London spoke at exactly ten minutes to three.
The bursts of dots and dashes snapped Roderich awake, bringing him back to the cramped closet under the stairs. He blinked a few times, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Outside the door he could hear the gentle drum of rain on the roof; the start of a barfight from the next room over; Natalya and Lilli's footsteps from upstairs. Everything felt oddly normal, as if it was any other Friday morning.
Mathias was already up, tapping out a reply to Allied Headquarters. He handed Roderich a thin notebook and a pen, giving him a nervous smile. It wasn't his typical "I hate talking to Americans with their dumb English" smile but a "one mistake and we're in front of a firing squad" smile.
"Lukas came in while you were out and said there's a stranger in the bar," Mathias whispered as he spelled out the second stanza to "In Flanders Fields", one of five recognition codes Allied Headquarters required them to use, even in emergencies.
"So? Is it so wrong for a man to come to a bar?" Roderich asked with a yawn, listening to the clicks of the telegraph. He couldn't understand Morse code, however, he liked the way the clicks made little melodies. He imagined the "We are the Dead. Short days ago" line as the opening to a concerto that would never be. If Roderich found the time, he would have written a new piece for it.
"Lukas is worried the man's with the Abwehr," Mathias said, interrupting Roderich's fantasy symphony. "Well, he's as worried as Lukas can get. And if Lukas is worried, we all better be worried. I want you to get ready to drunk stall. There's a bottle of akvavit on the shelf, use that."
It took Roderich a moment to register what Mathias was saying to him – his mind was half-asleep and lost in music. "Give me the bottle," he said when the realization sank in. "I'd rather not be sober when the Abwehr man tells me I'm dead."
"Same here. Say, when this is over with, how about you and me go drink the rest of it out back?" Mathias whisper-suggested, taking the bottle down from the shelf above them and handing it to Roderich. The label was in Danish, a sure sign that whatever was inside of the bottle was much stronger than anything Roderich was used to.
"I can't," Roderich said louder than he meant to. Mathias flinched, shooting a glare at Roderich like he'd told Hitler exactly who they were talking to.
"Sorry," Roderich added, looking away from Mathias out of shame.
"You've been sober for too long." Mathias' voice was somehow softer than a whisper, yet as stern as ever. "And if by chance someone picks up on this signal and we…Oh, never mind that. Come drink with me after we get Lilli and Natalya out of here."
Roderich hung his head – Mathias always made him feel like he didn't have a choice. "Don't sound so desperate. I'll come out there with you. It'll be a nice goodbye."
"Alright, there's my fun Roder–" Mathias stopped midsentence, turning back to the transmitter. "Shit, they're talking. It's just protocol, though. Top secret, not to be repeated, not to be written down." He looked over at the notebook in Roderich's hands. "We'll burn that when we go drink."
"Are they talking in English or German tonight?" Roderich asked, drawing a treble clef at the top of the page. Before he knew it, he put in a time signature and started to fill in the notes for the "we are the Dead" line.
"Danish. I guess it's a bit harder to decode for the Nazis. Don't worry, I'll translate it to German for you." Mathias took the pen from Roderich's hands, forcing him to look up. "Pay attention, alright?" the Dane said. "This isn't something we can screw off with. It's a life and death sort of thing."
"I understand," Roderich said, taking the pen back from Mathias. It wasn't his fault music was in his heart, not secret messages from London.
"You better understand." Mathias tapped in the last code, the opening line to "To Germany"; London seemed rather fond of poems about the Great War. You are blind like us, the dots and dashes said.
Your hurt no man designed, came the reply.
"Alright, here we go," Mathias said as the clicks came in faster bursts. "Operation Overlord starts June 5th, 0545 hours. Contact by 0540. Signal is not to break unless it is an absolute emergency. If anything goes wrong, we can be executed by both militaries." Mathias went quiet although London was still talking. "Can you imagine that," he said, his voice trembling, "A joint firing squad? Make a note to have Lilli as far away as we can get her."
"Right."
"We must have a man in Normandy on June 5th by 1200 hours. I guess that would be Francis." Mathias tapped out the letters to Francis' name. Francis Pierre Bonnefoy sounded like the opening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony; it was loud and demanded attention, matching Francis' personality.
"At 0545 hours, Francis is going to call us here in Vienna and give us either the go-ahead or tell us to stop. If stop, oh, Lord, what's the German for straks?" Mathias asked, holding his head. "It's…It's like something that has to be done."
