they fit right in with the state of the war. Although, Toris usually changed the names in songs to something else: sloneczko. He said it meant sunshine, whoever sunshine was.

"Hey, Feliks, do you know the song about poverty?" Eduard asked. Feliks bolted upright, hay stuck in his blond hair and clinging to his shirt. He looked down from his perch at Eduard like he'd just been told the Gestapo was behind him.

"Oh, my God, you're awake?" Feliks stammered in his awkward German. The two couldn't decide on what language to speak – Feliks violently refused to speak in Russian – so they'd semi-agreed on German. It wasn't the language of choice, but it worked.

"I've been awake for a long time," Eduard said. "I didn't want to interrupt you."

"You at least could've said something," Feliks said, pulling a strand of hay from his hair and flicking it down towards Eduard. "I wouldn't have, like, sang or anything. Look, now you've got me embarrassed."

"It's not like you're bad at singing," Eduard assured him. "You're actually pretty good compared to a lot of people. There's this American guy at my prison camp, and he thinks he can sing, but…"

"It sounds like animal screeching?"

"Exactly," Eduard said. "I heard you talking a few hours ago, too. What was that about?"

"You heard what?!" Feliks hid his face with his hands, falling back on the hay. He muttered a few words in Polish, pausing as if waiting for an answer from Eduard.

"Uh, I don't speak Polish, though," Eduard said after a pause in case Feliks decided to start talking. "I had no idea what you were saying. If you were speaking Polish, I mean."

"Liar. You're a little Russian spy. All spies speak Polish. Even I know that."

"No, I'm not lying. Or a spy."

"Then how do you know the song about poverty?" Feliks growled. "That's a Polish one, unless you Russian creeps stole it like you steal everything else. First half my country, now our songs?"

"I'm not a Russian," Eduard said for what must've been the thousandth time that day. Feliks wasn't quite convinced Estonia was a real country yet; Eduard had a lot of work to do. "And I have a friend who taught me Polish songs. I have no idea what most of them mean."

"Whatever, Eddy. Can I call you Eddy?" Feliks asked, leaning over the hay to look down at Eduard for his approval.

"I guess if –"

"Great!" Feliks said before Eduard could finish, perking right up again. Did anything ever bring him down for longer than a minute? "Hey, are you hungry?"

"Yes," Eduard replied. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ate – somewhere between the hospital and the train station where they threw him into a cattle car.

"Nice to meet you, Hungry. I'm Feliks!" He flashed him a stupid smile, pulling his bag off his shoulder. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself," he said as emptied the bag onto the hay, bright packages going everywhere.

"You said you had a bad sense of humour. I didn't think it was that bad until you said that," Eduard groaned; he'd heard the same type of jokes from Alfred, a notoriously bad comedian.

"You're welcome to leave if you think it's that awful." Feliks gestured towards the open door. "Hope you don't mind jumping off a moving train. And what do you like better? Peppermint, licorice, or um…whatever these things are." Feliks dangled a tube in front of Eduard's face. "You read English?"

"Are you sure that's edible?" Eduard asked, taking the cardboard tube from him. English words were printed on it, words he hadn't picked up from the English-speaking prisoners. "What the hell does M&M mean? Murder and misery?"

"I have no idea. I was, like, too scared to open it when I got it," Feliks said. "They're made in America or maybe Britain. I wasn't going to ask the man I stole them from."

"You stole these?"

"You stole these?" Feliks mocked in a high pitched voice, over exaggerating a Russian accent. "Ja, Russki, some of us have to occasionally steal to survive out here in the wilderness. I don't have Yugoslavian money or Nazi money. Trust me, the people in Belgrade aren't very understanding. I thought they were going to chase me off the continent when the guy realized I'd taken about half his store."

"I thought you were above thievery," Eduard mumbled, warily pushing the lid off of the tube. He spilled a few of the vibrantly coloured things into his hand. Eduard was strangely reminded of a picture book of animals he used to have when he was younger. The brightly coloured frogs and snakes were always poisonous, exactly like the candy. "In case they're laced with arsenic," he said, "You're going to eat one with me."

"We'll die together, like Romeo and Juliet," Feliks said, choosing a purple circle from Eduard's hand.

"Except we're not in love and our families don't hate each other."

"Well, ja, let's forget being in love," Feliks agreed. "That and my family is dead."

"So is mine," Eduard said, examining the supposed candy. A white "m" was stamped on the coating – perhaps representing malice?