"Dringende?" Roderich suggested.
"Ja, ja, urgent. Danke. So, if it's no, then we tell London to stop immediately. We cut communications and destroy any records of the conversation. If it is clear, London wants us to go on the radio and have you play music. Anything, they're saying. That way if someone gets ahold of the frequency, they won't be able to tell what's going on."
"Will you ask them to define 'anything'?" Roderich said as he circled the word dringende to make sure he wouldn't forget it. "Because I don't want to start playing and ruin the whole thing because my definition of anything is different than theirs."
"Knowing you, that would happen." Mathias sent another message once Allied Headquarters paused for a moment, and almost instantly they replied. "Those English sure do like to talk," he muttered. "They're saying that they want regular old music. Preferably a piece you've wrote so there isn't much room for mistakes."
"I'll get to work on –" Roderich froze as he heard the familiar groan of the hallway door being opened.
The closet under the stairs went silent. Even Allied Headquarters stopped talking, as if they heard the creak all the way across the English Channel. A rumble of thunder broke the stillness. Roderich heard soft footsteps coming down the hallway, the steps of someone who did not want to be noticed. Mathias picked up the bottle and tore off the cap, pushing it into Roderich's hands.
"Go," Mathias said, his blue eyes flicking towards the door. "I'll get the rest of the details. If something goes wrong, you get Lilli and you get the hell out of here. I don't care if you have to go to Italy, you keep that girl safe."
Roderich couldn't come up with anything to say in reply. He got up wordlessly from his place in the corner, slipping out into the hallway. He closed the door behind him, walking out towards the foot of the stairs.
The possibly Abwehr, possibly Gestapo, most definitely not good man ran straight into Roderich as he came around the corner. Roderich was a good head taller than him – thank God for his height – but he could see the pistol on the man's hip. There was no way Roderich could reach inside his coat fast enough to have even a chance to shoot the man. For an instant, the two looked at each other, not sure what to think of the other.
"Guten Abend," the man said without any inflection. He wasn't going to pretend to be a regular person, which terrified Roderich more than anything. He was not going to give Roderich the benefit of doubt.
"An' a guten Abend to you too," Roderich slurred, giving the man a shove. "The hell you think you're doin' back here, shorty? This isn't your home to be walkin' through."
"Don't touch me, you drunk. I could have you thrown in prison faster than you could sober up," the man snarled. "Get out of here."
"Excuse me?" Roderich leaned up against the wall, clutching his shaking hand tighter around the bottle.
The man rolled his rather un-Aryan dark eyes. "I said, get out of here."
"I'm not deaf," Roderich said. "But I don't think you'd want to talk t' me that way. Do y' know who I am?" he asked before taking a drink from the bottle. Whatever it was, it burned more than Roderich was expecting. He held back a coughing fit, trying his best to keep a straight face as his eyes watered.
"You're some drunk bastard that is in my way, messing with my business." The man's hand went down to the pistol at his hip. "Would you like to have your obituary in tomorrow's paper?"
"Listen, shorty, have you ever heard of a guy named Roderich von Wolffe?" Roderich asked, putting an arm over the man's shoulder and pulling him close like he was about to tell him a good secret.
"What makes you think you can touch me so freely?" the man said as he pushed Roderich's arm off him and backed away. "And of course I've heard of von Wolffe. That has nothing to do with you, mischling."
"Y' callin' me a half-blood, are you? You think I'm a Jew or somethin'?"
"You look like every disgusting Jew I've sent to Auschwitz. I would love to see you on a train to the gas chambers with the rest of them."
That stung Roderich more than it should have. He lunged forward, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him up against the wall. "You called me a Jew," he hissed, jabbing the man's chest with every word. "Tell me, does Roderich von Wolffe look Jewish t' you?"
"I've never seen the man!"
"You're seeing him right now, asshole. And Hitler isn't going to be too damn happy to hear about some short brat calling his musician a Jew and assaulting him."
Roderich abruptly remember that he was no longer Hitler's musician. He started to panic – what if the man already heard how Roderich von Wolffe disappeared from the Nazis' inner circle? Roderich von Wolffe was dead to the Reich, leaving Roderich Edelstein in his place. He no longer carried an elite identity to back him up.
The man rolled his eyes once more. "You're not von Wolffe. You can't be. Last I heard, Roderich von Wolffe was in Berlin. And you, you drunk untermensch, are in a bar in Vienna."
"Are you so stupid you need proof?!" Roderich let go of the man, pulling his Reispass from his pocket and shoving it into the man's chest. The man glanced at it for only a second before handing it back over to Roderich, his whole demeanor changing in an instant.
"I am so sorry, Herr von Wolffe," he said, backing away towards the door that lead out to the bar. "I meant no harm to you. Please, don't say anything to the Führer."
"I'm going t' tell him everything. You better get the hell out of Europe if you want to live."
The man was speechless. He stumbled back to the door, never once looking away from Roderich. Roderich smiled, and the man immediately ducked back into the bar. By tomorrow morning he would be on a train to France or Italy, terrified Hitler was out for his head.
"Oh, my God," Roderich said to himself once he was sure the man was gone, slumping back against the wall. He stayed there for a long time, trying to calm his heartbeat. Outside, the thunderstorm raged on, raindrops pounding against the windows. In the other room, he heard Lukas closing the bar. And beneath the stairs, he heard the last tiny clicks from London.
It felt like any other Friday morning.
"Thank you," Mathias said when he stepped out from under the stairs. He closed the door and locked it behind him, coming over to Roderich. "I'm sorry I have nothing better to tell you. I think it's better that you and I just go out back and drink. Maybe I'll tell you in the morning."
"What are you saying?"
Mathias didn't answer, instead going to the backdoor and pulling it open. He stepped out onto the back porch, gesturing for Roderich to join him.
Thunderstorms reminded Roderich of his home back in Salzburg. When dark clouds would roll through the town, Ivan would sit at the window and watch the storm come in while Roderich hid under his blankets or in the closet. Ivan always pulled Roderich from his hiding places, telling him in broken German that everything was going to be fine.
And that night as he stood there next to Mathias watching tears roll down his face, the storm told Roderich everything was fine. Even as Mathias sat Roderich down on the steps and raindrops dotted their clothes, Roderich thought nothing was wrong. When Mathias said that they were about to go on a suicide mission, Roderich somehow believed it was going to be okay.
"What did they do to you today?"
Ivan held out his arm, pushing back the sleeve of his baby blue stolen RAF sweater – Alfred wouldn't miss it. "Blood tests, Frau Moyer," he said, showing off the bandages circling his arm. "They do not believe I am a real Russian."
"Very good," the woman said, shooing Ivan off. She usually asked for a written note from the physician, but the bloodstained bandages worked. Ivan pulled his sleeve back down to hide them and the other odd scratches and cuts before going over to his workplace and pulling out the box of pieces and the instructions given to him.
"What would you like to listen to, colonel?" Frau Moyer asked.
"If it's alright with you, can I listen to Anreiz?"
There was a pause in which Ivan was afraid he was going to get hit for speaking out so willingly. He tried to make himself sound as humble as he could, however, the Nazis took everything that came out of his mouth as offensive.
"I suppose blood tests make up for the lost work," Frau Moyer said at last, going over to the radio.
The radio was the one tool Frau Moyer could use to control Ivan, threatening to turn it off if he stared out the window for too long. She knew as well as Ivan did that neither of them could stand to work in a quiet office. The two of them scarcely ever talked, instead spending their thirteen hours together listening to orchestras and news bulletins. If Ivan did an especially good job that day, she would let him listen to a station from Moscow. Anreiz, Frau Moyer called the Russian station, although that wasn't its name.
"Today Comrade Stalin ordered for deportation of the Crimean Tartars for their allegiances and collaborations with the Nazis," the radio announcer said, his Russian making Ivan oddly homesick for Moscow. "After our victorious army freed Sevastopol, the Tartars continued to communicate with Nazi spies."
"I don't understand what you're getting out of this," Frau Moyer said. "All I understood was Stalin, and he's certainly not a good man."
Ivan knew he was not allowed to reply to that. Frau Moyer was not expecting an answer. And yet, Ivan wanted to tell her so badly that she was wrong, that Stalin was a wonderful man who saved so many people from the Nazis. So what if he was deporting a few rebels? It was for the good of Russia.
Ivan continued his work in silence, following the manual down to the exact detail. He'd tried to change things up on Tuesday and improve whatever it was he was making – that got him yelled at and sent to punishment labour for an hour. Never again would he help the Nazis and their less-than-perfect inventions.