"Alright, we're the orphaned Romeo and Juliet. You ready, Juliet?"

Eduard nodded, taking a red candy of his own. He looked up at Feliks, and the boy popped the candy in his mouth. Eduard kept his part of the unintentional suicide pact, putting the little red circle in his mouth. He waited for whatever arsenic poisoning felt like, wondering what the people unloading the train would think when they found two dead bodies?

"…It's chocolate," Feliks said unsurely, glancing back down at Eduard. "I think."

"They're surprisingly good," Eduard said as he ate another red one.

"And probably, like, made of cyanide. Give me some more of those, would you? If I'm going to die, I want to at least enjoy my last few minutes here." Feliks held out his hands and Eduard spilled out more of the M&M's.

Feliks didn't say anything for a while as the train rolled through the bare countryside, only silently begging for more M&M's with outstretched hands. When the tube was empty, Feliks disappeared from sight and went back to humming his songs. Eduard tucked the tube in his pocket next to the stag figure – he'd show it to Alfred and Arthur when he got back and see if the two knew what an M&M was.

His heart started aching for Stalag XVIII-A, of all places. Christmas morning was the one time the commandant would give them uncensored letters and Red Cross packages. Everyone in Barrack Two would stay up far past lights out and tell stories about home. Alfred's stories were always the best – everyone except Arthur wanted to live in America. The American painted images of the great cities in the United States, from New York City to Los Angeles.

Last year, Eduard had told Alfred to shut up and go to bed. Now he wanted to hear about Kansas City barbeque more than ever. And he was stuck on a cargo train with a stranger because neither of them had a Reispass. The two outlaws couldn't even get into Austria legally, so they climbed onto a train headed for Vienna and hid underneath boxes and square bales of scratchy hay.

"Is this your first Christmas away from home, Eddy?" Feliks asked, jumping down from his hay bale to sit down by Eduard.

Eduard glanced over at the boy. "How could you tell?"

"You're looking, like, super depressed," Feliks said. "Lighten up a bit! It's Christmas Day and we're not dead from American candy yet and you're with the best human in Europe!"

"Feliks, don't take this personally, but I hardly know you," Eduard said, going back to watching the countryside.

"And I hardly know you," Feliks added.

"Why are we even together, then?"

"Because I'm a good person and I'm going to bring you back to your family." Feliks gave him a little nudge. "That and you have a lot of things to use against me. I couldn't let you go out into the world knowing I was a thief and thinking I was a murderer."

"Oh, right," Eduard said, forcing memories of the morning out of his thoughts.

Feliks realized his mistake, putting on another grin. "Never mind that. You said something about the poverty song, didn't you?"

"Do you know it?"

"Although poverty is hitting, I won't tell anyone!" Feliks partially sang, mostly screamed.

"I will sing among my people, and cry at home," Eduard finished not quite as loudly, scared someone would hear them.

"And though the Nazis are coming, I won't run from home!"

"I'll fight for my people, and die for you, my sunshine."

Feliks made a strangled gasping sound, grabbing Eduard's wrist. "Where did you learn that?" he snapped. "Who taught you that?"

Eduard pulled Feliks' hand off of his arm, backing away from the boy. "The friend I was talking about earlier –"

"What's his name?"

"Toris Laurinai –"

"Oh, my God, you know Toris?!" Feliks took Eduard's dirtied shirt in his hands, pulling him close. "Toris Laurinaitis? Dark brown hair, green eyes, the most adorable stutter in the universe? He likes to make figures and he shakes a lot when he gets scared?"

"You know Toris?" Eduard asked.

"I'm Feliks Łukasiewicz! Hasn't he said anything about me?"

"You're Feliks?"

"How many other Polacks named Feliks does Toris talk about?"

"No, I just thought Feliks would a lot older than you are!"

"I'm the same age as Toris," Feliks said. "I'm older than him by a few months, even. I'm the older one." Feliks dropped Eduard, his smile fading into tears.

Eduard couldn't think of anything to say – the scrawny boy before him was the man Toris talked endlessly about? The one he wrote letter after letter to and carved animals and people for? He was the Feliks that Toris told Raivis about, the hero in all of his bedtime stories?

"How is he?" Feliks said, his voice paper thin. Tears trailed down from his eyes – Eduard couldn't decide if they were happy or sad. "Is he alright?"

"I…I think he's…" Eduard went quiet again, pulling his knees up to his chest.