They hadn't been listening for Anreiz for more than thirty minutes when someone knocked on the door. The radio was instantly turned off out of fear – Frau Moyer could be shot for listening to a Russian station. She straightened her tie and threw a warning at Ivan, telling him to be as unnoticeable as possible. Ivan kept working on the latest jumble of wires and relays.
Frau Moyer went out into the hall, closed the door behind her, and started growling German at whoever was out there. She returned moments later looking defeated, her usual strength gone. And there was a man with her, with a clipboard and an air of profession about him. Ivan didn't think much of the man at first – there were lots of them who came in and out of Frau Moyer's office, carrying blueprints and paperwork.
He started to worry when the man sat down next to him and started asking questions.
The questions were nothing difficult – he was shown an inkblot on a paper and asked what he saw. And after that the doctor asked about Ivan's past and if he always had nightmares and why he wore the pink scarf in the middle of May, which Ivan refused to answer. The man took measurements and compared his eye and hair colour on a chart. Then the doctor let him work in the stifling silence, watching as he pieced together wires and circuits.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the radio was on. The noiseless room accompanied with the man's stares and muttered German made Ivan feel less like a human and more like an animal. Perhaps that was what they were doing, bringing Ivan back down to the level of a stray dog. At least with music playing, he would have been a happy dog.
"Remarkable," the man said as Ivan twisted two wires together, tucking the ends into a metal cylinder about the size of his forearm. What was so impressive about that?
"Excuse me, mein Herr, but I really need to get home," Frau Moyer said, her voice losing the tenderness she used when talking to Ivan. "My husband and children are waiting for me, and I have to take the colonel back to the stalag."
"What colonel?" he asked.
"That would be me, sir. I am a colonel in the Red Army," Ivan said, too afraid to look up from his work to meet the man's eyes. He was not supposed to speak directly to anyone unless something was being demanded out of him.
"It says nothing about that on your papers."
"I am a Russian, sir. I do not deserve a rank, not in your army's mind." Ivan hung his head in shame, making sure to look as humble as he could. The Germans hated it when Ivan talked about his country with even the slightest sense of pride.
"Now that we've cleared that up, can I take him home?" Frau Moyer asked once again, considerably more irritated than the last time. "It's already nine."
Ivan glanced up – it was already nine? He came back to the office after the blood tests at four, and he thought it was somewhere around six or seven. Sure enough, the clock on the wall said it was nine o' clock. How did Ivan miss that?
"I am almost done," the man shot back with the same harsh tone, making Ivan go right back to work. Frau Moyer did the same, pretending to work on files Ivan watched her complete the day before.
"Braginsky, how are things at Stalag XVIII-A?" he continued, his pen poised above his clipboard in anticipation.
"Fine," Ivan replied, wiping out the inside of a metal tube with a rag. If the doctor wanted a good story to bring back to his superiors, Ivan was not going to give it to him.
"Do you have any complaints?"
"No."
Ivan heard the man sigh; he must have had a lot of reichsmarks on Ivan's complaints. "You don't have anything to say about the place you've been living for five years?" he said, although it came out as more of a plea.
"I have nothing," Ivan said.
"Your physician's report says you have manic depression and paranoia. Is this true?"
"They've added in paranoia?" Ivan stopped working, locking eyes with the doctor for an instant before looking away. "I hadn't heard that one yet. What gives me paranoia?"
"You have issues with nightmares," the man said, sounding almost excited that Ivan was starting to talk.
"So does everyone else. May I go home yet? I'm very tired, and you wouldn't want my paranoia to kick in. I might scare you."
The man did not respond for a long time, stunned that a Russian like Ivan had the nerve to talk to him like that. Ivan was rather surprised with himself as well – he never dared to speak out. Finally, the doctor rose from his chair, tucking his clipboard covered in notes under his arm. He shot a glare at Ivan, and all Ivan could do in his defense was look down at the floor.
"I expect he will have this done on time," the doctor said without missing a beat.
"I think he could have it done before the set launch date," Frau Moyer said. "He's rather intelligent."
"For a Slav, I suppose he is. And Colonel Braginsky, you better watch who you speak to. Not every German is as tolerant of you disgusting Slavic pigs as I am." He leaned in close to Ivan, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I will make sure your name is on the execution list once you are done with this project," he whispered. "And I personally will attend your hanging."
Frau Moyer didn't say anything for a long time after the man left, and neither did Ivan. He could almost feel the noose around his neck. Surely the doctor was trying to scare him – he wouldn't actually kill Ivan, would he? The thought alone was too much, taking his words away.
"Are you alright, colonel?" Frau Moyer asked as she pulled on her coat. "It's not like you to be so quiet."
"I'm fine," Ivan replied, putting the electrical pieces back in a box. He folded up the manual he'd been given, a thick booklet with V-1 and Project Auto printed on the front.
"If you say so. Would you like anything from Graz?"
"No. I want to go home," Ivan said. Frau Moyer didn't talk to him after that; she understood.
That night, like so many nights before it, Ivan fell asleep on the drive back to the stalag. Try as he might to stay awake, sleep always caught up to him. He would close his eyes for a moment and then open them to find Frau Moyer or Gilbert trying to wake him up.
The drive was usually too short for dreams – not that Ivan wanted dreams, his were always horrible. But that night, he dreamt of a noose around his neck, tightening with every breath until he couldn't breathe anymore.
"How is my dear kriminaldirektor doing today?"
"I like that. Kriminaldirektor Beilschmidt. You're still pissed that I'm the same rank as you, aren't you?"
Hochstetter closed the door behind him, his grin not quite so big as it was before. "You don't have to keep bringing it up," he grumbled, coming over to Ludwig's desk. "I got promoted years ago for getting shot in the chest and you get up to my level for doing absolutely nothing. It's not my fault I'm sore about it."
"It is, though. You wanted to keep the von Wolffe case quiet, and I decided it was the right time. And look," Ludwig said as he held up the report from the new kriminalinspektor, an angry little twenty-something with a huge hatred for Jews. "Roderich von Wolffe is drinking in public again. He's violent. And he's with Mathias Andersen and Lukas Bondevik, our favourite arsonists."
"You're trying to say he's falling apart," Hochstetter said.
"He's definitely not the man he was on Monday."
Hochstetter sat down beside Ludwig, shaking his head in disbelief. "We should've let this case go when we could. It's driving us both insane."
"I thought it was over when we sent Basch to the prisoner regiment," Ludwig said. "I didn't think they would keep going and dragging this out for three more years. And I'm sure they've got one or two more years of hell left for us."
"They're going to keep going until the end of the war, not just a few years," Hochstetter said, twisting the ring on his finger.
"Are you ever going to take that ring off?" Ludwig asked. "I don't feel safe with you wearing it."
"Because I might kill you?" Hochstetter held up his hand, touching the very edge of the ring. The tiny and lethally poisoned spike popped out like a cat's claw.
"No, I worry you might kill yourself. Funerals are getting rather expensive. Please put that away before you hurt yourself and I have to explain to your parents how you died."
Hochstetter groaned, carefully pushing the spike back into its place. "You're no fun, Beilschmidt. And besides, women love a married man because they can't have him. Ever since the boss gave me this ring, I've started at least five affairs."
"You're hopeless and a life ruiner."
"I might be hopeless, but I'm a cute sort of hopeless."
"Cute is stretching it," Ludwig said. "Are you done for the night?"
"What, do you need me to walk you home?" Hochstetter asked with a smirk. "Is Fraulein Beilschmidt scared of walking home alone? Don't worry, my dear, I stopped working two hours ago. I'm not done with most of my files."
Ludwig sighed, grabbing the rest of his work and shoving it into a briefcase. "It's a miracle they haven't sent you back to Berlin or fired you yet," he said, giving Hochstetter a nudge. "I can't wait until you do get sent somewhere else."
"You know you love me," Hochstetter said in a sing-song voice, following Ludwig out of his office. Together they walked out of Gestapo Headquarters, Hochstetter stopping to say goodbye to almost everyone.
The sun was setting by the time Hochstetter finally shut up and they made it outside. Hochstetter seemed much more cheery than usual – he must've had a girl waiting for him at home. Ludwig felt a twinge of guilt for the poor woman, as she had no idea that the man she thought was hers was sleeping with most of Vienna. And he didn't even want to think how many one-night stands Hochstetter left in Berlin.
"Hey, kid, what are you going to do after the war?" Hochstetter asked, stepping over a puddle left from the previous night's storm.