He couldn't tell Feliks the truth. He couldn't tell Feliks about Ivan and the typhus outbreak and the horrors of the Soviet compound. The more Eduard thought about it, the more Eduard wondered if Toris really was alive. He'd been treating Raivis for typhus and taking care of some of the other sick Russians. And one night Toris told Eduard he hadn't ever had typhus and he was terrified he was going to get sick. Who knew what had happened to everyone in the weeks Eduard had been gone.

"You think he's what?" Feliks urged. "What happened?"

Eduard glanced at Feliks, trying to figure out the easiest way to tell the boy. He looked so much younger than Toris, still naïve and untouched by the war. Why did Eduard have to be the one to break his heart?

"Feliks, I think Toris is dead."

The sentence felt so natural and so wrong at the same time.

"Fraulein?"

"Yes, my Herr?"

Natalya almost-smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She'd grown to like her new nickname. "I was just thinking; what are we going to do when the war's over?"

"I suppose we'll get married," Roderich said. Natalya raised her hand like she was going to slap him, her almost-smile already gone.

"That's not funny," she huffed. "I mean it. What are we going to do when this war ends?"

"It depends on who wins. If the Allies win, we'll go back to our normal lives and forget that this ever happened. But if the Axis wins…" Roderich didn't want to think about what would happen if the Axis won. He'd be stuck as Roderich von Wolffe forever, hiding his heritage and making music for Hitler. And if Operation Edelweiss managed to carry on until the war ended, Roderich would have to keep writing codes in his music and inviting the Gestapo to his home.

Natalya didn't say anything in reply – she was fully aware of what could happen if the Axis won. All of Vienna's Angels knew. They could only hope that the Allies would take over Europe and the Pacific. Their lives depended on the soldiers at the Eastern Front, on the men fighting for every island in the ocean.

Roderich looked down at the sidewalk, hoping to God that the Allies would make a surprise attack in the next few months and everything would be over. Then he could stop going to Berlin and pretending to love a woman who was supposed to murder him. He could go back to writing operas and symphonies. Perhaps he could get Elizabeta back, seeing as her husband would be a POW or in jail.

And maybe he could go back to being Roderich Edelstein.

"We could stage a breakup," Natalya suggested out of the blue. "A huge fight between Hitler's composer and a Parisian model. I'd pay money to watch that."

"Of course you would," Roderich muttered. "You'd pay money to watch any sort of fight."

"I'd put at least ten hundred marks on myself winning. Maybe more," Natalya said.

"The one way you would have a chance win is if I was drunk. And I'm not drinking anymore."

"You're still an alcoholic at heart. You'll go right back to drinking when you're allowed to." Natalya pressed closer to Roderich as a stranger walked by, taking his hand and putting on a grin. Once the man was gone, Natalya's affection went with him.

"Can't you ever be supportive of me?" Roderich asked, looking over at the woman. She shrugged.

"What's the point in building you up if the world's going to tear you down?" she said, leading Roderich to a decrepit looking apartment complex. There were one or two lights on in the windows, and some windows had spider web cracks running over the glass. The bricks were crumbling and the paint on the door was almost gone.

"You live here?" Roderich said, hoping he didn't sound too rude. He'd expected Natalya to live in one of the grand inner city suites, not some cheap tenement.

"Until Francis gets me a full set of papers, I have to live here." Natalya didn't sound too happy about her living situations either. Then again, when was she ever happy?

"You could stay with someone else instead of here," Roderich said. "Mathias can probably get you a better room. Hell, you could even stay with me. We're lovers, after all."

"I'd rather not run the risk of you getting some idea in the middle of the night." Natalya shook her head. "Oh, fraulein, you've got a lot to learn about the world." She turned to go up to her apartment, giving Roderich a wave. "Guten Abend."

"Wait," Roderich said, running up the steps to stop her. She started to push him out of the way, but he got back in front of her. "I have something for you."

Natalya arched an eyebrow. "It better not be a wedding ring or I am going to have to kill you."

"No, no, no, it's nothing – well, it is something like that," Roderich said. He pulled a tiny box from his pocket, holding it out. "I don't know if you Russians have Christmas or anything. So, if you don't, that's a thank you for not assassinating me."

"Christmas was outlawed in 1917," Natalya said without any inflection in her words.

"It's a thank you, then."

Natalya took the velvety box from him, slowly opening it. Her face went red, and she shut the box with a prompt snap.

"You said it wasn't a wedding ring," she growled, holding up the ring. It sparkled under the dim lamplight, the gemstone going from purple to blue. "You're either blind or a liar."