"Work for the Gestapo, because I don't see myself losing this job. You should probably plan for the future, though," Ludwig replied. "I can't think of a job out there right for you. Maybe work in a Soviet gulag?"
"Let's play devil's advocate for a minute here and say Germany doesn't win the war. I'm not saying that'll happen, though," Hochstetter added, ignoring Ludwig's comment about the gulags. "What would you do if there was no such thing as the Gestapo?"
"I would work for another military office."
"God, you're killing me," Hochstetter said, dragging his hands down his face. "There is no military. None. What are you going to do to make money?"
"I guess I would go work with my brother," Ludwig said.
"And what would your brother be doing?"
"Auto-mechanic things? He likes fixing cars and motorcycles," Ludwig answered. "Or maybe he would join an orchestra. He plays the flute surprisingly well."
"I can see that. Now, don't you want to ask me what I want to do?" Hochstetter said, coming back to Ludwig's side like a dog begging for table scraps.
Ludwig smiled. "No, I don't."
"Thank you for asking, Ludwig. You see, I think if this war goes bad for us Germans, I want to be an actor," Hochstetter carried on. "When I was a kid, I went to go see Meine Schwester und ich when it opened in Berlin because my father was sort of a conman and could get anything if we wanted it; that's another story. Anyway, I've always wanted to be an actor since then. I thought I could make it to Hollywood or Broadway, except they already have Marlene Dietrich and they don't want another German, not after this war."
"I could see you as an actor," Ludwig said, feeling something akin to sympathy for Hochstetter. He quickly crushed that feeling. "It's a lot of cheap work, though. I've heard you don't get paid that much and there's lots of fights."
"So? I get in fights already. And money doesn't make the world go 'round like they say it does. Besides, I'll never have a wife to tie me down."
"You're never getting married?" Ludwig asked. It didn't seem right for Hochstetter to be such a hopeless romantic and then say he would never marry.
"Hell no," Hochstetter said, kicking at a loose bit of concrete. "I get bored with the same girl. You have to change things up. And sure, Hitler wants all pretty German boys like me to make pretty German kids. Well, mein Führer, that's not how it's going to work." He turned to face Ludwig. "You can make the Aryan kids while I go perform."
"That's not happening."
"Ja, you're right. You're scared of women," Hochstetter said. "Tell you what, you should come be an actor with me."
"I am not scared of women. And I'm not meant to be an actor," Ludwig shot back, feeling his face go red.
"Don't lie to yourself, kid. You're going to be a star." Hochstetter put an arm around Ludwig's shoulder. "Can't you see it now?" he asked with a stupid grin. "Me and you –"
"It's 'you and I,'" Ludwig corrected.
"Shut up. Can't you see Hochstetter and Beilschmidt: The best thing to come out of Germany since beer," Hochstetter said. "We could be stars together."
"I think I'll stick with the Gestapo," Ludwig said, taking Hochstetter's arm off of him. "You go be the best thing to come out of Germany since beer."
Hochstetter started to say something before being cut off by piano music. Ludwig then realized that they were standing in front of Roderich's house, the windows in his study wide open. He didn't seem to be playing music, though. It was one note over and over, sometimes held for a few seconds or only an instant.
"Do you think von Wolffe knows he just said "we are the dead" in Morse code?" Hochstetter asked quietly, as if Roderich would be able to hear him.
"You know Morse code?"
"Sure," Hochstetter said. "See, he's playing chords and stuff and there's a message mixed in there." He leaned up against Roderich's porch, closing his eyes and listening intently to the music. "Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved and now we lie in…Austria's fields?" Hochstetter opened his eyes. "It's supposed to be 'In Flanders Fields,' isn't it?"
"It is," Ludwig said, wishing he'd taken the time to learn Morse code. How many secret messages had he missed in Roderich's music? He'd heard nearly every piece at least once; that added up to around forty or fifty messages.
"Must be some new artist thing," Hochstetter said, shrugging it off. "Those creative people are always doing things like that, thinking they're 'revolutionary.'"
"140084, you're out of uniform," Basch's superior officer said, pointing to him almost accusingly with a branch he must've torn from a tree. "And you too, 140196."
"Boris, it's bloody hot. I'm not going to wear a uniform and Daan doesn't wear his uniform to begin with," Basch said, putting his head down on his desk. Who knew May could get so hot in Czechoslovakia?
"This is nothing," Boris said with a mocking laugh. "You've never been hot until you've lived through a summer in Sofia. I thought I'd gone to hell. I was waiting for Satan to show up and tell me I'd died in my sleep."
"Baby," Daan muttered, pulling at his collar.
"Oh, you have no idea what it's like to suffer." Boris leaned back in his chair, propping his dirty boots up on the table. Basch resisted the urge to push the Bulgarian over – it was better to stay on Boris' good side. One word from him could have Basch sent to a real concentration camp.
"Were you tortured in Gestapo Headquarters for five weeks?" Daan asked. "Did not think so," he said without waiting for Boris' answer.
"I've been in Headquarters more times than I can count. And I've got a helluva lot of marks to prove it," Basch said, pulling up his shirt to show off the scars on his back. Boris let out a low whistle, his grin unfading.
"Impressive," Boris said. "Except you're forgetting I was in Banjica before they sent me here. They used to put at least a hundred Jews and Slavs like me against a wall and shoot 'em down one by one."
"How scary," Basch said as he picked out the guts of a Luger.
"It was. Do you have any idea what it was like to wonder if you would get picked for execution?"
"No, and I don't care."
Boris leaned over and poked Basch's chest with the stick. "Listen, 140084, I saw my best friend get shot against that wall. He found out the list for selection and took my place. Vladimir died so I could have a chance to get out of there."
"He sounds like a vampire," Daan said. "Wasn't Vladimir a vampire name?"
"I think so. Like, Vlad the Impaler? Was your Vladimir related to that guy?" Basch asked, sorting out the parts of the Luger and trying to find the broken one.
"You think you're so funny, don't you?" Boris sat upright again, putting the stick under Basch's chin and pushing his chin up. "If you weren't so good at your job, I would put you on that kill list."
"You put me on the kill list and I am alive." Daan pretended to check his pulse. "My heart is still beating."
"They won't kill you because you're smart," Boris said. "And not to mention good-looking."
"Are you hitting on me?"
Boris shrugged. "I was arrested for being a homosexual or something like that. Funny thing is, I had a girlfriend at the time. I should have been arrested for sabotage, too. I guess they overlooked me burning down a Nazi building. Anyhow, I'd told this guy a week before that if I wasn't a man, I'd kiss him. You got to appreciate beauty, right? I guess he went to the Gestapo and told them I tried to sleep with him. Just my luck."
"How cute," Basch grumbled; he didn't need Boris' stories when it was deathly hot in their tent-turned-gun-repair-shop.
"It is a cute story," Boris said, failing to pick up on the sarcasm.
"Hey, 140084!" the small mail-boy shouted, running into the tent. He too was out of "uniform", if eleven-year-olds wore a uniform. The kid was the commander's son, though, he could wear shorts if he wanted to and no one would yell at him. "I have a letter for you!"
"Thanks for announcing that to everyone," Daan muttered.
"Did mine make it through the censors?" Basch asked as the boy handed over the envelope. The boy shook his head.
"Sorry. They really don't like you," the boy said. "I stole that one for you," he added, gesturing to the letter in Basch's hands.
"Here. For your troubles." Daan reached into his pocket, pulling out two candies. The boy's face lit up and he took them from Daan's hands, gasping a thank-you before unwrapping one of the candies and putting it in his mouth.
"You had those all this time and you didn't share with your favourite Bulgarian?" Boris asked, sounding quite offended.
"I hate you. You are definitely not my favourite."
"Oh, Boris?" the boy said. "They want you at the main office. Dad says you're in trouble for kissing another prisoner."
"Tell your father that man grabbed me and kissed me before I could do anything. He's been doing that for weeks, pretending to fall in love with some of the homosexuals we have here and then running to the commandant and bitching about how he's being assaulted by a bunch of…" Boris stopped short, remembering how old the boy was and who his father was.
"They still want you at the office."
"Because some asshole tried to get on the commander's good side by kissing me? Where is the democracy here?" Boris got up from his chair, leaving the tree branch leaning against it. "Don't kill each other while I'm gone, alright?" he said, looking right at Basch.
"I'll try not to," Basch replied.
"I'll shoot him," Daan said not as jokingly as Basch would have liked.
Once Boris was gone, Basch ripped open the latest letter. Every time he got a letter it was better than the one before it, its author talking about the wonderful siege that was going to happen in June. Basch was ashamed to say that the letters got his hopes up – maybe there was a chance for the lonely prisoners in rural Czechoslovakia.