"It's not a wedding ring. I can't afford diamonds. The stone's called alexandrite," Roderich assured her. "It's from Russia. And I thought I should do something for you because you didn't kill me this trip and it is Christmas."

"You bastard. You don't have to do things to be nice."

"You said it yourself. I've got too good of a heart," Roderich said with a smile. "Have a happy whatever it is that you Russians celebrate."

"Um, thank you, fraulein," Natalya stammered, slipping the ring onto her gloved finger.

"It's nothing. I'll see you soon, mein Herr."

Roderich waited until Natalya went inside before he left on the long walk home. He'd never seen Natalya that flustered about anything – she was always stern and serious. Was there a nice woman beneath her cold shell? He couldn't even imagine describing Natalya as "nice".

Anything was possible in a war, though.

What a strange war this is, Roderich thought. First my name, then my job, and lastly, Natalya. Nothing's really the same anymore, is it?

Roderich walked past Mathias and Lukas' bar, noticing the lights on upstairs. What were those two planning in their living room? He could see it now, Mathias with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other and Lukas wiring new explosives to be sent to the other teams across Europe. Soon Mathias would be radioing a partisan group, telling them the new plans and codes.

He passed the office where Francis' accounting and lying business was. Roderich spent plenty days in the tiny back office, organizing papers out for families going over to Switzerland. Francis, like any true professional, had covered the walls of his private office in pinup girls and pictures of old girlfriends and wives. The office everyone saw was always clean and the private office was less than presentable. Tomorrow, Francis would be hidden in the private office, making new passports.

Then he came to the schoolyard he'd walked by months ago, where he first met Ludwig. He was terrified the Gestapo man was going to arrest him right there, that someone knew who he was. Ludwig was so shy then, a scared boy in uniform. They were afraid of each other. Yet somehow, they'd become rather close in three months. Roderich didn't think he'd ever be inviting the kriminalinspektor to his house to get drunk, and he was.

And then he came to the house that changed his life forever. Basch's rundown home was dark, the curtains drawn closed. Was he home yet? He'd said something to Roderich about being back by Christmas Eve, and there hadn't been a sign of him yet. Roderich figured it wouldn't hurt to check.

He went up to the front door, knocking on it a few times. There wasn't an answer – which wasn't unlike Basch. Roderich waited to see the curtain in the window flutter and for Lilli to come running out. But there was nothing.

"Basch?" he called out. "It's Roderich. Are you home? Please, if you are, don't ignore me. We've been worried about you and Francis here."

He was beginning to get worried when no one answered. It wasn't like Basch to be this late to get home. Basch was always punctual.

"Um, who are you?"

Roderich turned around, startled to find a man in Luftwaffe uniform standing next to a blond boy. The Luftwaffe man came up onto the porch, leaving the boy back in the yard. For a second they stared at each other, trying to figure out what the other was doing there.

"Herr von Wolffe, right?" the one in uniform said unsurely. He came up to Roderich, his blue eyes twinkling. "You sometimes come to Stalag XVIII-A to talk with Alfred."

"Ja. And you are?" Roderich asked; he didn't remember any Luftwaffe soldiers at the stalag. It wasn't even run by the Luftwaffe.

"I'm Eduard von Bock. I'm, well, I was one of Alfred's friends."

So it wasn't a Luftwaffe uniform.

"I remember you," Roderich said. "You were the one fighting with him when I was there last."

"Ja, that was probably me," Eduard said, looking down at the porch as his face grew pink.

"What are you doing out of the stalag?"

Eduard immediately looked up, taking a few steps back from Roderich. "You're not going to bring me back, are you?" he asked. "I can't go back yet. There's the quarantine and the fact that I'm supposed to be dead and –"

"How could you go back?" the other boy asked. Roderich saw that the boy's eyes were red rimmed, his nose a matching red. "Toris is dead."

"Oh, that's Feliks. We're outlaws together. Eduard gestured to the boy. "He was really good friends with Toris," he said, which explained the red eyes.

"What happened to him?" Roderich said, hoping they were talking about a different Toris. He was rather fond of the cute kid who hung around Ivan like a lost puppy.

"Typhus, I think," Eduard answered too quickly to be honest. "The camp's under quarantine at the moment. So I can't go back, and there's nowhere for Feliks and I to go."

"I still think we should sleep in the river. I'd be alright with drowning," Feliks muttered, kicking at the snow.

"Do you need somewhere to stay? I have an extra room and one of you could sleep on the couch. If you don't mind, that is," Roderich offered against most of his better judgement. He didn't know Eduard all that well – really, he knew the man's name and that he wasn't a serial killer. Roderich didn't have a clue as to who Feliks was. That wasn't the best criteria for inviting someone into his home.

"Are you serious?" Eduard asked, a bit unsure of Roderich's sudden kindness. He was a prisoner and Roderich was a Nazi; of course he'd be nervous.

"Absolutely," Roderich said. "I can call the stalag, too, and check on this Toris –"

"No, you better not," Eduard interrupted. "The commandant is really pissed and tired, and he already hates you. It'd be better to wait until the quarantine ends and then call. Come on, Feliks," he said. "Let's go. We've had a long day."

"Ivan, I don't want to send you to an institution," Gilbert said, his voice muffled by the door. Elizabeta stopped typing, getting up from her desk. It was wrong to eavesdrop, but how could she stay locked out of a conversation like this one?

"There's no need to send me to one." Ivan was as calm as ever. There was something different about his words, though, something that wasn't there before.

"You're legally insane," Gilbert said. "Do you see this list? That man is a doctor, Ivan. If he says you're abusive and have manic depression, you're abusive and you have manic depression. We need to do something about this."

"He only says I am insane because he hates the Russians. He threw in abusive for the hell of it."

"I've witnessed you being abusive to almost everyone. Just today, when Raivis came back, you wouldn't say anything to the boy even though he wouldn't stop talking to you. You hit the kid and told him to shut up!" Gilbert slammed his fist down on the desk. "You go right back to violence and words when you get mad. If that's not abusive, then what is?"

Ivan didn't reply for a long time, long enough for Elizabeta to get very concerned for her husband's safety. Should she check on him?

"I am not insane or abusive," Ivan said after what felt like hours. "It's not my fault Raivis is irritating and Toris doesn't know when to stop talking."

"You haven't acted like this since Toris first got here. You beat the hell out of that poor kid when he came here. That first week, he came to me at least once every day showing off a bruise or telling me about one of your advances. Then you calmed down. So, is this going to be a cycle? Will you be normal Ivan for a while and then go back to being a jackass?"

"I am normal right now."

"Ivan, if you don't straighten up, I will send you to the institution. Are you aware of what they do at asylums?"

Elizabeta backed away from the door. She'd heard the horror stories from people who lived near asylums, stories about ash clouds raining down every Tuesday and people never coming out of the building. Others had said they'd seen patients taken out to a ditch and shot in the back. And some said the people who weren't right in the head were worked to death or used as experiments.

She couldn't begin to think of sweet, lovable Ivan burning alive or being used as another genetic experiment. The timid man working to death was too much for her. Ivan wasn't someone without a mind, another slave to use in the German machine. He had his flaws, but that didn't make him worthless enough to throw away. Surely there was an alternative to the asylums.

"Elizabeta?" Gilbert called from the other room. "Would you come in here?"

Elizabeta held back her fears and smoothed out her dress, pushing open the door. Thankfully, Ivan was sitting in a chair in front of Gilbert's desk, Gilbert looking untouched. Ivan watched Elizabeta like she was some sort of animal, his indigo eyes studying her. What was he thinking?

"What are we going to do about Ivan?" Gilbert asked when she closed the door. "I don't want to turn to an institution. His transfers never go through. He absolutely cannot be with a human until he gets out of this abusive cycle."

"What if we put him in solitary until this blows over?" Elizabeta suggested, looking away from the Russian's hungry eyes. Ivan was never good at hiding anything, so why couldn't she figure out what he found so interesting about her?

"I can't keep anyone in there for more than three months because of the Geneva bullshit Convention," Gilbert grumbled, his disgust for laws growing more evident. "If this goes on for three months and one day, I'm demoted," he said. "We need something a bit more permanent."

"Should we put him in the isolation section?"

Gilbert looked up. "I thought about that. I don't think he'd learn if we kept him away from everyone else while he slept."

"What if we sent him out to the prison regiment?" Elizabeta said. "The one that works in the factories outside of town?"

"There's an idea," Gilbert said, glancing at Ivan. The man was still staring at Elizabeta, his eyebrows furrowed together.

"What?" Elizabeta asked, backing away from the man. She felt like Ivan was going to grab her or break her arm from the way he was looking at her.

"I thought you would defend me," Ivan said. "And you're saying I should go work in a war plant."