"Who is it?" Daan asked, leaning over to read over Basch's shoulder. "Who is Roderich?"
"This Jew I know from Vienna," Basch said, wondering why Roderich wrote him. For the past three years, Roderich had never once reached out to him. Why now?
"Read while I sit here and do nothing," Daan ordered, mocking Boris' accent. "Tell me about this Jew. I bet he's cute."
"No, Roderich isn't a cute man. Very Jewish looking, though. Dear Basch," Basch started to read aloud. Then he took one look at the first paragraph and couldn't continue.
"…Is that it?" Daan asked, a touch of worry in his words. "Just 'dear Basch'?"
"It's a private letter," Basch said too hurriedly, shoving the letter in his pocket. He had read two sentences in the letter; it scared him more than anything ever said to him.
I saw Mathias cry for the first time, Roderich had written in his shaky handwriting that got worse the later it was. I feel as if the world is coming to an end.
"Are you ashamed of your Jewish friend?" Daan asked, going back to work. "Is that it?"
"No, not at all."
"Then why do you hide his letter?"
"It's…It's private, alright?" Basch snapped. "I don't always have to know what your letters say."
"I have only gotten one letter. From Laura. She told me our parents were shot in the street," Daan said, his voice cracking ever so slightly. "They were not allowed a funeral."
The two did not talk after that.
Daan did not return to the barracks that night, leaving Basch with the time to read through the letter. He pulled it from his pocket once he was sure no one was watching him, getting as close to the window as he could so he could read.
"Dear Basch," it started, like so many letters before it.
"We have received some rather unfortunate news here. I saw Mathias cry for the first time. I feel as if the world is coming to an end. And yet, I can't do anything except write to you. I'm sorry I've never wrote before – I was too afraid to. Now that I'm no longer working for Hitler, I feel like it's safe to write you.
"Everything is so lonely here without you, Basch. I can't go to your house without wanting to cry. Francis lives there now, so Lilli didn't have to move to the inner city. That doesn't make it any easier, though. I can tell that Mathias and Natalya hate going to your house, too. It's hard to read Lukas.
"I fear that when you come back to Vienna, none of us will be here. You see, Basch, I may die very soon, along with Lukas, Mathias, Natalya, Francis, Eduard, Feliks, and God forbid, Lilli. I fear none of us will be here if you ever make it home. Our lives are in the most danger they've ever been in. Those cyanide capsules you gave us so many years ago…Oh, there's no easy way to put it.
"I'm going to kill myself on June 5th.
"Regretfully yours,
"Roderich von Wolffe."
History notes/translations:
In Flanders Fields – this is a famous poem written by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae of the Canadian Army. He wrote the poem after going to the funeral of a friend that died at the Second Battle of Ypres. This poem is where the remembrance poppy comes from. If any of you ever get the chance to go to the WWI Museum in Kansas City, when you walk in there is a glass bridge over a field of poppies inspired by the poem.
To Germany – this a poem written by Charles Hamilton Sorley, also about WWI. Sorley was in Germany when the war broke out in 1914, and as an Englishman, was interrogated by the German police before being released. He then joined the army, where he died at the age of 20 in the Battle of Loos. His poems were published posthumously. "To Germany" is a poem is about not blaming Germany for the war – rather ironic for a WWII setting.
Abwehr – the Abwehr was Nazi Germany's military intelligence organization, and a big rival of the Gestapo. The Abwehr were technically responsible for sabotage and espionage, but because of the Gestapo's organization, they made many more arrests and caught things that the Abwehr skimmed over. The Abwehr was a failure and full of anti-Nazi supporters trying to bring the system down from the inside.
Anreiz – Anreiz means incentive in English.
Crimean Deportations – the Russians and Crimeans have anything but a good history. When the Soviet Union liberated Sevastopol, several notes were sent to the NKVD accusing the Crimeans of having Turkish and Nazi alliances and called most Crimeans that served in the war "deserters." A total of 238,500 people were deported to camps where they were met with starvation and disease.
Mein Schwester und ich – "My Sister and I", a musical that debuted in Berlin in March of 1930. It was later turned into a movie in 1954.
Thank you to Bob and co, mia kiruna, MadameStarheart, Questcat423, Violet Thropp, EllaAwkward, and Swing-Stole-My-Heart for being my support system!
See you all next chapter!