Elizabeta couldn't come up with anything to say. Was there a right response? How could she defend an abusive madman? She liked Ivan as much as the next person, however, there was a line he'd crossed when he struck Raivis. And she couldn't forgive him for that. Not yet.

The phone started ringing in the other room and Elizabeta took it as a quick excuse to get out of Gilbert's office. She ducked out into the other room, making sure to close the door. Elizabeta grabbed the phone from her desk, holding it up to her ear.

"Hello?" she said. "This is Colonel Beilschmidt's secretary speaking."

"Hey, Elizabeta. It's me," Roderich said, sounding unthinkably tired. "I'm not drunk or out of my mind or trying to kill myself. I need to talk."

"Roderich, I don't have time for this. I have work to do."

"And so do I. You're not the only one with a job."

"Except I have a real job."

"Ja, you do," Roderich said. "Music isn't work anymore."

Elizabeta paused – Roderich should've fought her for hours on why music was a real job. "Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not. I've been up since yesterday with a crying girl and my awful houseguest is starting another fight. I can't drink and my girlfriend won't answer my phone calls and God, I want to talk to you. Is that so wrong?"

"Can you explain that slowly?" Elizabeta said. "Especially the part about the girlfriend."

"She's not a real girlfriend. It's for this…this thing," Roderich sighed. "Adeline is a nice woman and all, but we're not serious about anything and – Eduard! Put that fork down! I don't care what he said to you, we don't stab people here!" Roderich shouted, another oddly familiar voice shouting back.

"Wait, is that Eduard?" Elizabeta asked. She could've sworn she heard Eduard. He'd been sent out to the death camp a long time ago – he should've been dead already. And what would he be doing in Vienna?

"Yes, that is Eduard von Bock. Don't ask me how he got here," Roderich growled. "He came here with some Polish kid, and the he has been raising hell with Mathias, a bartender from down the street. Not to mention I've been listening to a girl cry about her brother. Has whatever your husband's name is said anything about a Basch Zwingli? He was with Christian Kleiner and Lilli Zwingli. They got back yesterday at around two. They told me Basch got kidnapped or something like that."

"Uh, no, I haven't heard more than he's in Gestapo Headquarters in Graz. Seriously, is Eduard alive?"

"Unfortunately – what, Feliks? Oh, the Polish brat wants to know if Toris is alive."

"Toris? He's –" A loud crash broke the calm of the office, Ivan screaming at the top of his voice and Gilbert threatening to kill him before he Ivan had a chance to get to the asylum.

"It sounds like you're having fun over there," Roderich said; Elizabeta could almost see his smirk. "Well, I won't keep you. Besides, it looks like Feliks is about to strangle Mathias."

"I better go before someone dies," Elizabeta said. It felt so awkward to talk to her ex-husband like he was a normal person, like she was committing some horrible sin.

"Likewise. Oh, and does your husband's phone ring in his office?" Roderich asked. There was another crash from said office, sounding like shattered glass.

"That's it, Ivan! You're going to the war plant!"

"You can't make me!"

"No," Elizabeta replied, ignoring the war factory fight that had sprung up in the other room. "His phone doesn't ring."

"So I can call you without him knowing?"

"If you'd want to."

"Do you care if I call, or is that illegal?" Roderich said far too casually. Didn't they hate each other weeks ago? Elizabeta didn't understand that man when they were married, and she didn't understand him now.

"If you're alright dealing with Gilbert when he finds out, I'll talk to you," Elizabeta replied without even thinking.

"Thank you. I'm not trying to start anything, if that's what you're thinking. I just need to talk to someone who's not in this mess with me. I'll talk to you when there isn't going to be a murder," Roderich said. "Auf Weidersehen."

"Auf Weidersehen."

Elizabeta thought she wouldn't ever say those words to Roderich Edelstein again.

History notes:

M&M's: these beloved American candies were first sold in 1941. They were first sold in a cardboard tube until 1948, when they switched over to the brown bag we're used to. The inventor, Mars, got the idea from seeing soldiers eating chocolate covered in candy during the Spanish Civil War. He teamed up with a man by the name of Murrie, which is where we get M&M.

Feliks' songs: I found these in a National Geographic magazine from the 1970's. I changed the words a bit to fit the situation, but they're still very similar to the original. The songs come from a mountainous people in southern Poland.

Thank you's go out to europa1857, Lunar Loon, EllaAwkward, and Comix and Co! And shout out to my dear Swing-Stole-My-Heart for putting up with me!

Hope to see you all next chapter!